Sunday Check-In: Biceps, Basements and a Bit of Byzantium

I’m writing this on a boat.

Specifically, sitting on the deck of a boat, slowly roasting in the sunshine, somewhere along the Croatian coast, perched between Makarska’s sun-bleached cliffs and the next port whose name I’ll probably mispronounce and pretend I didn’t. And yes - before anyone says anything - this is technically a post while on holiday. But it’s also my now weekly Sunday check-in, and because it stays away from politics and has a minor focus on moustaches, I think it should be allowed.

This week is something of a milestone buffet. I turned 39 years old in the last week, which is a bit baffling because I’m pretty sure I was 27 about six minutes ago. My husband turned 40 earlier this year, and we’re also celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary next week - because nothing says enduring love quite like subjecting each other to week-long confinement on a floating vessel with an unlimited drinks package and no escape.

Romance!

We landed in Split late on Friday night.

The promenade was absolutely heaving - a barely under control cavalcade of bronzed torsos, flowing linens, and that kind of effortless European glamour that makes you deeply suspicious of how any of them digest food.

People seem to not just walk here - they saunter. They glide. They pose. It doesn’t feel like a city so much as a living fashion editorial, and we stumbled into it looking like two middle-aged gay men who’d just escaped a very intense admin-based hostage situation, which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong.

Now, the hotel.

Oh, the hotel.

Here’s where the holiday gods decided to have a bit of a laugh.

Our original room was cancelled due to double-booking (thanks, Booking.com). But! Good news - they’d upgraded us to a suite. The not so good news - the suite had a smell, and not a gentle whiff or a mild odour. A full-blown pong, of unknown origin but unmistakable presence, like a mouldy jockstrap in a tumble dryer. Walking into the room like being backhanded by a demon with unresolved plumbing issues. To add to the olfactory injury, the aircon wheezed like an asthmatic pensioner trying to blow out birthday candles on a windy beach.

Still, midnight birthday dinner made up for it. We ate seafood under fairy lights and palm trees, and I quietly tried not to think about the mystery scent awaiting us upstairs. Romance, again!

Saturday morning brought with it a revelation. And thighs. Oh god, so many thighs.

Makarska - and yes, the rainbow did indeed point to a gay-friendly bar.

A sun-drenched stroll through the remnants of Diocletian’s Palace - a retirement property so OTT it makes Mar-a-Lago look like a Travelodge. The man wanted a retirement home with the sea and soldiers, and honestly - same.

Built around the year 300 CE, the palace is more fortress than villa, dripping with Roman arrogance and marble. It’s not so much a ruin as it is a deeply intimidating reminder that our ancestors built things to last. Including, apparently, their underground rubbish bins - because, as it turns out, a huge part of the palace’s basement remains intact precisely because it was used as a medieval dump, and as someone with slight hoarding tendencies and an unhealthy attachment to my monstera plants, I found that deeply validating.

But let’s talk about the men. Good. Lord.

Hot Croatian men everywhere. And I don’t mean in the casual, “oh he’s quite handsome” sense. I mean everywhere. Walking. Running. Riding fascinating little battery pallet mini-trucks. Serving coffee with forearms that could bench-press a Fiat. Driving taxis with legs that could inspire poetry. Dripping in sweat and sex appeal in a way that frankly feels rude.

And the moustaches.

My god, the moustaches.

I’m not talking ironic East London stubble here. No, no, no. These are strong, unapologetic, Balkan moustaches. Moustaches that could write operas and win wars. My husband and I have been reduced to grinning idiots, tripping over cobblestones while trying to act like we’re not both mentally composing a group chat called “Thick Thighs of the Dalmatian Coast”.

It’s diabolical. I may never recover.

Also: Radler.

How in the world did nobody tell me about Radler? Lemon beer. Two percent alcohol. Incredibly refreshing. Makes me feel like I’m hydrating and day drinking at the same time, which frankly should be the pinnacle of human invention. I’ve decided it’s all I want to drink from now on. Radler, if you’re reading this: call me.

But, back to Split.

Aside from the men and the beer, it’s impossible not to be overwhelmed by the history. Every alley hides an arch, every square opens onto a bit of forgotten empire. You’ll be walking along, half-listening to your spouse mutter about needing more sunscreen, and suddenly find yourself staring down into a Roman sewer or what possibly used to be a sacrificial temple now inexplicably housing an H&M. There’s something delightfully chaotic about it.

We rounded off the day in Split by getting onto our boat and sailing to Makarska, a coastal town nestled at the foot of what I’m calling a Dalmatian mountain (someone with a geography degree can correct me later). It’s postcard perfect. Red-tiled roofs. A church that does its bells with emotional damage. Locals who simultaneously know exactly how good-looking they are while pretending they don’t. The air smells like pine, sea salt, and something vaguely herbal I can’t quite identify but want to bottle and sell as Desperation & Desire: A Mediterranean Fragrance.

The ghost of the Venetian Republic lingers everywhere - in the buildings, the courtyards, the old city crests. You half expect a gondola to appear at any given moment with a mysterious note and someone named Pietro asking if you believe in fate. (Yes, Pietro. Yes I do.)

And while all this is happening, the UK feels very, very far away.

I’ve been mostly off Twitter. Not because I don’t love you lot, but because my soul needed a rest. It’s been… a lot. Politically. Personally. Planetarily. I’m sure while I’ve been sipping Radler and eyeing up moustaches, there have been at least five GB News meltdowns, a think piece blaming avocado toast for the NHS collapse, and several MPs accusing tap water of being woke. I’ll catch up eventually. Or I won’t. I dunno. Honestly, I might just stay here and start a new life selling fridge magnets and writing “Mamma Mia! 3: Diocletian’s Revenge”.

And now I have to add something here: I know how lucky I am to be here.

Holidays weren’t really a thing growing up. Not for me. They happened to other people. On telly. On postcards. Not for kids from small towns with limited means and even more limited expectations. My idea of a holiday was a long weekend at my aunt’s, with the real treat being a Wimpy breakfast if we behaved ourselves.

It was my husband who introduced me to this idea - that holidays could be restorative. And for me. That they weren’t just for rich people or middle-class families with Aventura loyalty cards. That two queer men from very different sides of South Africa could carve out a life where this was possible. That you could build something gentle and soft and joyful in a world that often feels hard and hostile.

I’m deeply grateful. For the view. For the air. For the ridiculous abundance of biceps and Byzantine ruins. For the ten years married the same man who still makes me laugh, still steals my chips, and still somehow finds new ways to surprise me - even if it’s just by finding the one hotel room in Split that smells like boiled ghosts.

Anyway, we’re off to Stari Grad today. Wikipedia tells me it’s one of the oldest towns in Europe, and I’m fascinated by just what that actually means.

I don’t know if I’ll post again while I’m here. It all depends on Wi-Fi, Radler intake, and whether any of the boat crew offer to re-enact a scene from Below Deck with me in the role of “confused, but enthusiastic passenger.”

I’ll be back properly from 5 August, with probably a mild tan line that stops halfway up my thigh because I forgot to rotate.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a unicorn floatie with my name on it waiting for me to get inside it and bob around in in the Adriatic.

Have an excellent week, all.

Best,

Bear

Ps: The flamingo swimming shorts made it in, and they look fantastic.