Cross-legged under an enormous pine tree, my chess pieces and I tamed chaos | Ana Schnabl

One hot summer in Slovenia, my cousins taught me how to jump, twirl and sashay on that black and white grid. I sensed I was spying on some ancient, fundamental truth

• In our end of year series, writers and public figures remember the place or time when they felt most at home

Enter the cliche of the Adriatic: the smell of pine trees and salt; the sound of cicadas, loud as factory machines; the sight of blue, brown and green; the splash after splash of seawater; the straw hats, linen trousers and dresses; the sun-kissed skin. Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?

This is how I remember the coast of Slovenia. Breaking open my piggy bank, gathering 700 Slovenian tolars and stuffing them into my pocket. Walking to the slaščičarna (patisserie) near the marina, ordering seven scoops of ice-cream with cream, eating hastily yet attentively, then vomiting into an oleander bush an hour later.

Ana Schnabl is a Slovenian novelist, editor and critic

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