There is a certain look of desolation in Montenegro's off season which exposes the communist 1970s Tito hangover it still can't shake. The promenade to Budva's Stari Grad, the old town in the centre of the Montenegrin Adriatic coast, is bounded by impermanent single-storey aluminium and concrete shops and weed-strewn lots. The pedestrianised street is paved with concrete blocks, and a cracked basketball court next to a fibreglass waterslide held up by rusted scaffolding is used as a go-kart circuit. Half the shops and most of the bars, tacky ones in the shape of pirate ships between palm trees and dead neon signs, are closed due to the off season. "Fisherman's Pub" is decorated with the typical pastiche of hanging lifesavers, floats and fishing nets. Though trite, these are used and faded objects taken from actual fishing boats; it's an authenticity that deserved recognition thirty years ago but which is now an eastern bloc curiosity.
Past all this, moored next to the walls of Stari Grad is a bank of expensive cruisers. Inside the old town of 17th-century walls it's suddenly upmarket with expensive watches and jewellery, cafes and restaurants... yet it's a bit like a shopping mall. There are almost no residences. Compare this to Split, Dubrovnik, and Kotor, further north on the Montenegrin coast, where the character difference is distinct; they are still residential towns, and there is a life buzzing around the tourists.
Apparently, Budva in the summer high season of July and August is a different thing entirely. The swarms of bikini-clad girls and crazy nightlife every night are enough to distract one from, well, everything else (including perhaps a good night's sleep).
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
The winter jacket is out
In one day, the Adriatic coast went from Indian summer to early winter. Eight degrees has fallen from the thermometer and the wind has taken off a couple more. Though the rain has moved on, the temperature hasn't climbed above 14°C in three days, and considering that I'm only going north now, I better get used to it. All of Europe is under an Arctic chill.
Chamber music
I won't bore you with the details of the makeshift raft, disappearing coastlines, and invoking Poseidon himself to escape the maelstrom, but there was afterwards a moment of peace when I was able to see the Sorkočević Quartet perform by candlelight in Dubrovnik's tiny Church of St Saviour (an odd name, as I thought there was only one saviour in Christianity, and that he hardly needed to be canonised).
The orchestra, comprised of flute, violin, piano and contrabass viola, performed:
The atmosphere was intimate—there wouldn't have been more than fifty people in the audience, already more than half the little chapel's capacity—and the sound was warm and clear. The small plan and high ceiling of the church are perfect for the acoustics of chamber music. My favourite was the Cariolan Overture, which they performed with the dynamic sympathy required for Beethoven. I thanked them afterwards for a wonderful concert.
The orchestra, comprised of flute, violin, piano and contrabass viola, performed:
- Handel's "Largo"
- Albinoni's Trio Sonata
- Sorkočević's Symphony No. 4
- Overture to Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro"
- Beethoven's "Coriolan Overture"
- Overture to Rossini's "Italian in Algiers"
The atmosphere was intimate—there wouldn't have been more than fifty people in the audience, already more than half the little chapel's capacity—and the sound was warm and clear. The small plan and high ceiling of the church are perfect for the acoustics of chamber music. My favourite was the Cariolan Overture, which they performed with the dynamic sympathy required for Beethoven. I thanked them afterwards for a wonderful concert.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Deluge in Dubrovnik
The storm front over Dubrovnik lasted for two days. The rain held off during daylight long enough for me to walk the stout 2km-long city walls, but that night after dinner I was trapped by the deluge.
I ventured out in the downpour that evening wearing only shorts, a T-shirt, and a light rain jacket because all my clothes were at the laundry. I found a cozy little vegetarian restaurant in the old town called Nishta: wooden roof beams, gold script on purple walls, lounge music and candlelight. The food—apart from being a simple relief from meat and potatoes—was delicious. In Sydney, I eat much more vegetarian than I have been able to in Europe, so the ratatouille hommus wraps and tempeh burritos went down like a king's banquet.
The rain was so heavy that the restaurant had closed the outdoor tables in the little stone laneway. When I got outside, torrents were cascading down the stairs of the perpendicular lanes and flooding the little street two inches deep. I stood on a raised step with my back against the building, propped my umbrella up and waited in my bare legs for the rain to ease. It got heavier. I pressed myself into the building and waited some more, and after ten minutes, it got even heavier. I couldn't believe it! It was like the Adriatic was upturned. I was reasonably safe on my raised step against the building, and all I could do was laugh. I was stranded like Maitland livestock.
I ventured out in the downpour that evening wearing only shorts, a T-shirt, and a light rain jacket because all my clothes were at the laundry. I found a cozy little vegetarian restaurant in the old town called Nishta: wooden roof beams, gold script on purple walls, lounge music and candlelight. The food—apart from being a simple relief from meat and potatoes—was delicious. In Sydney, I eat much more vegetarian than I have been able to in Europe, so the ratatouille hommus wraps and tempeh burritos went down like a king's banquet.
The rain was so heavy that the restaurant had closed the outdoor tables in the little stone laneway. When I got outside, torrents were cascading down the stairs of the perpendicular lanes and flooding the little street two inches deep. I stood on a raised step with my back against the building, propped my umbrella up and waited in my bare legs for the rain to ease. It got heavier. I pressed myself into the building and waited some more, and after ten minutes, it got even heavier. I couldn't believe it! It was like the Adriatic was upturned. I was reasonably safe on my raised step against the building, and all I could do was laugh. I was stranded like Maitland livestock.
Monday, October 12, 2009
The secret to stylish backpacking
Those who know me will know that I'm a bit of a fashion plate. Looking good when travelling is tricky, and even harder when backpacking.
You know what the secret is to looking good?
Email me if you do. Today I was wearing shorts and an anorak.
You know what the secret is to looking good?
Email me if you do. Today I was wearing shorts and an anorak.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Summer is over
It's been an Indian summer in this part of the world. The pleasant, sunny days I've had in Croatia are usually finished by September, apparently. But there's now been an announcement that the fun is over. Thunderstorms woke me in Dubrovnik at 7AM this morning. The rain held off for most of the daylight hours as I walked the city walls, but now at 8PM as I write this it has returned, and it is pissing. Notwithstanding the afternoon storm in Mértola, Portugal, I've had almost no rain at all on this trip (which was in karmic order after being practically rained out of Eastern Europe last year).
If this low pressure in the Adriatic keeps up by the time I reach Venice next week, I might just experience the notorious acqua alta, where the pedestrian areas of Venice are submerged. I have an umbrella and a rain jacket, but I didn't bring any fishing waders with me, so I'd probably make the call to skip it and move on. After running out of time in 2007, that would make it the second time I failed to reach Venice.
If this low pressure in the Adriatic keeps up by the time I reach Venice next week, I might just experience the notorious acqua alta, where the pedestrian areas of Venice are submerged. I have an umbrella and a rain jacket, but I didn't bring any fishing waders with me, so I'd probably make the call to skip it and move on. After running out of time in 2007, that would make it the second time I failed to reach Venice.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Contaminated
I sound like a travel brochure.
I have to read something different. I’ve spent seven weeks reading nothing but Lonely Planet guides, and it’s infecting my writing. Lonely Planet is an excellent resource for information, but the writing—industry travel writing in general—is not prose to aspire to.
I have to read something different. I’ve spent seven weeks reading nothing but Lonely Planet guides, and it’s infecting my writing. Lonely Planet is an excellent resource for information, but the writing—industry travel writing in general—is not prose to aspire to.
Long Island iced teas, filo pastry and women
When I got off the bus from Zadar to Split, I was mobbed by women wanting to take me home. I must have said no a dozen times. They only wanted me for my money. In any case, I had already booked ahead for accommodation.
There must be many empty private rooms outside of peak season; wearing my backpack, I continued to be approached walking into town. “Excuse me, do you need a room? In the palace, very cheap.” They are civil, and a polite “no” resolves the matter; they are certainly nothing like Lisbon’s hash peddlers.
Lonely Planet says that Diocletian’s Palace is “one of the most imposing Roman ruins in existence.” It’s no overstatement. Built by the Roman emperor as a retirement villa, the intact, three-storey walls, roughly 200 metres on each side, encapsulate Romanesque and Gothic mansions built into tall Roman arches and Corinthian capped pillars by wealthy merchants in the Middle Ages, and today is a labyrinth of narrow stone lanes filled with jewellery stores, market stalls, museums, windows adorned with laundry, restaurants, and weed-strewn dead ends.
Split may be even more relaxed than Zadar. After a rather busy three weeks of driving through Portugal after scrambling to get to Andalucía on time, followed by a three-day Italian blitz, I decided to take advantage of the coastal Dalmatian atmosphere and spent three days in Split doing nothing much at all. The harbour is fronted by a long promenade knows as Riva, populated with open air cafes. It’s a beaut spot for people watching against the background of the Adriatic sipping a Long Island iced tea.
The weather in Croatia has been sunny and pleasant in the low to mid twenties. Despite having spent many hours in the sun without sunblock over many weeks, I haven’t yet been sunburnt, which is a bit of a mystery to me. My Irish skin is like filo pastry. I only once lathered up, when I sat in the baking Andalusian sun to watch the bullfight in Ronda, which I’m pretty sure would have otherwise done me in.
There must be many empty private rooms outside of peak season; wearing my backpack, I continued to be approached walking into town. “Excuse me, do you need a room? In the palace, very cheap.” They are civil, and a polite “no” resolves the matter; they are certainly nothing like Lisbon’s hash peddlers.
Lonely Planet says that Diocletian’s Palace is “one of the most imposing Roman ruins in existence.” It’s no overstatement. Built by the Roman emperor as a retirement villa, the intact, three-storey walls, roughly 200 metres on each side, encapsulate Romanesque and Gothic mansions built into tall Roman arches and Corinthian capped pillars by wealthy merchants in the Middle Ages, and today is a labyrinth of narrow stone lanes filled with jewellery stores, market stalls, museums, windows adorned with laundry, restaurants, and weed-strewn dead ends.
Split may be even more relaxed than Zadar. After a rather busy three weeks of driving through Portugal after scrambling to get to Andalucía on time, followed by a three-day Italian blitz, I decided to take advantage of the coastal Dalmatian atmosphere and spent three days in Split doing nothing much at all. The harbour is fronted by a long promenade knows as Riva, populated with open air cafes. It’s a beaut spot for people watching against the background of the Adriatic sipping a Long Island iced tea.
The weather in Croatia has been sunny and pleasant in the low to mid twenties. Despite having spent many hours in the sun without sunblock over many weeks, I haven’t yet been sunburnt, which is a bit of a mystery to me. My Irish skin is like filo pastry. I only once lathered up, when I sat in the baking Andalusian sun to watch the bullfight in Ronda, which I’m pretty sure would have otherwise done me in.
Sea Organ
Zadar’s Sea Organ is a unique and inspired installation. The swell of the sea pushes air through organ pipes built under the broad stone steps of the waterfront promenade. You can’t see the Sea Organ; you can only hear it. The sound is projected out the fluted risers of the steps, so the best way to enjoy the music is to lounge on the steps and watch the boats drift on the sea, especially as the sun goes down. The intensity and timbre of the notes surge with the waves, so a passing ferry sends a new song into the organ. It is peaceful, enjoyable and utterly brilliant, and the only one of its kind in the world. The designer deserves a special mention: local architect Nikola Brašić. It warrants stopping in Zadar just to see it
I’ve attached a 30-second recording of it here.
I’ve attached a 30-second recording of it here.
Croatia
The mood of the Dalmatian coast makes me think of it as an enormous Manly (a beach suburb of Sydney). Zadar has a calm, chilled vibe, quiet except that there is plenty of life. I always base myself in the old, historic centre of each place that I visit, but there are very few hotels in Zadar’s old town. My hotel was a half hour walk away. Most tourists here stay 3km away in the newer part of the city where there is plenty of accommodation. High season in Croatia is July and August, the northern summer, but October seems pretty low-key.
Zadar is a very youthful place; there is an abundance of people under 25. If this is representative of the Croation population, reflecting on the possible reason is disconcerting: the “ethnic cleansing” of the Homeland War, as the Croats call it, took place when they were all children. But there is a distinct feeling that that is history now, and the place feels ready to surge into the future with the youth at its helm.
The harbour is busy with ferries en route up and down the coast, and the marinas are filled with fishing trawlers, sailboats, and runabouts. The place is very genuine. Few of the yachts are as ostentatious as the showboats in Sydney’s Darling Harbour. I strolled along the peaceful waterfront at night back to my hotel, and quietly envied two skippers on cabin cruisers moored alongside each other, chatting over the gunwales and looking out to the moonlit Adriatic.
Zadar is a very youthful place; there is an abundance of people under 25. If this is representative of the Croation population, reflecting on the possible reason is disconcerting: the “ethnic cleansing” of the Homeland War, as the Croats call it, took place when they were all children. But there is a distinct feeling that that is history now, and the place feels ready to surge into the future with the youth at its helm.
The harbour is busy with ferries en route up and down the coast, and the marinas are filled with fishing trawlers, sailboats, and runabouts. The place is very genuine. Few of the yachts are as ostentatious as the showboats in Sydney’s Darling Harbour. I strolled along the peaceful waterfront at night back to my hotel, and quietly envied two skippers on cabin cruisers moored alongside each other, chatting over the gunwales and looking out to the moonlit Adriatic.
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