1: Lake Bled // Europe’s Great Miracle
Lake Bled © Istvan Czak / shutterstock
The flower bush was somewhat superfluous, but picking holes in the image would have been a depressing action. I sat, in refreshing shade on a comfortable pillow, the melodious strains of a cheerful waiter’s voice in my ear, the crips bitterness of a black coffee on my tongue, and Europe’s great miracle in front of my eyes.
Lake Bled is it. I say that in the most current of forms. I don’t know if it is a mood, but it is definitely ‘it’. Slovenia’s most impressive tourist attraction, this region’s poster boy, the beautiful scribbling of a child come to life. The latter is a phrase that I have beaten with a drum over the years but it really does encapsulate this tremendous piece of God’s real estate.
A shimmering turquoise lake, a picture-perfect island in the water, an equally picture-perfect church at the heart of that. A dramatic castle on top of a hill. Jagged snow-capped mountains in the background. If you gave a child a blank piece of paper and some pens and told them to draw a beautiful lake, they would almost certainly draw Lake Bled.
Tito understood this, because Tito understood the manic scribblings of the juvenile. Wait, what? That wasn’t my point. I finished my coffee, in time for the immensely convivial waitress to bring me a complimentary played of little baked goods, after I’d expressed a vague interest in a chocolate croissant.
Slovenes will tell you that Lake Bled is too touristy. High and mighty backpackers will tell you this even more vociferously, taking great pleasure in singing the virtues of a slightly more obscure lake, or more often Bohinj a little further on. I’m not going to disagree with the tourist-centric outlook of Bled, but I will counter that if you had something like this, you’d advertise the ever-loving tar out of it. Yes, there are a lot of tourists at Lake Bled, but it would be an absolute crime if there weren’t lots of tourists at Lake Bled. There should be more.
All of this exists in the hypothetical and memorial, as Lake Bled was surprisingly quiet at this time. I was sat in the garden of Vila Bled in relative peace, accompanied by the natural magic of Bled and the infectious cheer of professional waiting staff. Blue-roofed boats lazily ambled from shore to the island, transporting groups of people in search of a high that only travel can provide.
The island is the main event of this main event, at least to my four eyes. The off-white hue of the church spire provides an anchor to the free-flowing beauty of the juxtaposing buildings and bushes around it, a fittingly-gorgeous prize waiting at the top of 99 steps. Legend has it that any couple hoping to get hitched on the island must first pass a traditional task, that the prospective groom must carry his bride-to-be up all 99 in order to prove his love.
What message does that give to the weak, the disabled, the tired and the old? Is love not possible for such poor, unfortunate souls? That isn’t the point, of course, I jest. Either way, I’m not carrying anyone up 99 steps, so no Bled wedding for me.
From the sanctuary of Vila Bled’s terrace, the Bled Island shows its best face. The island is reassuringly close, backed by water and offering an image that breaks hearts all over the world. When you arrive at Lake Bled the initial view of the island can be a bit underwhelming; it is quite far away after all, and backed by a mass of greenery that gives no hint as to its perfection and dimensions.
The island reveals itself as you begin to walk around the lake, seemingly breaking away from the mountains and the hills and slipping elegantly out of that figurative cocoon, proudly beckoning all the light towards it. Like so many of the world’s great tourist attractions, the image of it is its most potent weapon.
Bled Castle isn’t far behind either, a dramatic accompaniment to the island’s tranquility. The bad cop. From the terrace of Vila Bled it looks very far away, peeking out from a rock above the lake in an almost disinterested manner. The Scar to the Island’s Mufasa, although the likelihood of the Castle throwing the Island into a panicked herb of buffalo is slim to none. Quite the visual though.
But I digress, the castle. It too shines from afar, flourishing in relative secrecy as all castles should. It could hide a villain or a prince, a damsel or a witch. It could be home to a wild old eccentric or an ambitious young tycoon. A crazy cat lady or a cat sanctuary. It is never clear, but that lack of clarity is its most vital aspect. The notes you don’t hear. The silence. All-knowing is robotic.
Tito had the right idea. It was under orders of Big Joe that the vila was constructed back in 1947, ticking off Titoist architectural notes and offering a view of Lake Bled that is only bettered by birds and planes. The interior is either stunning or stunting, depending on your view of the hotels of that era. You know the type, gaudy chandeliers, open spaces, too much light but a charm that has long out-lived its creator. Luxury that recognises that luxury is the enemy. Self-deprecating minus the irony.
The interior of the vila is irrelevant, as the view from the terraces and balconies render it a distant memory. It was a view enjoyed by a veritable who’s who of Cold War personalities, from Khrushchev to Indira Ghandi. All would have awoke to the scene in front of me. All may have taken a moment to forget the stress of a divided world.
Just a short walk from Villa Bled, hidden within its grounds, is a small cafe with an even better view of the island, one that might rival that enjoyed by the birds and the planes. The elevation allows the reflective brilliance of the sun to do its thing, enhancing the blue water and the dense verdant surroundings. The difference between lakeside and this privileged spot is the same difference between taking a nice photo and the wonders that happen in the editing process. The view from this cafe is God’s filtered view.
€2.60 for an espresso though? Mate.
Lake Bled is absurd in that most modern interpretation of the word, a world in which words don’t follow their original meanings. A world that has run out of synonyms for ‘amazing’ and so has commandeered previously negative terms. ‘Ridiculous’ doesn’t always mean ‘worthy of ridicule’. Insane doesn’t necessarily mean ‘shocking’ or ‘serious mental illness’. Absurdity doesn’t have to me descriptive of the wildly unreasonable.
Lake Bled is absurd in an overjoyed manner. There are no longer any compliments that do it justice, any celebrations that match up to its very existence. It is really bloody lovely, that’s what I’m trying to say.
