A Detour Through Slovenia
Ljubljana feels like the authentic version of what most Western European cities tell you they are.
Tucked away in an eastern corner of the Alps, Slovenia feels like Europe’s best-kept secret. There’s a magic and a charm to it. Ljubljana, the capital, is home to only 300,000 people and sits on a bend of the Ljubljanica River. Nineteenth-century cobbled streets and cafés are situated on either bank, and bridges and clocktowers are adorned with copper and sculpted dragons. The smell of roasted chestnuts lingers in the autumn air, and kids shrieks and laugh in various languages. All of it sits in the shadow of the castle in which the city was constructed around. It’s funny how with even the most subtle changes, everything seems new again.
While Slovenia was on our radar, it wasn’t on our itinerary for this trip—that is until Hungary barred vaccinated travelers from entry causing a chain reaction of cancellations that would clear half of our month and leave the rest disjointed and in need of repair. The main problem was rebooking tickets to some of those destinations costed considerably more than what we paid originally—in some cases more than six times. We needed to be in Germany later that month, and traveling overland through the Alps was beginning to seem like the best option.
On our last day in Croatia, our Uber driver let us off at the fence just outside of the bus station. There was no clear entrance; people seemed to walk in every direction. Some buses were picking up at the curb, others had their doors open in a parking lot. The whole scene seemed a little chaotic and disorganized—and it was starting to rain. I had never taken the bus before. We made our way through a gate, and I walked slowly scanning the lime-green coaches for anything that might indicate a direction. In the corner of one windshield, I could make out Ljubljana. The driver, in minimal English, scanned our tickets and took our bags.
The ride between the two capitals is only two hours, and at least a quarter of that is spent at the border: first stamping out of Croatia and then stamping into the Schengen Zone. Each time the bus stopping and emptying us into the cold to stand judgement on our worthiness to continue.
The Slovenian side was markedly different—churches perched atop rolling hills blanketed in fall colors. The leaves looked to be at peak—colors embellished by the backdrop of misty grey skies. It’s funny how sometimes you dream of a place and no matter how well you plan, you can never hit it at the right time. And others, you just stumble into on the perfect day.
I had seen pictures of Lake Bled on Instagram over the years, and since the weather looked as if it would clear the next day, we hired a car. There’s a certain dread that precedes driving through small villages with narrow, winding streets that’s only matched by showing up and realizing the only rental available is a minivan. I don’t think I hid my reaction too well because the greying Slovenian man behind the counter seemed amused by the whole thing. On the motorway, the looser-cruiser was surprisingly comfortable; though, I assure Tori this would be a one-time thing no matter how many kids we have one day. We were on the same page completely.
Our descent into the little town of Bled was not what I imagined: lines of cars, traffic cones, cafés, hotels and shops, and a McDonald’s near the exit. As we made our way along the shores, we could make out the church on the island in the center still managing to stand in another age as families flocked toward it. We decided to keep driving.
It’s amazing what two kilometers further will get you. The crowds dispersed at the edge of town, and a two-lane mountain highway led us to the mouth of a glacial valley. As we rounded the turns, I could see the rock faces extending into the mist—the slopes below shrouded in shades of yellow and green. The road spilled into another valley dotted with villages and churches and the quaint authenticity I was looking for. We pulled over to snap a few photos and walk along the quiet road. I framed up a couple shots while Tori chased a local cat out of the bushes. No one was around but the occasional passing car.
After a couple narrow squeezes and one too many blind turns, we pulled into a trailhead I had bookmarked before leaving. There were several cars, but it was far from overflowing. I threw my camera and a couple of croissants into a bag and quickly started toward the trees before anyone figured out which car was ours.
The path made its way out of town into a much steeper, narrower valley. The peaks were shrouded in grey, and as we climbed in elevation, the colors faded. Over the centuries, a wild river had etched away at the rock forming a narrow gorge several meters deep—untamed by the stone. As it cascaded down, it formed eddies and whirlpools—some of which had hollowed the rock to match their shapes. Tori and I stood and watched for awhile before the chill caught up with us.
The trail eventually climbed away from the gorge and into an alpine pasture punctuated with chalets and huts. The herds were gone for the season, moved into the valleys so the land could be renewed. Only one hut had open doors and a fire burning. Kids played in the filed while the family dog kept watch—stepping in for their dad who was busy chopping wood. As we walked, occasionally the clouds would lift just enough to reveal sharp ridge lines and a fresh dusting of snow. The season was later here.
The end of the trip for us was a waterfall, or “slap” in Slovenian as Tori liked to point out, at the foot of the high country. As we approached, I could see switchbacks climbing out of the valley and disappearing into the mist. I immediately began to wonder how thick the clouds layer was but thought better of it. The roar of the water crashing could be heard through the trees, and the surrounding forest was blanketed in an eternal mist—keeping those who visit this remote corner from lingering too long. The whole place had an air of mystery to it—more so because we were the only ones there. Even though this is one of the older corners of the world, it feels like the generations have treaded lightly here preserving a much older charm.
On the way back, the conversation shifts to lunch, and I’m still missing tacos. The muddy vibes have me missing the West Coast—picking up a little post-hike reward from our favorite taco spot on the way home, juggling the cilantro-infused to-go boxes and my gear as I try and keep the cat from bolting out the apartment door. The sense of relief and accomplishment as I settle into the couch for a nap. The cooler weather and weeks on the move have has us both missing a home base to recharge a bit. After all, it is hygge season. But for now, we’re grateful for an unexpected, peaceful afternoon in the mountains and that the minivan is only for one day.
