On Saturday, August 27th, we had a long day on the road again, heading north and east through Bosnia, stopping for lunch at an odd sort of place called Royal Village Kotromanicevo—a combination open-air museum, hotel and restaurant. They make their own beer, and I was surprised to recognize that the dark beer I had ordered was a gruit, a beer flavored with herbs or spices along with or instead of hops. The last time we had had one was in 2012, in Haarlem.
This was in the Republika Srpska, the boomerang-shaped half of Bosnia and Herzegovina that is autonomous and run by its Bosnian Serb inhabitants. They would presumably like to join Serbia, but Serbia has enough problems of its own without picking up that economic dead weight.
We crossed the border back into Croatia, again with no problems or delays. We were now in Slavonia, the flat, agricultural region of eastern Croatia. And in Slavonia, we were headed for Baranja, the far northeastern corner, between the Danube and Drava rivers. We crossed the Drava, but didn’t see the Danube, though we were very close not only to that river but to the Hungarian and Serbian borders.
This region of Croatia has a substantial ethnic Hungarian minority population, and as we passed through the village of Vardarac, we noticed people dressed in ethnic costumes, gathering together. It was a Hungarian folk festival, and Ivana brought our bus to a halt, and we got off and joined the spectators for a while.
But we had to go on to another village, Karanac, where we were to spend the night at Rural Homestead Sklepic. Lonely Planet characterizes the rooms on this working farm as “small, rustic and charming.” That is absolutely correct, with the accent on “rustic,” though not so rustic as to be without en-suite toilet and shower.
After our hosts, Dennis and his wife Goje, had us settled in, a local artisan cheesemaker came to help us make fresh cheese for the next day’s breakfast.
Then we joined her and walked down the road, and some of us were welcomed at one house, while the cheesemaker, Lidja, took the rest of the group to her own house. This was another home-hosted dinner. Our host couple spoke little English, so their 20-year-old foster son acted as interpreter. This was the husband’s family home, but they had had to leave between 1991 and 1998, when the village was occupied by the Serbian army. On return, they had had to repair and refurnish the house. The meal, again, was good.
This was in the Republika Srpska, the boomerang-shaped half of Bosnia and Herzegovina that is autonomous and run by its Bosnian Serb inhabitants. They would presumably like to join Serbia, but Serbia has enough problems of its own without picking up that economic dead weight.
We crossed the border back into Croatia, again with no problems or delays. We were now in Slavonia, the flat, agricultural region of eastern Croatia. And in Slavonia, we were headed for Baranja, the far northeastern corner, between the Danube and Drava rivers. We crossed the Drava, but didn’t see the Danube, though we were very close not only to that river but to the Hungarian and Serbian borders.
This region of Croatia has a substantial ethnic Hungarian minority population, and as we passed through the village of Vardarac, we noticed people dressed in ethnic costumes, gathering together. It was a Hungarian folk festival, and Ivana brought our bus to a halt, and we got off and joined the spectators for a while.
But we had to go on to another village, Karanac, where we were to spend the night at Rural Homestead Sklepic. Lonely Planet characterizes the rooms on this working farm as “small, rustic and charming.” That is absolutely correct, with the accent on “rustic,” though not so rustic as to be without en-suite toilet and shower.
After our hosts, Dennis and his wife Goje, had us settled in, a local artisan cheesemaker came to help us make fresh cheese for the next day’s breakfast.
Then we joined her and walked down the road, and some of us were welcomed at one house, while the cheesemaker, Lidja, took the rest of the group to her own house. This was another home-hosted dinner. Our host couple spoke little English, so their 20-year-old foster son acted as interpreter. This was the husband’s family home, but they had had to leave between 1991 and 1998, when the village was occupied by the Serbian army. On return, they had had to repair and refurnish the house. The meal, again, was good.
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