cruising westward toward the sea, we stopped in samobor for custard pie, two espressos, and to have a look around. everything we'd read described it as a quiet escape from zagreb; to us, it seemed an escape from the world.
coming 'round the hills, samobor appears as though painted from the pages of a storybook. the town wends itself along a babbling stream crisscrossed by covered footbridges. cawing crows perch atop fenceposts and gates. smoke curls from the chimneys of moss-roofed cottages. townspeople peddle mustard and wine. ruins of a thirteenth century castle sit high on a hill. golden autumn leaves fall like music.