Western Slovenia
I departed Novo Mesto this morning and drove toward the Slovenian border with Italy. I’m basing myself for the next few days along the Soča River in the town of Tolmin in the northwest of Slovenia.
When I move from one base Airbnb or hotel to another, I line up a few sights along the way. My first stop was at Predjama Castle chiseled into the side of a mountain in the 12th century.
According to popular legend, the knight Erasmus, a robber baron, took refuge in the castle and a lengthy siege ensued. The thick walls of the castle proved impregnable to numerous assaults.
Finally, a servant was bribed and signaled with a lantern when Erasmus was in the thinly-walled lavatory (the small, one-window building on the far left in the pic above). A cannon shot promptly ended Erasmus and the siege.
Back in the car, I headed further west. The green hills of Slovenia slowly gave way to a more Mediterranean landscape as I neared the border with Italy. I was so close I decided to cross over to the Italian town of Gorizia.
Immediately the atmosphere changed. Red terracotta tiles topped crumbling stone buildings, pine trees took on Roman shapes and the temperature climbed to 90 degrees. Even the winged lion of Venice presided over the entrance to Gorizia’s castle.
Just a five-minute drive north and I crossed back over into Slovenia. I noted one old building which still had a World War II proclamation aimed at the Italian fascists defiantly sprayed on it: Tu je Jugoslavija (this is Yugoslavia).
I stopped and explored the tiny hill-top village of Smartno. Even though I was in Slovenia, this felt very similar to the Italian hill villages we explored in Tuscany. Warm-colored mortar crumbled from the sides of thick walls, men stood around outdoor tables sipping wine and trees hung heavy with fruit.
I continued my drive north into the Slovenian mountains. After checking into my hotel in Tolmin, I decided to head up to a World War I memorial church I’d read about.
The bloody eastern front in the Alps has long been overshadowed by the trenches in Belgium and France. Perhaps you read Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms or saw the movie starring Gary Cooper. That happened here.
My road up the mountain narrowed and soon turned to gravel. I met one car coming down the other way and we slowed to a crawl as we pulled in our sideview mirrors to squeeze by. I tried not to look down the gorge on the other side of the road.
Finally, I came to the car park and hiked another 20 minutes up a steep path to the church. It was built by Austrian soldiers in 1916 to honor Austro-Hungarian soldiers killed in battles in the surrounding area.
The soldiers were obviously tired of the fighting three years into the war. The line against the Italian troops along the crest of the mountains had barely budged in assault after assault. Hundreds of thousands had died in the extreme and unforgiving conditions.
The soldiers placed the word “Pax” (peace) above everything else at the top of the church including the sundial (symbolizing the passage of time) and crests of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
A dove of peace flew high over the alter inside the church. The countless names of fallen comrades were carved into oak plaques that lined the walls.
It was obvious this memorial church was a statement against war created by the soldiers who had experienced it themselves. Perhaps every world leader who clamors for armed conflict should hike up here themselves.
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