The seaside in Cro-land in July/August is not for the locals. They are working at anything that is, even vaguely, related to tourism. There are thousands of little cabooses set up along every boardwalk in Istria and Dalmatia selling made-in-China authentic souvenirs like Croatian Flag placemats, shot glasses and biscuits (would you believe you can get a ‘homemade’ Croatian Flag milk arrowroot…. expecting to see iced vo-vos at any moment).

So the seaside is peopled by folks from other European climes. Italians, because they can’t afford to holiday in their own countries; Scandinavians because they enjoy nude sunbathing and the skin colour ‘mission brown’; and the eastern Europeans, who prove that it doesn’t matter how long you cook in the sun, pale skin doesn’t necessarily change colour or melt belly fat.

At the seaside there is no food. There are cafes that sell café (coffee), icecream and every type of booze ever brewed or distilled from every country in the known universe. Sometimes you get pretzels with it.

The seaside also proves the number 52 Fashion Law: just because you have the money, the shop, the time AND you are at the beach, does NOT mean you should buy/wear a bikini. This law is heinously broken at every minute, through every hour, on every day and at every beach. All along the Adriatic coast the non-endangered species ‘humanis whale-is’ is in evidence.

And I’m not talking exclusively about the women – the man bikini bottom is being abused from one end of the coast to the other. Particularly fetching is the fluro orange and yellow versions favoured by the 60+ gents. I once heard Joan Rivers make the joke that old mens’ testes hang like used teabags. I know now that this was not a joke, but a statistically provable fact (probably by the CSIRO boffins who had spent time on the Croatian coast).

The younger man (those under 60) prefer blue or black. Subtle colours that are stretched beyond the ISO Standards for nylon and elastic. If these togs could talk, they would be whimpering. At times the European bloke does attempt to drag the material from hirsute butt cheeks (I’ve actually seen an obliging wife attempt to help), however, without a pulley and chain, the effort is always in vain.

Today I saw a particularly hairy bloke in purple togs. Think Cousin It in tones of grape. He was having a fabulous time at the Krka waterfalls and the jets of water were parting the hair on his back with engineering precision.

This is a European seaside of serious tummys. Floating on their backs, it looks like a series of atolls around which the waves gently lap and which generate their own weather patterns.

For those of you who are interested in all things medical, I am now fully conversant in the multiple ways that both cesarian and hernia scars heal – or in the latter case, the many ways/shapes a hernia can protrude. I actually thing I’ve seen something like a carbuncle hernia – I’m thinking of writing it up for The Lancet.

Until next time……