November 2004: Croatia |  print |
Zagreb on a cold November evening is not exactly hospitable. In fact, it was very difficult to glean any information at all since the book shop assistants all resolutely and uniformly declared: "No guide in English." A pretty girl told me all my problems would be solved if I went to "The square of the Yellow Church." The trouble was that no one knew where it was. However, finding the cathedral was easier for its neo-gothic towers dominate the skyline of the old town that lies in the shadow of Medvednica Mountain. There is something rather odd about them – they are too big and tall in proportion to the knave. The reason became clear when I discovered that an earthquake in 1880 had all but destroyed the church and it was rebuilt by Herr Bolle of Cologne. Surprise but the twin towers look a little like Cologne cathedral!
My quest was to locate the tombs of Petar Zrinski and FK Frankopan who bodies were returned here after the first World War. The result was a bit of an anti-climax; I found them stacked under the see through glass sarcophagus of the Blessed Alojzije Stepanic (1898-1960), who lies stretched out in his crimson bishop's robes, complete with mitre and red slippers edged with gold with matching ribbons. His head inclined on a red cushion, the bishop exudes peace and repose in contrast to his turbulent life, first as a young man on the Southern front in WW1, then as the youngest archbishop ever of Zagreb and finally a 'collaborator', tried by the Russians in a show trial. And possibly eventually poisoned. To the right in the chancel, in a niche by a new and rather garish altar, sit two carvings of the heads of Zrinski and Frankopan. A plaque inset into the wall simply says that on 28th April 1919, the remains of Petar Zrinski (1621-1671) and Fran Krsto Frankopan (1643-1671) were returned to Zagreb.
I could find no reference of the remains of Petar's son, Ivan Anton, whose remains were returned here in 1944.
There's a wonderful historic atmosphere as one leaves the cathedral at night; the two 16th century rounded bastions on either side, the 18th century baroque bishop's palace and all those clerical offices that went with the see. The cobblestones shining in the night dew, the unchanged medieval townhouses that sprang up around this centre of power – the link between the Habsburg state and the Catholic Church endured long after similar links had been severed in England and in France. One can sense that the Habsburg severance is somehow still in living memory, not from the pages of a history book.
The Palace Hotel on Strossmayer Trg is reassuringly Greater Austria. It is the clone of a now untraceable forbear, one of dozens that stood on the corners of squares of Austrian Hungarian cities. Inside little has changed; the drab uniformity of communist interior decor has been replaced by repro Biedermeyer chairs and polished parquet floors, The barman, Davor, wears a black waistcoat, crisp white shirt and black bow tie. Nothing hip hop here. I could be in Cluj or Iasi or Eger. Postup Polozaj 2002 was drinking well.
At the far end of the cafe is one of those ubiquitous murals by Herschel Voelkel of a half-naked maiden perched on a cotton wool cloud, waving at a plump cupid. Below, a young man looks anxiously up at her while trying to play his lute. His concentration is made that much harder by the antics of two naughty well-covered children with gulls' wings attached to their backs. All this against a pale blue sky, signifying Pax Austria.
A bag of roast chestnuts – peceni kesteny – shells blackened over a brazier to provide a tasty autumnal treat, keep me going until I found a restaurant just off the town square called Vinodol. With a replica brick vaulted ceiling and "Je t'aime" alternating with "Strangers in the night" playing somewhere in the background, it had what seemed an exclusively middle-aged and very respectable Croatian clientele. Chandeliers decorated with plastic laurel leaves and ivy but with a collection of contemporary art on the wall. I decided to be adventurous:
"Prsut od Divljaci (smoked wild boar) and Pohane Punjene Bukovacce (beech sticks stuffed with breadcrumbs), please. "
"They're off, dear."
So I settled for a huge portion of dark crimson Dalmatian smoked ham and still stuck with Mr Pig, Puzevi od lungica s umakom od Suhih Sljiva (fillet of pork stuffed with prunes and served with plum sauce). Delicious and if eaten in France, would have resulted in postcards of praise to friends around the world. Finished off with sheep's cheese from the Island of Pag and a litre of Babic red wine.
From Zagreb to Kalovec by train and then by taxi to Osalj. Villages German in character with modern square white houses and red bricked half wooden barns backing onto them. As the local guidebook says, "in its most glistening period", Osalj was once home to Petar Zrinski until his execution when "the blossom of the city was interrupted by force." Overlooking the languid River Kupa with the Zumberak Mountains behind it to the west. Dramatic drawbridge (now a fixed wooden walkway) leads into a narrow U-shaped courtyard with a three storied residence all round. Remodelled as a baroque house by the Battyanis in the last half of 18th century. Rooms have gently sloped vaulted ceilings and polished parquet floors. Stoves in corners.
Compared to some of her later mountain top homes, this must have been one of Ilona's more comfortable homes. I ask the solitary lady in charge of the museum if Ilona had lived here. She stared at me blankly and shrugged her shoulders.
"Zrinski, Frankopan?" I ventured.
Her right eyebrow momentarily twitched to indicate that I was along the right lines. Time was alas too short to continue with this charming mime, so I took myself off to explore the castle's rooms. Two pictures of note, both copies. Petar Zrinski looking youthful and baby faced and Leopold, a prissy elderly bigot, looking down his nose at me with total disdain.
To Cakovec (Csaktornya) to meet with Professor Kalsan, resident expert on all matters Zrinski in the castle museum. An uphill, downhill train journey from Zagreb, past fields of maize stalks and post-vendage vineyards, meandering through beech woods and flat fertile valleys. Denis, my guide, was waiting for me – the once moated Cakovec castle, stronghold of Nicholas Zrinski, has been transformed into a large and very square baroque mansion with lawns, although there is a small corner of the late Renaissance building surviving. Grey moustache and friendly wide face, the Professor is waiting for us in his book lined office on the second floor, raring to go. His card reads "historian and published author."
Zltna Guska for lunch in Varazdin, an 18th century Austrian Hungarian town which is immensely proud and protective of its prettiness. Dennis tells me how his family on Island of Hvar add herbs to their home made Rakia to give it medicinal and well as party uses. Plavac means red wine. White wine is from gresavino grape.
The journey back to Zagreb unfolded against a Wagnerian evening sky of yellow stacks, orange plumes, red explosions with purple sparks against a dark blue backcloth .