I’m sure every wind used to have a name back when animism was the dominant worldview and it’s lovely that names are still used in the Mediterranean.

The last few days jugo has been blowing. Coming from the south east, it brings rain and stormy weather and in Croatia is a synonym for bad. A sandwich can be said to be jugo and when it blows grumpiness, aches and pains are expected. In the past you could even use it as an excuse for breaking the law!

The other most common wind in Croatia is the Bura, a katabatic wind meaning the cold air blows down from the mountains. People love Bura because it brings clear, fresh skys, it dries ham and sprays sea water on to the grass where sheep graze making the cheese salty. People of the sea don’t share this love because Bora blows with unpredictable gusts, sometimes at hurricane force, with speeds of over 200km/h recorded. The cliffs offer no shelter because it hits the water from above, and although with such a short fetch the waves don’t get big, it produces a sea smoke that can suffocate you.

Bura is very localised, blowing strongest where mountains rise straight from the sea, particularly on the island of Pag which looks like a moonscape, nothing able to survive in the wind.

I packed up and chatted to two fishermen who arrived on the beach and headed off with the aim of getting to Split. Bura was blowing, and although only forecast as light winds, the sea smoke was starting to swirl and the gusts were buffeting against me. If this was very light Bura, what would the strong stuff be like? Those areas where it blows fiercest lay ahead of me, further north.

It was getting cold too. I stopped on a beach for a bite to eat and was shivering a minute later.

Since the night in the bunker on Mljet I’ve been thinking about when and where I’ll finish this trip. Not because I’m not enjoying the adventure, but because in that bunker I formed a plan for my next projects and I’m excited to move on to them.

Perhaps I’d stop in Split? The sprawl of the city came in to view, and it hit me that if I did decide to finish the trip there, this was the last paddle. It felt very anti-climatic, but I suppose when you’re doing something for the journey and not the destination, this will always be the case – the destination isn’t important. For me travel is not a means to an end, it’s an end in itself. I’ve said from the start that where I finish doesn’t matter, and that’s still true.

I found a sailing club in Split and a nice guy called Sire welcomed me to leave my boat there, have a hot shower and sleep there too – wonderful!

I considered my decision. Really I’d like to keep going until I cant go on, until nature forced my hand. But what does that mean? It means carrying on until failure and in this case failure means hypothermia or drowning. So I had to draw a line, choose when to stop, and the question is where to draw that line. Its difficult because I like pushing to the limit, and now I had to stop before my limit. But better not to let my ego get the better of me and stop here in Split – what difference does it make?

Yes, I decided, this is the end. A ferry runs from Split to Ancona, Italy, with no more ferries at this time of year further north, and I booked a ticket for the 8pm sailing the next day.

The Christmas decorations were up in Split, and families, couples and friends wandered the streets in thick overcoats and boots which I was rather jealous of as my feet froze in my flip flops. It was saturday night and the mood was jolly, children skating on an ice rink, a crowd gathered in the square watching the football world cup on a big screen. Outside a church a bride and groom were surrounded by a smartly dressed throng, singing, dancing and letting off flares. I sat down and watched and the beauty of the moment swept over me. Fate had brought me to this moment, sitting on a wall in Split, by chance coming upon this special ceremony, the cold breeze blowing through me, vulnerable, free, an onlooker. I’ll really miss that feeling. But it turned out the adventure wasn’t over quite yet.