1) The author and their boyfriend visited Lake Bled in winter, finding it transformed from its usual summer attraction with swimming and sports. 2) They hiked around the lake, passing a log cabin and fishing boats, and encountered a lone boatman who rowed them across to the small island in the lake. 3) On the island they saw the ruins of an old church and the Julian Alps through clearing fog before returning to the mainland and visiting the cliff-side Bled Castle, then enjoying local pastries with a view of the misty lake from above.

1. Overeager, my boyfriend and I had arrived early, expecting crowds – but we soonfound out
that Lake Bled is a summer attraction. We were on the set of a thriller, the only two people in
the world, huddled together under a blackening sky. Winter transformed the huge alpine
lake.
Known for its swimming, rowing and extreme sports, the once blue paradise was shrouded in
mist and beautifully haunting, the magical little island in its centre eerie and mysterious.
Aiming to complete the six kilometre trail encircling the lake, we began walking up the steep
path.
The elusive island glinted at us between the thick branches of evergreens as we fought
against the perpetual drizzle, admiring a storybooklog cabin nestled amongst the trees. As
we descended, we walked along weather-worn wooden planks by the lake’s bank; slow
moving fish glistening in the mirror clear water. A row of chipped blue and white fishing
boats gently floated, tethered with ropes to a woodenpole
Presently we encountered a lone oarsman, dozing serenely on his painted pletna boat, his
arm flung over his face. A swan, used to the swathes of summer tourists, pecked forlornly on
the stern, hoping for crumbs. At the prospectofcustom, the man stirred into life and silently
ushered us aboard. We seized our chance to reach the island, and clambered aboard the
swaying boat – as it was built to carry 20 people, it was slightly unbalanced.
Our pletnarstvo - or oarsman - had been taught from childhood to hand build, paint and row
the exquisite pletna, as part of a traditional local profession passed downfrom father to son.
Armed with two huge wooden oars, he stood precariously on the boat's edge and effortlessly
steered us across the lake.
Gliding towards the island, we passed Tito’s imposing summer home and several
extravagant hotels before we reached our destination. Ninety-nine stone steps led up to the
quaint medieval church where many weddings are held; traditionally a groom must carry his
bride up all of the steps, before ringing the church bell for good luck. Devoid of tourists, the
island was secretive and beautiful, the church steeped in history. The snow-capped peaks of
the Julian Alps were just visible through the clearing fog.
Back on the mainland, we diverged from our trail once again to reach Bled Castle, set against
a sheer cliff edge. Legs aching, we dived into a cave-like coffee shop and selected enormous,
indulgent squares of kremna rezina - gorgeous thick wedges of vanilla cream held together
by a paper thin layer of buttery, crispy pastry doused in icing sugar.
Perched on a rickety table, high above the lake, we surveyed the shimmering horizon.
Finally, the sound of an engine – and a coachload of clichés tumbled in on our secret.
Tourists had arrived, wielding selfie sticks and clicking cameras, chattering and laughing.
Our ethereal, fairy-tale morning had faded away with the dissipating mist. We had to share
the world again.