6: Kamnik // Nostalgia Speaks For Itself
The man with the belt full of change and a machine specifically designed for printing tickets was telling me that I couldn’t buy a ticket. It was a peculiar state of affairs although not an entirely unusual one, believe it or not. Train conductors in Slovenia are almost all of the salty type, curmudgeonly men who have little interest in doing anything more than scanning a ticket and saying ‘hvala’. Heaven forbid the man have to do anything else. He looked a little like Shane Burgess, minus the cheeky smile and the affinity for roadkill, although finding out the latter would not have been a huge surprise.
The man eventually acquiesced, selling me the ticket, but putting more effort into the huffing and puffing than anything else. How dare you make me print this ticket! How dare you make me open my change belt! This is a catastrophe! Do better, train conductor man.
While I’m on the whinge train, why does Kamnik have three train stations?
An inauspicious way to begin a trip to a town I really like, that’s for sure. Of all the towns in Slovenia, I could argue that only Bloke holds a softer spot in my hardened Welsh heart than Kamnik. This gorgeous town at the foot of the Alps was the first place I visited when I moved to Ljubljana in 2014, the first stop on my In Your Pocket Srce Slovenije (Heart of Slovenia) tour. I knew nothing about the town, and the gorgeous view in front of didn’t really offer a reason to increase that knowledge. Sometimes, an image of red roofs and snow-capped mountains is all it takes.
Six years and five months later, that same view stretched out in front of me. The same red roofs, the same snow-capped mountains, the same darling town. The only discernible difference was the appearance of a ginger and white cat, meowing at me almost as a warning, stopping just shy of repeating the famous warning from the very first scene of Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace. Liz, you should have listened.
I have very clear memories of that first visit to Kamnik, or at least my first view over the city from the privileged vantage point of Mali Grad. I remember telling myself that I had done well, that moving to Slovenia was a good idea, that somehow I’d lucked into a job that required me to visit beautiful places on a regular basis. Of course, the crippling underpayment and endless meetings hadn’t kicked in, but those first thoughts were swimming in gratitude and excitement.
The same feelings bubbled up to the surface on this sunny September afternoon. This might just be the greatest job in the world. Sure, I’m still paid the same pathetic amount per word in 2020 as I was in 2014, but that remains the only downside. If I could choose a job, that job would involve being paid to visit towns like Kamnik, being paid to write about them, being paid to explore them and enjoy them.
Being paid to drink local beer is another upside, so I made my way to a small bar on Šutna (the town’s main street) and settled in the shade, a pint of Maister Pale Ale on the way. Named after one of Slovenia’s most famous moustaches (fine, its most famous military officer), Maister is another of the many independent breweries that have popped up in Slovenia in recent years, a group of pivo peddlers that all seem to do a fine job. The combination of glimmering sunshine, calming shade and crisp ale is about as consistent a combination as humans have managed to produce.
The moustache in question belonged to Rudolf Maister, a military officer and poet from the early 20th century who fulfilled that most magical of historical attributes, namely excelling in a wide variety of fields. It was Maister who ensured the the region around Maribor to the east stayed under Slovenian control at the end of World War I, doing so with the ruthlessness that his time required. Whether it required the reckless mowing down of several Germans in an event that became known as Marburg’s Bloody Sunday is another question, one that I’m not touching.
The moustache eventually became more famous than the man, at least in my estimation. A tremendous upside down crown sort of thing, it is one of life’s great mysteries how that moustache didn’t become the logo of Maister Brewery. This has crossed my mind many times, although not to the point of boycotting the tasty beer until the change is made.
Moustaches aside, Kamnik is an unassuming town in that most Slovenian of manners, beautiful to a fault but not screaming its virtues to all and sundry. It just isn’t the Slovenian way to thrust itself forward. Kamnik isn’t going to shout louder than other towns and it isn’t going to force itself onto the tip of your tongue, but this should not be mistaken for nervousness. This is a town with three castles, mountains in view and a conveyer belt of historical architecture; it knows what it has to offer. No bluster needed.
The artistic atmosphere of Kamnik’s architecture is echoed in its people, its history containing an impressive collection of creative minds and forward thinkers. I’ve touched on Maister, but there are also writers like France Balantič and Fran Albreht, sculptors like Jakob Savinšek, linguistic experts like Jurij Japelj. Even modern day wordsmiths are drawn here, although I shall retain the anonymity of one such American art crime historian writer man with flowing locks and a charming demeanour. Hey Noah, I hope you’re doing well.
If all of this seems more like a list of achievements than a journey into emotion and feeling, that is because, well, it is. Kamnik does not need to wrap you up in poetic language and a neurotic charm offensive; it is far too busy making its own art to spend time making your decisions for you. Besides, the red roofs, snow-capped mountains and moustaches speak for themselves.
