Postojna - The Cave

Postojna, tourism here is about The Cave. Brochures scattered here and there, The Cave that’s what this place is known for.

Europe started a month and eight countries ago by trains and ferries, navigated day to day. I had found my perfect travel companion a few years back and now we were streamlined unplanned wanderers. “I’m ready, I’m ready right now”, she still says whenever I am abruptly ready to walk out the door with no plan. This day started eight hours, two countries, and three trains ago. The first dropped us at a rural platform amongst dozens of unused tracks. All the other passengers jumped a waiting connection and left us alone on the open platform beaming at our randomness. ‘Is the Budapest to Slovenia service really going to stop here?’ The late afternoon service out of Ljubljana had compartment seating and open windows where we stood carefully peering out the whole trip.

We found a room whilst in transit, clicked book, and someone got back straight away. The door will be open, text me and I will meet you. This required a little bit of faith, but gut instinct had worked this day. The station sits on the hill above the village, it is sleepy enough that a taxi or an uber was not forthcoming. The short walk impacted only by dragging bags down an exceedingly long hillside staircase, descending into a patch of residential amongst plenty of green space. A couple of streets through similar four story mid modern walk ups and we find our way up to a neat room. With a bounding echo up the clean open stairs a charming energetic lass appears with warm greetings in capable English. She scoots around the room to check and explain things, all is good. With a knowing nod, we enquire about an extra night and she is more than happy to oblige with a preferred rate. Tapping into her handheld eftpos her subtle smile says, ‘I knew it, build it and they will come’.

Tucked away quietly on the sleepy side of the Alps, who would have known Slovenia is classic charming modern Europe. Feeling warm, relaxed and welcomed puts a soft smile on our faces. We chuckle at the character, the lack of anything too standout-ish. In the morning, we stroll the sleepy township finding a quiet patisserie breakfast, pastry and coffee, and again the brochures, The Cave. This place has such a simple local flavour and no obvious tourism, then there is this cave? Google anything and the cave comes up. OK, let’s go see check it out.

Heading out of the small township quickly finds sweet fresh green country lanes. Then finding the dedicated cave road, this is where all those tour buses are going. The road becomes a long car park, then a bus drop off outside an oldish red brick palatial themed building with a ticketing touristy entrance. Oh, I see its quite popular then! In Australia, a cave might be a big tourist thing, but might also be a sleepy hole in the ground, down a dirt road with a self-serve coin tin out the front. This is not that. This is serious. It is in complete contrast with the sweet little town. A featured facility attached to the motorway, bus tourists are fed into the grand façade and onward into a courtyard. They are pre ticketed, we are confronted with ticket booths and retail pricing, expensive tickets for the basics, or extra expensive tickets for some fancy version. More than $100 euro for two! Who’s paying that? What is this place? It’s a cave with some glowing things, nothing much else is specified. Australia has some pretty good caves, usually fairly priced for something pretty relaxed, personal and often spectacular. I see no pictures of ancient dripping stalactites here.

First thing here is feeding and souvenirs. Hot dogs or donuts or whatever complex cross cultural mish mash is being pushed, the bus people are all over it like ants. They sit at rows of white benches consuming touristy snacks whilst trialling how shiny plastic promotional trinkets might best highlight their gaudy tourist wear.  On the far side are queues. There are no casual approaches, we skirt around the outside to avoid getting herded. This is serious queuing, little fences chorale people into language-based sections, English, German, Spanish, French, each mob with a touch of matching cultural character, daggy, suave, colourful. Then there is an everyone else queue, a delightful variety of cultures sharing confused looks as they fumble with translation headsets. There is no translation as to how to use a translation headset. There are a lot of people, the English queue must be a hundred. Through the crowd is the cave entrance and seeing that this is all to get on little trains emphasises a Disney feel rather than a natural phenomenon. A little noisy smelly diesel spewing caboose with multiple crowded buggies bumps to a halt and dispatches its horde down chutes to waiting buses.  Completely in character rocking and bouncing like a cartoon, it does a power turn, whereby stylish uniformed guides usher the next crowd aboard. An hour ago, we were in the peace and tranquillity of urban village Europe, yet now we are watching a tourist sideshow. The queues shuffle like drones in an experiment. Our dismay confirms our inclination not to see the cave. This display of mass tourism is our passing entertainment. Our preferred reality nudges us and we find an escape. Crossing the car park the busses rev and fill and zoom off to the motorway, carrying preplanned souls onto their next populist highlight. We find a side path and within minutes have dropped away into sweet green countryside with a stone bridge over a tranquil brook, we glance back stunned at the contrast.

Later that day after a relaxing nap, we find ourselves wandering the village hill. Staggered stone houses form narrow irregular streets, a cat sleeps on a stoop, chickens pecking and huge red tomatoes colour a small garden. There is not a soul around. Sitting on an old wall with stunning valley views, we reflect on travel choices, the cave was a grand stopover for those that like that path. Yet we are dismayed at the thought. We determine not to post an Insta or publicise the simplicity of place. No, don’t mention it. Let this be the domain of those that wander freely and stumble across unexpected charms, those who flip a coin at every junction.