We are dropped off on a bridge.
It’s a little waterfall one way.
It’s a river of trouts the other.
We follow the trouts.
To a town of aqueducts.
With another waterfall.
And yet another.
There is a remarkable view of the very edge of the Alps.
And we reach our first of many honey bee hotels.
Apparently, beekeeping is a Slovenian pasttime.
And we are on a “beekeeping path.”
It is Sunday. Every church on every hill is banging its bells.
We get back to the river.
And reach the national park that we will spend most of our days in.
We wonder if there are trout nearby?
Isabelle finds trout, without any guidance.
The natural habitat of trout is steel cages.
The river gets more dramatic, in anticipation.
It hops down drops.
It rips ‘round bends.
It cascades along cliffs.
And before you know it, it’s a full-blown gorge.
You can get dangerously close.
But safety is provided.
Trout are clearly visible the whole way.
Eventually it opens back up.
Then drops violently.
There is the opportunity for you to drop violently, as well.
It drops once more.
Which a crazy man swims in.
But we don’t want to get slapped.
So we say our goodbyes to the river.
And head up to the woods.
There are clear signs of witchcraft here.
So maybe farm land will be safer.
Goats are known protection against witches.
Plus the farms have fire stations run by Roman gods.
We go by road.
We go by rail.
Beyond the bees.
Beyond the lumber.
We rest, briefly.
But the food is insufficient.
A lake! It can’t be too much farther.
Squid ink risotto is within reach!
And the “famous” cream cake of Bled.
And the famous view from Bled.
And the famous wild goat of Bled.
Bled, sugar, baby; she’s magik.