“You know when they are sober, they like to think they’re closer to being Austrians — cool, calm and calculated. But give them a few drinks and the veil of Alpine aloofness drops pretty quickly, and a Balkan background jumps to the fore,” joked a Croatian friend who now calls Slovenia home.
“So basically they go from Mozart to Mate Bulić in the space of a few rakijas,” I replied. She smiled knowingly.
And so begins our annual pilgrimage to our quirky northern neighbours. It’s becoming something of a ritual: escaping the off-season blues of southern Croatia, piling into a campervan, and setting the compass for “up.”
The four of us — two humans and two dogs — head north, into a land that looks like it’s been sketched by a sentimental chocolatier. Every mountain pass we zig-zag around reveals a view that could easily be a backdrop for a Milka advert. Purple cows wouldn’t look out of place. A miniature Switzerland, but with more personality.
Is there another country so small yet so overflowing with variety?
Slovenia feels like a prototype that went unexpectedly right. It’s as if the Alps and the Adriatic had a weekend fling and nine months later this perfectly balanced child appeared — half mountain stoicism, half Mediterranean mischief.
The first thing that strikes you are what I call the three F’s: flowers, façades and fields. Not a single house misses any of them. Even the tiniest cottages look like they’ve been prepped for an architectural digest cover shoot. Flowers spill from every window box with the precision of a military parade. Which, of course, can’t be said south of the border.
Cross into Croatia and façades start peeling faster than sunburn on a British tourist.
“The phrase ‘hidden gem’ gets thrown around a lot in tourism,” I tell my wife as we sip coffee from the campervan, parked beside a lake so turquoise it looks Photoshopped. “Mostly rather misguidedly.” But Slovenia, as far as I can see, is a hidden gem — or at least a discreetly tucked-away diamond between louder neighbours.
“So you guys are from Croatia,” asked a campsite owner one evening.
“Yes, Dubrovnik, to be precise,” my wife replied.
“Ah,” she smiled, “so you’re enjoying life without the crowds a little.”
She wasn’t wrong. And we were also enjoying Slovenian prices.
So there we were — modern nomads, carrying our home on our backs like overgrown snails, navigating roads that were clearly designed for medieval horse carts rather than 7-metre motorhomes. A fact that hasn’t been lost on my wife. I now bear a series of permanent finger-shaped bruises on my right arm, the result of her reflexive need to cling to me during every tight Alpine bend.
“How is that likely to save you?” I asked.
“Clinging to me? I’m pretty sure if the van goes, we all go.”
She ignored me.
And as if the narrow mountain roads weren’t enough, she’s developed a new and particularly grating habit: narrating every single speed limit sign we pass.
“It says 40 and you’re going 45.” I am haunted by her voice in my sleep. In future dreams, angels will likely hover beside me holding “Speed limit 40” placards.
But truth be told, it’s massive fun.
We’re seeing new places, meeting new people, and solving new challenges on an hourly basis — usually involving toilets, electricity, or the sudden appearance of mountain goats. It’s freedom distilled.
The dogs, meanwhile, have taken to van life as if they’d trained for it. Wilma stares out of the window with philosophical calm, while Toto spends his days inventing new ways to tangle his leash in Slovenian shrubbery. They, too, are converts to the off-season escape.
Which got me thinking — as I scraped mud off my boots and my dignity — is the off-season the new in-season?
We’re conditioned to believe travel is about sunshine and schedules. That it must be framed by school holidays, predictable weather, and the promise of “buzz.” Yet here we are, in the middle of autumn, wandering half-empty campsites, drinking red wine by a misty lake, and having the best time we’ve had all year.
When the crowds have fled, when the queues vanish and the locals have time to talk — that’s when a place reveals its true self. It’s like seeing a friend without their makeup on and realising they’re actually more beautiful that way.
Unless you want to talk about the First Lady and then most people seem a little embarrassed and quickly change the subject.
Well, you can’t blame them.
Slovenia in the off-season feels alive in an unhurried, authentic way. No bus tours, no cruise-ship time limits, no one photographing a plate of food before eating it. Just quiet, crisp air and the gentle sound of cowbells echoing off the mountains.
By the end of our two-week snail-like adventure, our campervan smelled faintly of wet dog, coffee, and existential contentment. My wife’s speed-limit narrations had softened into humming. The dogs had discovered the joy of ice-swimming for the first time.
And I, somewhere between a mountain pass and a bottle of local wine, had found something that felt suspiciously like peace. Because travel, at its best, isn’t about ticking boxes or collecting likes.
It’s about rediscovering perspective — and yourself — on the long and winding roads that don’t always lead home.
Read more Englishman in Dubrovnik…well, if you really want to
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About the author
Mark Thomas (aka Englez u Dubrovniku) is the editor of The Dubrovnik Times. He was born and educated in the UK and moved to live in Dubrovnik in 1998. He works across a whole range of media, from a daily radio show to TV and in print. Thomas is fluent in Croatian and this column is available in Croatia on the website – Dubrovnik Vjesnik
@dubrovnik_times Driving a camper though the Slovenian mountains #traveltiktok ##slovenia #slovenijatiktok #travel ♬ original sound – The Dubrovnik Times