lilly, mary and rosemary: october 8, island of vis, croatia

an entry from my travel-log:

Lost in the sea of rosemary as it sedated my senses and sut my legs into bloody lines (i still got the scars ). Lines and piles of rocks laid to level out the hillside for planting, rise from the shadowy wet bramble and served as momentary resting islands. Ana and I stood on these rocks looking at the road below, from which we turned and began to climb up this hill about an hour before. The growth was much thicker than it looked from the road. The road below, to the left and right of us the  same endless ocean of rosemary, pines and thorns with white piles and spines of white stones, above was the top of the hill. With each attempt through the bramble the top moved further and further up, causing us to curse, at first under our breath, and soon in short loud words, directed not an each other or the hill, but the stinging sensitivity on our shins, thighs and arms, and at the growing possibility of spending hours like this without water or shelter  before we reached a field, path or a road.  The beach on the other side of the mountains was the reason we chose a shortcut over the hill, instead of following the curvy road. Traversing sideways we crawled over to the sunny side of the slope where the growth was shorter and a well-preserved stone spine lead up a major portion of the hill.With each move falling into the wet fragrant and evermore thorned abysses of the hill. Untouched by humans the branches and grasses resisted us by slashing and whipping, but we moved through with the sheer intention of survival. No helicopter was coming, and there was no choice but to take turns in stomping the path and moving on.  Reaching three or four step tops, two or three hours in, we saw a valley of fields on the other side. A brief hallelujah, but the way down might be hours away. Lines of rocks formed right angles suggesting the history of houses: a shepherd's hut, a town or a fortress, who knows. Allowing ourselves to stop and rest for a few minutes, we took a few sips of the precious water. I checked up on the ukulele, which was sticking out of my backpack, wrapped in Ana's shirt. It was miraculously unbroken and intune. Among the rosemary, salt, pine, fermented grapes and our sweat, I discovered a centimeter-long black thorn in my leg and tried to push it out. Ana went at it with her longer fingernails, a key, and a pen-end, but it was too deep and our efforts only created a small bowl of bloody meat soup in my flesh. The climbing, the oxygen and heaven's landscape numbed the pain and we stopped only to descend and hope for a road below. The road appeared in a few minutes and we rejoiced in being able to step straight, swinging our arms, no thorns grazing each movement. I blessed the creation of roads and we ate a bitter-sweet pomegranate picked at the roadside on the edge of town. A few hours later we reached the holy Milna and its beach and swam in the warm dusked Adriatic waters. On the way back we passed vineyards and olive groves. It was wine making season in Croatia and the full clusters of grapes were sweet and satiating. Two hand-fulls each, we made it our dinner. We got back to our camp by sundown to wash off the blood, grape-juice and dust and watch the moon rise.