The oldies are restless; they're not really beach-going types. Our ancestors may be from this village but these days it's just a small tourist spot. There's not much 'real work' going on as Dad puts it, and he's certainly not interested in this swimming and sitting in the sun business like I am. So we decide to head over the mountain and the not too distant border, to take in the Bosnian city of Mostar....

So it has taken me the whole week, since my last blog, to find the damn mountain path - sorry, poor attempt at humour. Last week I signed off from amongst the scree of my grandmother's mountain, I was in search of the old path, the very one that my ancestors toiled up every day to collect firewood, tend gardens and trade beyond the peak of the mountain....

I've decided to take you off the tourist path and up my grandmother's mountain. It's lovely up there - very high - but breathtakingly beautiful. So walk with me please…but let's take it carefully and split it into two parts, because as I said it's freakin' high......

If you scratch the surface and look past the shimmering aquamarine waters of the Croatian coastline, venture inland and into Bosnia, the scars seem all too recent....

As far as I'm concerned, when you are 76 years old you are allowed to be a little un-PC. That said so far on our journey there have definitely been a few moments when I've been torn between laughing out loud and slapping my father silly....