An instinct to get going early gave me walking solitude for an hour or so. A jogger splashed past in the mud, and two workmen hauled a varnished boat out of the water. But soon the swarming began, and swarming it was. Crowds, chest to back; an occasional pile up when a photo opportunity was too vociferous; jostling for the temporary walkways over watery patches; looks of dutiful intentness on keeping up; no pauses to stand and stare. In the midst of all this, three stolid men pushed wheelbarrows full of dirt to soggy places: I stayed close to them and let them batter my way through. Occasionally someone would stand lost in the beauty of water or flower, but not very often. When people sat down it was usually for respite, not contemplation. Because I'd had my solitude, I could be amused (or perhaps bemused).
By 2 o'clock, I was heading back up for a snooze in my Mukinje pad. I passed an amusing stencil of a brown bear, the symbol of Plitvička, on a bike, and then I spotted an unmistakable orchid. I captured its splendour, crouched down as a three year old and her father went by, him saying the perennial “It's not far now!”
When I finally managed to make sense of my ticket-map at 7pm, I realised I hadn't visited the big one, and by then it was too late. Niggling disappointment vies with satisfaction that I've seen so much. What exactly is that pull of the biggest?
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