The Old Bridge at Mostar

 

Crossing international borders always has a funny feel to it, for me, at least. I’m not sure why. I know borders are simply manmade concepts. Arbitrary lines on maps that only apply to human beings. Animals, plants, breezes, sunshine, rain, rivers, oceans don’t seem to pay them any heed at all. But to people they can and often do mean and make a world of difference. Crossing international borders by air or by sea, arguably, feels somewhat more normal than crossing land boundaries. There’s something solid about making such a transition, passing through another element to get to your destination. Crossing the ether, or crossing the water, really does feel like a making a leap from one place to another. Land borders on the other hand – to me at any rate – have always felt somewhat more fuzzy, and sometimes far more sinister and forbidding.

 

I guess it has something to do with the checkpoints, with their barbed wire fences, their red and white swing-arm barriers, their uniforms, their guns, etc. Being asked to surrender your passport, especially when it is physically taken away from you and disappears somewhere out of sight in response to the ‘requirements’ of unseen checks and procedures. Similarly, hearing the loud clunk of the stamp being hammered into your passport when you have been cleared and approved is the quintessential sound of your arrival. It’s a very definite sound, it’s the sign that you can proceed, you can step over that invisible line, cross that threshold, pass through the boundary from ‘here’ to ‘there.’ Affirmative. You may proceed. Welcome to wherever you are.

 

I was quite young when I made my first land border crossing. It was on a trip to Amsterdam. We’d crossed the Channel by hovercraft – an oddly antiquated-yet-futuristic (and very sea-sickening) means of transport at the time, but now utterly defunct. We then travelled onwards by coach through France and Belgium to Holland. It was pre-Schengen era, so we stopped at each border and a very severe-no-nonsense-looking policeman boarded the coach and walked down the centre aisle. He collected up everyone’s passport and then exited the bus for a while. We all had to sit there and wait. It all felt very John Le Carré. The policeman later got back on-board, now accompanied by a fellow officer, and asked two young men sitting at the back of the bus, two British servicemen travelling in uniform (RAF, I think), to get off the bus for “further checks.” They eventually came back looking rather disgruntled and murmured that it was something which “happened every time.”

 

A local lad describing the daring tradition of bridge diving

As I was then still only a kid, seeing the heavy handguns hanging from these border policemen’s belts impressed me greatly. Back then, in the UK, you didn’t see many armed policemen. But something I recall equally vividly was looking out of the coach window when we were allowed to resume our journey. The bus motoring on, I keenly scrutinised the scenery as it began to slip past the window, trying to see what was different on this side of the border compared to the side we’d just left behind. In truth, I couldn’t see much of a difference at all. It all looked very boringly the same to me. It had been raining in France, and it was still raining here in Belgium.

 

That trip, and that very thought, came back to me many years later whilst I was on another overland trip. This time I was travelling from France to Spain; we crossed the border in the high Pyrenees mountains. There was no stopping for any border checkpoint due to Schengen. The only thing which told me we’d crossed the border from one country into another was a sign on the side of the road, but I noticed something far more distinctly, and that was a dramatic change in the style of the buildings. They were suddenly shaped very differently; their style and colour of roofing material was completely different too. Street signs looked different; different colours, different fonts, different sounding words, place names, different ideograms. Removing borders doesn’t always remove differences. There are satellite photos of Berlin taken at night which still, thirty years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, distinctly show the area which used to be known as ‘West Berlin’ because the street lights there still use a different sort of lightbulb, which means the street lighting is a different colour to the rest of the city.

 

I’ve crossed other land borders, from the UK into France (via the Channel Tunnel); from France into Switzerland; from the USA into Canada; but there was something different about crossing the land border from Croatia into Bosnia-Herzegovina in 2016. I suppose in some ways it was akin to when I crossed over from West Germany into East Germany, shortly after the fall of the Berlin Wall. The civil war in the former Yugoslavia in the early 1990s was now some 25 years ago. Both of these newly independent states were once part of that defunct Federation, but only Croatia has since joined the EU. Schengen doesn’t apply here. And so, our passports needed to be collected up and handed over. This time, thankfully though, it wasn’t an armed policeman eyeing us all suspiciously, but rather it was our tour guide, cheerily apologising for the inconvenience.

 

The border here is a bit strange, because there is a short stretch of coast which is Bosnia-Herzegovina and which cuts through the longer coastline of Croatia – hence a deal has been struck on certain stretches of the coast road to allow Croatians (and their visiting tourists) to get from one part of their country to the other without the need for passport checks. Here though we tourists were crossing the border proper and turning right, heading away from the sea, motoring inland for the day to visit the town of Mostar. Our tour guide shuffled back down the aisle, returning our passports. Opening them, we were each slightly disappointed to find we hadn’t acquired a stamp that read “Bosnia-Herzegovina.” Despite the border checkpoint, us day-trippers are exempt – on the condition that we leave by the same point of entry before the end of the day. It might feel like a merely arbitrary line on a map, but the point is that it’s a line which is a closely monitored one.

 

As we motored on, I looked out of the window and I remembered once again those border crossing thoughts I first had as a kid on my way to Amsterdam, and then once again many years later when I crossed over from France into Spain, because here too I can see a distinct difference. The houses are different, the roads look different, and, because we are heading inland, the scenery begins to look a little different too. There are genuine cultural differences here though. Bosnia-Herzegovina is a largely Muslim country (whereas Croatia is predominantly Christian). Orthodox and Catholic Christians form the next sizable religious group. And, like several other formerly Ottoman controlled Balkan states, its population is ethnically diverse – predominantly home to Bosniaks, Serbs, and Croats. Relationships between these different groups historically has been fraught, especially in the wake of the collapse of the Yugoslav state in 1991, hence the bloody civil war which was fought here until 1996. In many respects the town of Mostar is a symbol of that mix and those tensions.

 

Mostar was symbolic before the Bosnian war, as a town divided between Muslims and Christians, and a town divided by a river, but with both sides united by a remarkable bridge of stunning architectural grace and beauty. It took nine years to build and was completed sometime around 1566-1567. Commissioned by the Ottoman Sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent, it was intended to be a more durable replacement for a wooden suspension bridge. The building works were overseen by a man named Mimar Hayruddin or Mimar Hajrudin. Some stories state that Hajrudin was commissioned under pain of death should the bridge fail, and that he ran away on the day that the scaffolding was removed, such was his fear that the bridge would not hold. But it did hold – and in fact it stood for more than 400 years; until on the 9^th November 1993 it was deliberately destroyed by the Christian Bosnian-Croat artillery who were perched on the high ground of the steep hill overlooking the town.

 

The hill from which the Old Bridge was destroyed by artillery fire in 1993

The smaller Ottoman bridge at Mostar

Hajrudin’s achievement was an unparalleled feat of engineering at the time. Some 30 metres in length and its soffit around 20 metres in height from the beautiful turquoise waters of the River Neretva below, it was then the largest single span stone arch which had ever been constructed. A smaller bridge of the same design can be found close by to the main bridge at Mostar, which some people believe was constructed in order to test out the practical application of the theory behind this type of bridge construction technique – an architectural form which was subsequently used in other extant bridges in various parts of the Ottoman Empire (see here). As is often the way, when such things of great age and beauty are destroyed, that destruction enables us to better understand the mysteries as to how exactly they were built – much like the monumental stone Buddha statues at Bamiyan in Afghanistan, which were destroyed by the Taliban in 2001 (see here). But, unlike the Bamiyan Buddhas, the “Old Bridge” (Stari Most) at Mostar has been rebuilt.

 

Its destruction was a highly symbolic act, hence so too was its reconstruction. At the time there was no military tactical or defensive reason for destroying the bridge, other than to symbolically break that cross-cultural unity which the bridge itself represented. Rebuilding it was seen as more than just a physical reconstruction project. To reinstate the bridge as accurately as it had been before was widely seen to be a matter of the utmost importance. Consequently, an international cooperative effort was mobilised to make it happen, with several countries – including Italy, Turkey, Hungary, the Netherlands, as well as the Croatian and Bosnian governments – contributing funds, equipment, expertise and manpower to the project. As many of the original stones as possible were recovered and reused from the riverbed. And a lot was learned in the process, particularly regarding the three types of stone (soft local Tenelija limestone, harder Dolomite limestone, and local Breca, a porous conglomerate) which were utilised for their differing properties, as well as the metallurgical materials and methods, using iron swallow-tailed clamps, pins and molten lead, which were used to brace, hold and lock the stonework firmly into place, plus the unique type of mortar which was used to cement the masonry – an unusual pink coloured mortar which was thought to have been the main reason why the river ran red like the Old Bridge itself was bleeding once it had been felled.

 

Some of the original stones from the Old Bridge which were not reused

It took three years to rebuild the Old Bridge, re-opening some eleven years after its destruction in 2004. The timeless elegance of that perfectly circular arch which had previously withstood four centuries, unchanging while various rulers came a went, from the Ottomans to the collapse of the Communist Eastern Bloc, really does appear to have defied the passage of time; especially now, having arisen once more like a phoenix from the ashes of a bitterly divisive civil war. Photographs of the bridge before and after the recent conflict look almost indistinguishable. And rather poignantly, a rooftop nearby in the heart of the old town overlooking the riverbank is painted with large letters which read: “Don’t forget, but do forgive forever.”

 

Mostar is a very beautiful town. There are many things to see here besides the famous Old Bridge and its smaller, and more secluded identical-twin which escaped the recent war unscathed – there are mosques, churches, caves, old cobbled streets and little craft shops, restaurants and cafes. To see Mostar now it is hard to believe such terrible things could have happened here so recently. But crossing such a bridge is a reminder that boundaries are all around us – not just the borders which separate nation from nation, nor the ideas and beliefs which separate cultures and religions, but the phases of peace and war, of one political form of governance from its predecessor and its successor, for these are both the seen and unseen boundaries by which we measure the stretches of time which mark off in our collective social conscious. It’s such boundaries, both temporal and geographical, which demarcate our lives and the lives of those who have gone before us. But how we choose to cross those boundaries and connect the two sides of these cognitive or imaginary divides is what shapes our worlds as well as the futures which we bequeath to those who come after us.

 

On some levels, maintaining borders and boundaries may well be a necessary fact of life, but surely acknowledging such borders and boundaries whilst also facilitating and enabling safe and easy passage, mending broken bridges, and allowing everyone to cross them without bias or favour, without fear or discrimination, is by far a better means of healing such divides and rifts. Unity and diversity needn’t be mutually exclusive – because, like the Old Bridge at Mostar, they are the twinned opposites which join together the two ends of a perfect circle. Boundaries and borders are, in fact, the places where we meet, cross over, merge, and return.

Also on 'Waymarks'

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Sailing South - Coastal Croatia

Sailing South - Coastal Croatia

 

Dubrovnik

The Adriatic coastline of southern Croatia is truly sublime. Karst limestone cliffs, topped with green deciduous forest, lapped by gin clear waters which turn a translucent shade of turquoise in the bright summer sunshine make for an idyllic landscape. The old Venetian-style architecture of its towns, characterised by pale-cream coloured classic Renaissance stone buildings, topped with terracotta roof tiles perfectly complements the natural beauty. To my mind, there is no urban and natural landscape more perfectly allied for its climate than that of the Mediterranean. If I lived here my eyes would never tire of looking on such scenes. If Illyria is the setting for the dream-world of star-crossed lovers in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, then, without any shade of doubt, this coastline is music to my enamoured eyes.

 

In the summer of 2016, I travelled south by boat down the Dalmatian coast from Split, by way of the various little islands dotted along its course, to the walled city of Dubrovnik. Making a small detour inland, crossing the border into Bosnia-Herzegovina, to visit the town of Mostar. I’ve travelled to Greece and Italy before, but despite its ancient connections to both Greece and Rome, and its later links to the former City State of Venice, Croatia is very much its own distinct cultural entity. As a region bridging the divide between Mitteleuropa, the rest of the European continent, and the Orthodox and Islamic regions to the East, the Slavic lands of the Balkans have weathered the cultural and political tides which have swept back and forth over it for centuries. Such changes have frequently been dramatic, the recent civil war when the Federation of Yugoslavia collapsed in the early 1990s is still a fresh living memory for everyone living here. To the tourists of today, such horrors seem unimaginable in this idyllic holiday paradise. Unlike most other parts of Europe, when the locals here speak of “the War” they aren’t referring to the events of 1939-1945.

 

Split

Split is an ancient city. Its centre sits right on the seafront. A huge palace built by the Roman Emperor Diocletian in 295 AD as his retirement home. It took ten years to build, measuring roughly 200 by 240 metres, with protective walls which were 2 metres thick and at least 25 metres tall, substantially fortified on its land facing sides. The Emperor, a native Illyrian, even in his retirement maintained an opulent court here with luxurious apartments located in the south, and a formidable military garrison in the north. After his death the palace was occupied by a succession of regional warlords, and it has essentially been inhabited to varying extents ever since. It has slowly been transformed over time into the labyrinthine warren of shops, dwellings and churches that it is today. Exploring such a site of continuous nested domesticity genuinely boggles the mind, but in order to get a real sense of what it would have been like in Diocletian’s time, and to better judge its vast size as a single edifice it is best to descend into the huge vaults of it cellars, several of which are still under archaeological investigation.

 

Diocletian’s mausoleum, where his body lay entombed for at least 170 years, is located not far from his personal waterfront apartments, although now – rather ironically, given his harsh persecution of early Christians – it has become the city’s Cathedral. Given the longevity of his palace, despite all the changes which the centuries have wrought upon it, his spirit still definitely presides over the place. As Roman Emperor, Diocletian is unusual in that he seems to have risen through the ranks from a fairly lowly status, and instead of jealously holding onto power until his demise in his later years he sought to divide the empire into four regions, each administered separately, so that he could retire to his homeland. Ultimately though, this new style of power-sharing governance faltered after his death, and, after a period of disarray, the empire was eventually reunited under a new political and military strongman, Constantine the Great. 

 

Diocletian’s influence, however, invisibly persists into our present, pervading throughout the architecture of Western Europe thanks to the interventions of an eighteenth-century Scottish architect. Robert Adam arrived in Split in 1757 with a team of draughtsmen, who despite the hostility they encountered from the Venetian civic authorities of the time, managed to survey and record much of the palace’s original details. The published results of this work, in the form of a folio of engravings, had a marked effect upon Neoclassical architects, such that many of the buildings of Georgian era England and other parts of Europe owe much of their architectural grace and symmetry to the old Roman Emperor’s retirement home.

 

Split is also the perfect base for several day trip destinations. We took the bus out of town and spent a day wandering around the old town of Trogir, a little further up the coast. Founded by the Ancient Greeks in the third century BC on a small island, it forms a picturesque little town with seventeenth century town gates, a cathedral, various churches and a fifteenth century fortress which is well worth visiting for its stunning views of the town and the sea.

 

A day spent on the sea, island hopping around this stretch of coast is a wonderful experience. The main reason for hitting the waves is to see some of the wonderful coves and sea caves thereabouts, particularly those on the islands of Vis and Bisevo, many of which are only accessible by boat. Bisevo is perhaps the best known because of its ‘Blue Cave,’ a magical grotto reminiscent of its more famous Italian counterpart on Capri. We joined a high-speed, high-powered rib boat tour which departed from Split fairly early in the morning. This meant the group we travelled with was fairly small, and as the boat and its skipper’s job was mainly to get us from A to B, we all felt fairly independent still – generally dispersing at each stopping point to do our own thing, smiling and saying ‘hello’ to our fellow passengers when our paths crossed at the various halts along the way. After a long James Bond-like high-speed dash across a sea which seemed to undulate like liquid glass, with leaping dolphins spotted on the far horizon to one side of us, our boat made the Blue Cave is first priority stop of the day, mainly because it’s perhaps the furthest point from Split, but also to get into Bisevo before the daytime crowds descend. That said though, it was still fairly busy when we made our first landfall here. We managed to negotiate the somewhat confused queuing procedures and transfer onto one of the older wooden boats which then motor a short way around the headland to the Blue Cave. The boat captain then lines the boat up and makes it very clear that we all need to be prepared to duck very low, those who don’t quite catch this instruction soon instinctively understand what was meant when he suddenly powers the boat forward, heading straight towards the sheer cliff-face at an alarmingly rapid rate, but the boat slips very neatly through the low narrow and almost invisible cavity into the rock wall.

 

Entrance to the Blue Cave, Bisevo

Suddenly, after the bright sunlight, we find ourselves lost and blind in pitch blackness. The boat captain immediately cuts the motor, and we seem to glide silently into the darkness. A short file of similar boats drift ahead of us. Our eyes begin to adjust to the dimness, but then rounding the corner we enter the most remarkable effect of natural sunlight which I think I have ever seen. Somehow the sun seems to be shining intensely in a clear blue summer sky, but very strangely the horizon has been inverted. The sun and sky are now beneath us, overhead it is still night-time, and our faces are bathed in a strange, soothing yet other-worldly aquamarine sheen of light. Magical is exactly the right word to describe it. This blue shine seems to dance all around us. The passengers of each boat are hushed and awed by the effect. Looking down over the side of the wooden boat as we drift, I can see the rippled white sand of the bottom far below and the sunlight streaming in from another opening in the cliff, set far below the waterline. After an all too short a stretch of time our boat has rounded the interior of the cave and we are now drifting gently back towards the tunnel-like entrance. We duck once more and the boat powers us out. The Captain turns the prow and the water surges around the boat as we head back towards the jetty, round the headland once again, where we disembark and wait for a brief moment as our speed boat motors back in to pick us up. All heads are accounted for and we are soon flying over the waves once again, this time heading for a point on the far side of the island of Vis, where we slow down to enter another cave, this time much larger and lit by a golden shaft of sunlight from a hole in the cave’s roof overhead, the reflection from the water bathes the interior in a soothing green light. The depth beneath us balanced perfectly by the height overhead. These moments of drifting through silence and space, darkness and light, with the gentle sounds of water lapping contrast starkly with the long high-powered dashes we make over the open sea with the bright, blinding sunshine scorching and beating down from above.

 

Vis

Our lunch orders have been phoned ahead and so we stop on another island, low levelled and covered in scrub vegetation and tall trees, like some secret pirate hideaway. We are welcomed into an open-air restaurant overlooking the small secluded bay, taking our places at a long communal table under the welcome shade of reed mats. No sooner have we sat down than the friendly waiters and waitresses are setting plates of food and bottles of wine before us. Everyone is fiercely hungry now after all that fresh and salty sea air. Lunch is over in no time. Everyone fans out across the island for an hour or so of relaxation, exploring the hidden paths, finding a spot to take a quick dip in the sea before the time when we are due to rendezvous back at the boat quay. As we wait, I watch a cook from the restaurant who appears close by. He crouches down over a rock at the water’s edge and expertly guts a large fish. Throwing its gizzards to one side the fish’s guts barely hit the water before a gull with large outstretched wings hops down and necks the entrails down whole.

 

Our boat and skipper

Our last port of call before the boat returns to Split is the lovely town of Hvar. Here our skipper drops us off at the quayside where some very expensive looking motor yachts are moored along the Riva. We wander into the town to explore the churches and the winding streets of the Groda – the Old Town. Climbing up Matije Ivanića and the steep hillside path through a forest filled with enormous agave plants to a fort with spectacular views overlooking the town. The Fortica, or Citadel was built during the Venetian era in 1550 using the know-how of a group of Spanish engineers, hence the fort is still known to the locals as ‘Španjola.’ – If only I had a short length of fuse and some gunpowder, I think mischievously. I wouldn’t even need to aim one of the many rusty old cannons poking out of the battlements to take out one of those rich millionaire’s yachts moored in the harbour far below!

 

View of the harbour at Hvar Town from the Fortica

The boat ride back to Split is one last madcap dash across the water. Our boat seeming to chase, level with, and then overtaking other fast boats similarly filled with tourists commuting back to Split. We catch them up, only to fall behind as they then overtake us, and us in turn overtake them again in a brief and cheerful dance across the waves as each boat skipper amiably hails the other. The sun is starting to lower into the late afternoon sky, it’s been a long but immensely enjoyable and exhilarating day on the open sea. When we disembark for the last time back at the Riva in Split, we bid farewell to our skipper and fellow passengers – the spell of our time together has now been broken. We wander off in search of a restaurant to relax in, our smiling faces taut with sea salt and sunshine, our bones still humming with the lingering thrum of turbo-charged horsepower, the resonance of a day spent surfing the sea in comfort. A glass or two of Plavac Skaramuča warms us into the evening as we eat outside, attended by two sleek cats, each patiently purring for scraps from our meal.

 

Night view just along the coast from Split

A few days later and we are back at the harbour front, but this time in the early hours. We checked out of our hotel before the restaurant had opened for breakfast, but the lovely couple at the reception desk insist we go in and raid the breakfast buffet for our onward journey, they won’t hear of us leaving on empty stomachs! – So now we stand, second or third in the queue, eating croissants and pastries, as we wait to board the ferry to Dubrovnik. The large catamaran, which looks like a futuristic spaceship from Jerry Anderson’s Thunderbirds, guns its powerful engines and moves gently out of the harbour. Heading out into the open water, it rises up as it gains speed and soon we are cutting back across a familiar stretch of water to Hvar. Each time the ferry stops at one of the islands on its course down the coast we stretch our legs and catch some sun on the afterdeck.

 

Time to Split - 'Thunderbirds' style ...

"Marco Polo's House", Korcula

Korcula

One port of call intrigues me more than the others – Korčula. In a couple of day’s time, we returned here to explore the place properly. It is a lovely little walled medieval town which fills a small leaf-shaped peninsula. And like a leaf, it has a main street running down its centre with smaller side streets branching off, but these vein-like throughfares are curved and set at angles, specifically designed to avoid channelling the coastal winds down the lanes and alleys, hence it forms a neatly compact and enchanting, homely sort of settlement. Immensely picturesque, it is said by some to have been the birthplace of the much fabled thirteenth-century explorer, Marco Polo. Although our local guide was somewhat sceptical about this ‘invented tradition’ (see more here). It’s a lovely place to lunch at one of the restaurants looking out to sea, after which a pleasant hour or two swiftly disappears while exploring the backstreets and the churches and cathedral. It must be lovely in the evening too, but unless you elect to stay-over, getting there and back overland from Dubrovnik is quite a long journey with many places to see en route, such as the oyster beds at Mali Ston and the vast salt pans at Ston, which have been worked continuously since at least Roman times.

 

The Ancient Salt Pans at Ston

Dubrovnik is perhaps one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. My guidebook says it was “first settled in the early seventh century by Graeco-Roman refugees from the nearby city of Epidauros (now Cavtat), which was sacked by the Slavs.” Originally an island the old town became a peninsula long ago when the narrow channel between the island and the mainland became silted up or was filled in. Then known as Ragusa, the town became the seat of the Ragusan Republic – effectively an independent city state, but paying tribute to the Ottoman Empire. The city went on to establish trading colonies stretching from the Adriatic to the Black Sea, it grew prosperous and began to expand its territory as a result, enjoying a ‘golden age’ during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. It was during this time that much of the city’s imposing walls, with fortress and defensive bastions, and its principal urban features – its safely enclosed buildings, smooth stone paved streets, its churches and harbour, were built. But the city’s fortunes began to decline after an earthquake did considerable damage to the place in 1667. Feuding amongst the city’s ruling elite eroded the city’s standing even further, and the city state itself was eventually dissolved by Napoleon when the French occupied the city in 1808. The city and its surrounding regions were then heavily contested and fought over by the British, Russians, and Montenegrins, until it was eventually given to the Austrians at the Congress of Vienna in 1815.

 

Dubrovnik

As my guidebook, The Rough Guide to Croatia, attests: “The symbolic importance of Dubrovnik long outlived the republic itself. For nineteenth-century Croats the city was a Croatian Athens, a shining example of what could be achieved – politically and culturally – by the Slav peoples. It was also increasingly a magnet for foreign travellers, who wrote about the city in glowing terms.” Indeed, it remains a popular tourist destination today. I found it rather beguiling to overhear so many tourists marvelling and enthusing over the place as the location for the recent and immensely popular fantasy TV drama, The Game of Thrones. Listening to them expounding and ‘geeking out’, wide-eyed with unabashed awe, over the place like some sort of trans-dimensional time-travelling tourists was distinctly odd, as they were clearly seeing this as a very real but completely different place to me, someone who has never seen a single episode of the TV show!

 

The genuine history of the place though certainly should not be overlooked, not least because in addition to its very long and venerable past it has also been the site of some major and important events in recent history. Not least when the medieval walled city successfully withstood another siege as recently as 1991-1992, when the Yugoslav People’s Army attacked but were later repelled by a Croatian offensive which descended from the north during the civil war which ensued after the break up of Yugoslavia and the collapse of the Communist Eastern Bloc.

 

Much of the city has been repaired since that time, but walking the two-kilometre circuit of the city’s walls, which are as high as 25 metres in some places, it is possible to see some of the areas and buildings which are still sadly left empty and in ruins. Walking the city walls is by far the best way to get a sense of the old city, and the views out to sea are spectacular. It’s best to allow yourself plenty of time and walk the circuit at a leisurely pace, and if you are in need of a rest or refreshment there are cafes along the route. The old walled town itself is well worth exploring thoroughly too. There are so many interesting little local craft shops as well as restaurants and cafes hidden away in the labyrinthine backstreets that it is a wonderful place to get lost in.

 

Having travelled the Croatian coast from Split to Dubrovnik, visiting so many interesting places and small towns in between – as well as making a brief excursion to see and experience the cultural contrasts of Mostar in Bosnia-Hercegovina (which will be the subject of next month’s blog post), I felt we’d got a real taste of Croatia. It’s possible and very tempting to travel on from Dubrovnik further down the coast into the neighbouring republic of Montenegro, but we were out of time and so this will have to wait for another trip at some point in the future. Reluctantly we had to leave, but flying out of Dubrovnik airport gave us wonderful views from the aeroplane of all the places we’d visited as we flew back up along the coast. Looking down, working out the geography of where we’d been, and reflecting upon which places we’d liked the most, and which little towns we might like to return to one day to explore further, was a nice way to end an enchanting journey through beautiful landscapes, and a delicious melting pot of Mediterranean cuisines, in picturesque places steeped in history and truly gorgeous scenes of natural beauty – Croatia is a real gem of a country.

~

Also on 'Waymarks'

The Old Bridge at Mostar

Winter in Slovenia