Jack and I left Sarajevo the morning after our grand day out, and took a bus several hours north, to a town called Tuzla. Neither of us particularly wanted to go Tuzla, but a one-night stopover there split what would have been an nine-hour bus ride to Belgrade into two bus rides of only four hours or so.

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Jack snores like a maniac. I shared a room with him all the way through Bosnia, and each morning he’d wake up, stretch, and say something like “Dude, I had the best night’s sleep ever, I slept like a baby”, and I’d look at him and say “Nice”. I figured out a way to stop his snoring, eventually: whenever he began to honk and wheeze, I would take my plastic water bottle and thwack it against the wall. The sound was enough to wake him, but wasn’t enough for him to remember why he’d woken up. Then he’d shrug and fart and roll over, and I’d have a peaceful thirty minutes before the snoring began anew.

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It was a curious jaunt to Sarajevo. After a long day sweating in the hostel garden in Mostar, I set out with my new travel buddy, Jack, and a French guy who I think was called Adrian. We lugged our rucksacks across town in the 42C heat, found our train was delayed by five hours, lugged our rucksacks back to the hostel, melted a bit more, and then in the evening boarded our train. The view from Mostar to Sarajevo is meant be fantastic – big swooping mountains all the way – but the train had tinted windows for some reason, and in the twilight we couldn’t see shit.

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It was a curious jaunt to Sarajevo. After a long day sweating in the hostel garden in Mostar, I set out with my new travel buddy, Jack, and a French guy who I think was called Adrian. We lugged our rucksacks across town in the 42C heat, found our train was delayed by five hours, lugged our rucksacks back to the hostel, melted a bit more, and then in the evening boarded our train. The view from Mostar to Sarajevo is meant be fantastic – big swooping mountains all the way – but the train had tinted windows for some reason, and in the twilight we couldn’t see shit.

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On my third day in Mostar I decided to head out on a paid tour with Adi, the owner of the hostel I was staying in – it was another recommendation of the Kiwis from Zadar.*

*Kiwis from Zadar would make an excellent album title

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I’d wanted to go to Split after Zadar, but due to some techno festival taking place at the weekend, prices were insane. Rather than pay through the schnoz for a bunkbed for one night in Split, I booked a couple of nights in a town a 30-minute drive away; the tiny historical island of Trogir.

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I woke up in Vienna, worked a little during the day, then lugged my shit across the sweltering city to the train station. From there, in a dehydrated, pink-faced fluster, I boarded the train to Slovenia.

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Lawd it’s good to be back.

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It was a lovely, peaceful, glowing week with Jeanne – although, as I’m sure you’ll understand, I’ve not written too much about it because I’d like to keep it between the two of us.

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Strasbourg was utterly lovely and relaxing and restorative. I stayed with Jeanne for a week and a half, in the apartment she shares with two friends just outside the pretty town centre.

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