Day 13: Makarska to Orasac near Dubrovnik

The wheel is obviously loose again as I set out. I stop a hundred metres round the corner and spread out my small tool roll. That spindle bolt needs sorting.  I tighten it quickly but in my hurry to get going again, I pack the stepthrough bag poorly.  It's so wide I can't get my foot to the brake pedal without contortions. I wait until I'm out of town before stopping and repacking. No-one likes an audience when there are problems.
I pull in for fuel. Do I risk trying to fill the illegal can? The man watching me from the forecourt  looks stern. I decide to just fill the bike. I take a photo of my odometer and the pump display; that's how I keep track of my MPG. I go and pay using the crumpled kunas in my wallet. As I leave Mr Stern bars my way with his outstretched arm . He points to a sign on the wall. Small round circles with crosses detail all the things you are not allowed to do. He points to 'no recording'. He points to 'no helmets' . He directs his stern face at me.
"Ah...OK." I try to smile in the face of sternity.
"OK," he replies. I wander back to the bike and ride on, wondering what the point of all that was.
There's a smell of Summer. Grass seed heads are starting to ripen even now.
Suddenly, border control. I'm in Bosnia & Herzegovina. I think I can fill the can here. Hurrah!
I turn in to a big petrol station. "Is it okay to fill cans?"
"Cans?" he repeats in a strong Croatian accent.  He shakes his  head in short staccato movements. Does that mean 'no' or that he just doesn't understand? I ride on without fuel.

Camping Pod Moslinam is a gem of a place. Set out in a terraced olive grove, it's above a small beach where I watch the setting sun until it's time to climb back up the steeply winding lane to the tent and something to eat. I spread out the treasures I'd gleaned from the tiny local shop: bread, olives, tomatoes, more crumbly, salted, white cheese and pate, all to add to the clementines and figs I'd bought from the wayside shop back on the road.

I meet a French couple in a camper who, it turns out, are following a similar route to me. They write a blog too. We exchange addresses over a shared drink at their little table and wish each other a safe journey.
As I climb into my tent I can hear the, now familiar, 'beep' of the Nightbeep bird. I don't know what it's really called, but it beeps - in a truly electronic 'beep' manner, every ten seconds... all night. That's not the worst thing about the Nightbeep bird, however. Every now and then, when the ten seconds is up... it DOESN'T beep. I try to sleep and ignore the missing beeps.