In this reflective episode, I explore a feeling that has stayed with me for a long time: why I often feel safer here in Bosnia and Herzegovina than I do in London.

This is not a simple comparison between one place being good and the other bad. London is one of the great cities of the world, full of energy, culture, opportunity, and life. Bosnia is not perfect either. It has its frustrations, its difficult politics, its bureaucracy, and its real everyday struggles.

But safety is not only about crime statistics, systems, cameras, or official structures.

Sometimes safety is about how a place makes your body feel.

It is about whether your shoulders drop. Whether you can walk slowly. Whether people notice you. Whether the road home feels familiar. Whether a cup of coffee is more than just a drink.

In Bosnia, especially in smaller communities, I often feel less invisible. People notice who you are, where you live, when you walk, and whether something seems out of place. That can sometimes feel a little suffocating, but it can also create an informal safety net — a quiet, human form of protection.

In this episode, I talk about ageing, belonging, village life, London, emotional safety, and the difference between being watched and being truly noticed.

For me, Bosnia offers something I value more and more at this stage of life: connection.

Not perfection, not certainty, but a sense of being held by place, rhythm, and community.

Maybe safety is not always about living somewhere with the most polished systems or the biggest economy.

Maybe safety is also about living somewhere where your life has edges you can recognise.

Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

https://www.anenglishmaninthebalkans.com/course/welcome-to-start-with-your-voice

Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

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In this episode of An Englishman in the Balkans, I explore one of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s most overlooked architectural details — the wooden minarets found on some of the country’s smaller mosques.

These are not the grand stone minarets many people associate with Islamic architecture. They are quieter, more local, and deeply connected to Bosnia’s forests, village life, craftsmanship, and memory.

From the Banja Luka area to small settlements across the country, wooden minarets tell a story of faith shaped by place — modest, beautiful, and easy to miss unless you know where to look.

A small detail, perhaps.

But in Bosnia, small details often open the door to much bigger stories.

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As spring arrives, the migrating birds have returned to the area for summer, and the dawn chorus has become stronger each morning. I had originally planned to record at 4:00 a.m., but eventually found myself outside at 5:30 a.m. on April 1st, still early enough to capture the quiet magic of the village waking up.

Using my Zoom H6 field recorder, I recorded not only birdsong, but a wider living soundscape. You will hear birds calling from different directions, dogs joining in, cars passing, and the bus arriving to collect children for the first shift at the local primary school in Laktaši.

This is not a guided episode in the usual sense. There is no interview and no long narration. Instead, it is an invitation to slow down and listen.

For the best experience, listen with headphones. The recording is in stereo, and headphones will help you feel the space of the village morning around you.

There is something meditative about soundscapes like this.

You do not need to do anything. Just press play, settle in, and let the morning sounds of rural Bosnia wash over you.

Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

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Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

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A warm Monday evening stroll through Banja Luka turns into a reflection on matura, Bosnia’s public, elegant, family-centred graduation tradition.

From glamorous dresses and proud parents to professional photographers and nervous young men in sharp suits, this episode explores youth, memory, and the Western Balkans’ beautiful sense of occasion.

Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

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Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

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Bosnia and Herzegovina is a beautiful, welcoming, deeply misunderstood country.

It is a place of villages, rivers, mountains, cafés, festivals, family gatherings, hiking trails, and everyday life. But it is also a country where the recent past still leaves traces, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden, and sometimes buried in the ground.

In this episode of An Englishman in the Balkans, I’m recording from the garden here in the village, with the ordinary sounds of rural Bosnia beneath my voice. Birds, dogs, maybe even the distant sound of a tractor. Peaceful sounds. Normal sounds.

And that is important, because this is not an episode designed to frighten anyone away from visiting Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Quite the opposite.

This is a personal, honest, and practical conversation about landmines in Bosnia in 2026 — what visitors, hikers, photographers, cyclists, drone users, and slow travellers should understand before heading off the beaten track.

I share a personal story from more than twenty years ago, when Tamara and I made a careless decision while walking near a former frontline area. It was a moment that reminded both of us how easily curiosity can lead you somewhere you should not be.

Bosnia is not unsafe in the way some people imagine. Daily life here is ordinary, peaceful, and full of warmth. People live, farm, walk, travel, go to school, attend festivals, support local sports teams, and welcome visitors every day.

But landmines and explosive remnants of war remain part of the country’s reality.

The risk is not everywhere. It is not on every road, field, village lane, or mountain path. But former frontlines, abandoned land, remote woodland, overgrown areas, and unmarked tracks still require caution and respect.

This episode is about balance.

Not fear.

Respect.

Respect for local knowledge. Respect for warning signs. Respect for marked trails. Respect for the landscape. And respect for the long, slow work still being done to make Bosnia and Herzegovina safer, field by field, path by path, village by village.

If you are planning to visit Bosnia, hike here, film here, cycle here, or explore rural areas, please listen carefully, use official resources, ask locally, and never treat the countryside casually.

Bosnia is beautiful.

But like many beautiful places, it asks us to pay attention.

Useful resources mentioned in this episode:

BH MAC - Bosnia and Herzegovina Mine Action Centre. EUFOR Mine Information Coordination Cell Mine Action Review. Bosnia and Herzegovina Official mine awareness and suspected hazardous area resources

Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

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Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

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How a damaged border crossing at Gradiška became a symbol of political delay, economic frustration, and everyday life made harder than it needs to be in Bosnia and Herzegovina.

The damaged bridge at Gradiška is one of those stories that seems to explain far more than the event itself.

On the surface, it is about the old bridge over the Sava River between Bosnia and Herzegovina and Croatia. It is about stopped traffic, diverted lorries, long queues, and drivers losing hours at alternative crossings.

But beneath that, it is about something bigger: politics, frustration, and the gap between what Bosnia and Herzegovina could do, and what its political system too often allows it to do.

For those of us in the Banja Luka region, Gradiška is not just another border crossing. It is one of the main routes north into Croatia, the European Union, and the wider European road network. Families, hauliers, exporters, tourists, workers, and the Bosnian diaspora all depend on it.

So when Gradiška stops working properly, it becomes more than a local inconvenience. It becomes an economic and human problem.

On 19 May 2026, traffic was suspended at the Gradiška–Stara Gradiška crossing after part of the protective fence on the bridge over the Sava collapsed, creating a serious safety risk. Thankfully, no injuries were reported.

But the disruption was immediate. Traffic was diverted, queues grew, and reports described trucks waiting up to 16 hours at alternative crossings.

That means lost money, lost working time, delayed goods, missed appointments, and frustrated families.

And this is where the story becomes especially frustrating.

There is already a new Gradiška bridge and border crossing infrastructure. After the old bridge problem forced action, traffic was temporarily redirected there, valid until 19 August 2026.

Which leaves the obvious question.

If traffic could be moved there in an emergency, why did it take an emergency?

Bosnia and Herzegovina is full of capable people who understand why a crossing like Gradiška matters. The problem is rarely a lack of intelligence. It is a political culture where practical solutions become trapped in arguments over institutions, authority, revenue, responsibility, and blame.

A bridge is supposed to connect people.

But at Gradiška, it has also shown the cost of delay, division, and political point scoring.

And once again, the bill is not paid by those making the speeches.

It is paid by the driver in the queue, the business waiting for goods, the family delayed at the border, and a country losing time it cannot afford to waste.

Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

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Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

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There are some places in Bosnia and Herzegovina that do not reveal themselves straight away.

During a recent two-and-a-half-day road trip through Bosnia and Herzegovina with Tamara and my granddaughter Alice, we stopped near Konjic for what I thought would be a quick visit and a few photographs.

Instead, within minutes, we were stepping through a doorway into one of the most secretive places ever built in the former Yugoslavia.

Hidden beneath a mountain near Konjic lies Tito’s Bunker, officially known as ARK D-0. Built during the Cold War for Josip Broz Tito and Yugoslavia’s military and political leadership, it was designed as an underground atomic war command shelter.

Above ground, life carried on as normal. The Neretva River flowed through Konjic, people drank coffee in cafés, and traffic moved along the road between Sarajevo and Mostar.

Beneath the surface, though, was another world entirely.

Construction began in 1953 and continued until 1979. Built in complete secrecy, the bunker was designed to shelter around 350 people for months in the event of nuclear war.

From the outside, there is very little drama. That is part of what makes it so fascinating. The entrance appears almost ordinary, tucked into the landscape with no great military spectacle.

Then you walk through the doors.

Long corridors stretch ahead. Heavy doors separate room after room. Pipes run overhead. Offices, communications rooms, dormitories, generators, filtration systems, kitchens, and medical spaces sit deep inside the mountain.

It feels less like a bunker and more like a secret underground city.

What struck me most was that this was not simply a military installation. It was a mindset poured into concrete. A reminder of just how seriously the Cold War was taken in this part of the world.

One of the things I often say about Bosnia and Herzegovina is that history here rarely sits politely behind glass. It presses in from all sides.

Tito’s Bunker feels exactly like that.

The small details stay with you: the telephones, the furniture, the faded colours on the walls, the offices frozen in time. You stop seeing history as something abstract and suddenly it becomes touchable and strangely human.

Tito himself remains a complicated figure across the former Yugoslavia. To some, he represented stability and independence during a tense period of global politics. To others, he represented control and silence under a one-party state.

Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

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Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

👉 Weekly Blog Posts: https://anenglishmaninthebalkans.com

I had planned to make a simple hiking story from the hills above Kakanj in central Bosnia. A scenic walk with our hiking club, a few thoughtful voice notes, some views towards Vlašić, and the sounds of boots, birdsong, and conversation along the way.

Bosnia had other ideas.

This episode is about a 13.5 kilometre hike that quickly became something much more personal: a lesson in preparation, aging, stubbornness, and humility. From a too-heavy rucksack and the wrong trousers to unforgiving hills, aching knees, and schoolchildren who seemed to float up the climbs, it reminded me that walking every day is not quite the same as hiking in Bosnia.

It is also a story about community, kindness, and the strange satisfaction of reaching the end when, somewhere along the route, you quietly wondered whether you would. Interested in starting your own podcast later in life?

My self-paced course for late creators is here:

https://www.anenglishmaninthebalkans.com/course/welcome-to-start-with-your-voice

Thanks for listening. If you enjoy slow, thoughtful stories from Bosnia and Herzegovina, please subscribe for more from my life here in the Balkans.

👉 Weekly Blog Posts: https://anenglishmaninthebalkans.com