Travel Writing: 'Mljet' an extract from a novel in progress

Whilst on holiday in Croatia I was working on my debut novel, which is becoming more and more a travel writing piece, which was always going to happen when my main influence was Cheryl Strayed and Elizabeth Gilbert.

As I sit in my rubber ring in the small section of the Adriatic Sea designated for hotel guests to swim in, I look over to the mainland of Croatia, to the coast of Dubrovnik, following a pathway from where I am, to the dock from where we came, winding round small, uninhabited islands, then out to the vast, open sea we crossed just two days before. Dubrovnik looks to me, from where I am in my rubber ring, like one long mountain; you ascend one end, walk for miles on a plateau, then descend at the other end. It looks almost like a huge Sarcophagus, as though if you peeled back the layer of paths and roads, the rocks and grass, you would uncover a giant’s final resting place.

My life is over there. Not on Dubrovnik, but somewhere seemingly attached to it. I think about leaving here and returning home. I don’t want to. I think about inevitably getting back onto the boat and crossing back over the sea past the little islands and back to the dock. Back in the car, back to the airport, back on the plane, and back home. I don’t want to. I want to stay here on this island, surrounded by water, hypothetically unreachable, completely and utterly free. Nobody to report to, or update, or keep in the loop; nobody expecting me to be anywhere at any time. None of the stupid things I do in the life I have over there; like asking questions that have answers I’m not interested in, or deadlines I don’t want to meet, or problems I don’t want to solve. Here in my rubber ring I look over to Dubrovnik as though it is my life and not only do I not want to return, I want to swim further away. 

Meg thinks I’m harsh. I know she does. But she doesn’t understand how it feels to have been so responsible for so long, that you begin to think the fewer people in your life the better. It’s not as if I don’t love them; my mother and my sister. It’s just they exhaust me. It is exhausting being the only one who doesn’t deny that we’re damaged. All three of us. It’s not our fault exactly, but being in complete denial is so ridiculous. I’ve thought often on this trip about the one I will take with them in a couple of months time; how different it will be, how different I will feel. Being in their company is like being in a minefield with a pretty view. I know that I will probably try to be alone for most of the trip, but I will be forced into the mediator role inevitably and frequently, most likely before our plane has a chance to take off. I push the thought to the back of my mind like you would push a sentimental but ugly mug to the back of the cupboard, and make myself feel grateful for having a family holiday abroad that I don't have to pay for, as well as the holiday I am on now. I try to make sure, at all times, that my anger does not cloud my appreciation for all the good in my life. It is an easy thing, I think, to let negative feelings consume so much of you that joy and gratitude have nowhere to live. I used to live like that because I thought I had to. I thought if I didn’t hold onto my anger with a white-knuckled grip, the bad things would be forgotten. You would think that would be what I want, for the bad things to be forgotten. It’s not. You see, if they are forgotten, then it is as if they never happened, and if they never happened then there’s no logical explanation for all of the complicated circuits inside of my body and mind. The bad things are my user manual; my flat-pack Ikea instructions. I need them. They come in the box with me. I only make sense with them. I can’t lose them, especially seeing as the rest of my family have misplaced theirs. 

I don’t think that anymore. 

I know my family keep their anger in a box under the bed, or underneath socks in drawers. 

I know that I have a choice whether to house my anger or not. 

And I know that the bad stuff happened regardless of where I go and what I feel; regardless of who knows about it and who doesn’t.

But I also know that being physically very far away from it feels much better. It helps me to see that it doesn’t have to belong to me, or I to it. 

There is an array of characters on this little Island: people from all over the world. Today, a German man with a colostomy bag, who stared at us all day yesterday, sits on the sun loungers to our left, with his wife who was in an umbrella accident some moments ago. Our umbrella snapped inside of its base causing it to bend and catch the breeze. Its nose dove straight into Meg’s, somersaulted and its rusty snapped end clipped the German lady’s cheek just under her eye. As it happened I couldn't help but not know how to alarm them as I don’t know any German. 

There is the couple we got the boat here with, who look as though they are here by some unfortunate mistake; their suitcases full of knit quarter zips and jeans. We find it quite sad we haven’t seen them exchange a word or a smile. 

There is the girl who was also on our boat here. She wears bright green linen shirts and mixed-colour jewellery. On the drive to the dock from the airport she volunteered to sit up front with the driver, who then chewed her ear off from the second they established some common ground. She was Polish and he was Russian. They compared similarities and differences of their respective language and he asked if it had been long since she’d last been home. She had been back recently and added she tries to return at least twice a year. She had moved to England, she hadn’t specified when. She was here alone, wanting to hike and cycle around the island. We see her from time to time, out for lunch and at the hotel. I long for her freedom from obligation. 

If you would like to read more pieces within the travel writing realm check out my review of Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love ...

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Thank you for visiting and reading!! I am forever grateful to everybody who shows my work any kind of support <33

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I recently performed a reading of this piece at my University showcase (which went rather well if I do say so myself - thank you to my dress with pockets for giving me somewhere to hide my fidgeting with my thumb ring.)

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