Getting to an abode of silence? Monk breaks solitude.

Is this hayfever? That was a mosquito last night! The obvious and insanely threatening micro buzz always finds its way to my sensitive ears. Whenever the buzz stops it has alighted, sinks its 'teeth', bites and then drinks from a straw. But I am thinking this is not the same kind of critter I was forced to endure in Central America so I slept soundly after considering this and recall being told that mosquitoes must prosper too.

This morning I am heading straight into the 'stari grad', across the pedestrian bridge direct from the new town, no other sights to linger over here.

It is time for a coffee, two sugars, thence to the monastery Sventi Frane. No rush. It's warm already I watch people traveling to their Monday employment. For me uppers, but locals a beer at eight fifty am, in Caffe Bar Forum.

Unhastily I packed, abluted, washed up the remaining pots and left number 8. That was an easy hour from me blinking awake just before eight. Which ever boat is waiting is where I go.

Another coffee without sugar. A question for you waiter: if you lucky enough not to be working today which island would you go? Perhaps one with a market, a view, no noise and olive groves where Plato and Socrates mythologise? Oh no not an excursion thank you? That was your "patriotically touristic" head wasn't it? It was impartial advice I required, not industrial bias. However, as the hayfever recedes to the back of my throat, the caffeine reaches my heart and I pay the touristic ready waiter in the episcopal quarter, I have an effect to cause ...

It is a short walk through tight and insidious alleys, where the paving has been polished by aeons of passing feet, towards the monastery of Sventi Frane. Keeping to the north west of this "island" which is known as the "old town" of Zadar - it is now connected to the mainland, but it was historically separated from, surrounded by thick walls and very secure for the Illyrian, Greek, Roman, Croat, Venetian, Turk, and Austrian trading settlers - to get a stamp in my necessary pilgrims passport as proof of purpose. After a little advice it's time to get across the straits at noon.

Then back through the twisting interconnecting passages south east to the Market Square to pick up items for a peasants lunch (cheese, proscuttio and flat bread washed down with garden fresh strawberries and a quaff of Riesling). It looks like it was a lucky day for the mangy cat padding close and looking intent, who I feel hadn't eaten in a long time, who was hanging about the east gate next to the quayside, as he gets scraps. While we sate our hunger the locals queue alongside the ship to return back across the short straits weighed by their baskets filled with fresh foodstuff. It is thirty minutes travel between Ugljan Island and Zadar and I am in no hurry.

There are photos of persons in all the archways of the gates: at first I thought these were missing persons, but then it dawned on me - Obituaries - an awful lot of dead people in Zadar.

In Croatia there are many fully functioning monasteries, untroubled by Henry the Tyrant (our very own Tamberlaine), so perhaps a pilgrimage is possible from south to north or vise versa. After a brief whimsical football chat with a Liverpudlian before disembarking, it is a short walk north from Preko dockside along Punta to catch a "taxi" rowed across the 80 metres. I pay 5 kuna, step onto the islet at its quay - two other boats bob here. Not much space for anything other than the monastery of Saint Paul the Hermit and olive groves. The ferryman will pick me up on the morrow.

Perched upon the highest part of this rocky promontory, surrounded by giant resinous pines, date palms and aloe, up a causeway, are the church and monastery. Here I am welcomed by Gabriel, another monk (there are three only on the isle) and an elderly German Shepherd who come out to meet me at the door to their cloisters.

Tomorrow I will set off south towards another monastery in Kraj. It feels right to give thanks in the morning attending mass for seven am because I don't know why I am here.

Good men allow me a night here in their guesthouse and food too. Although I have all three credentials from my travels with me they seem sceptical to my open and honest approach. In the end 'all is well' as something often looks out for me on my Way. Giving them a hug I smile at the simple kindness.

After a rest, and a couple of circuits of Galovac island (which is also known as Skolijc), I am pondering how long this islet has served for sanctuary - well before it was founded as a monastery in 1446 - who was here first?

With fingers glued together (pine resin), and the wind picking up, it's time to shower and lose any memory of the Monday rat race: humanity has come to a point when we must consider what our real role is on Mother Earth if we are to really prosper, as a higher animal, for millions of years?

The silence is broken as one of the monks cuts back the hay with a strimmer (where once a scythe would suffice). It is five, the German Shepherd cools off in the patch left behind the 'by modern means' monk and my concentration is gone. I leave feeling that a scythe would've taken less time (but what is that to eternity?) and return me to the ringing tinnitus preventing my true empty-mind solace. Monday hasn't entirely gone from here.

...

Oh he has stopped. Just gone six and I will finish the vino before dinner at seven. Is this ringing in my ear the background radiation from the big bang? It comes from all directions.