It was rather a rude awakening, our first
morning in Dubrovnik, as loud refurbishment-induced noises came from the
apartment above. We had hired a small studio flat, which came with a private balcony
that was furnished functionally. A large double bed, a cream and slightly worn
three-seat sofa, a glass coffee table that matched the 4 person dining table,
and a TV and stand all occupied the main section; with a galley kitchen coming
off it opposite the balcony doors. After the banging had stopped temporarily,
we collected our things and departed, looking and feeling rather scruffy.
Having not been in any water to swim, let
alone the sea, since Belgrade, we decided to explore the Babin Kuk shoreline.
As we were on the top of a hill, we walked to the houses that backed on to the
steep hillside, and descended from there to the shoreline. What I was told was
true; the coastline was pure jagged rock. I should have listened to all those people
suggesting I get the appropriate shoes. Before us, though, was a simple dock
for leisure boats, bobbing as they were in the clear blue sea. However, at some
places, sand had been placed for that more familiar beach feel. At one point
John became very amused, as we passed the dog pool. It was a ring-fenced part
of the sea that dogs could have for themselves. I saw an Alsatian, and felt for
the poor sod in the penetrating heat. We walked around, and then back for about
1km to find a spot to pitch, and duly did so where more of a crowd had gathered.
This patch had gravel laid on it, so at least the rocks weren’t jabbing in our
backs.
We laid here for an hour or so, turning
over and over to get some sun on our pale backs and fronts. A cruise ship emerged
from its berth, and passed before us at a snails pace. A toot from its horn
vibrated across the water, with the waves from its slow passage reaching us
some minutes later. After our stint here, we decided to go further round to the
west of the coastline, as we saw that there was a bar there. It was
mid-afternoon at this point, so we thought some refreshments were in order. As
we walked, there came a point where the path led away from the water and climbed
up. It led towards a number of hotels on this more remote part of the area.
However, before we reached the hotels, we came to a sign that pointed back down
a series of steps to a bar.
The beach bar was very glam in its
appearance. Nice wooden loungers, or chairs with over-sized canopies or
umbrellas covering them. Some were sectioned off, presumably for reservations.
The bar and facilities were built almost into the hillside. It was quite quiet,
so we had the choice of seating. We decided on a large, deep sofa – enough for
6 people – that sat directly in the sunlight. We thought, “Sod it”, so ordered
a jug of cocktail. The price was an eye-opener, and a sign of things to come.
Dubrovnik is very expensive, something I claim to be because the city can cash
in on cruise ship passengers who have money to burn in the few hours they are
on land. That leaves us, more committed holidaymakers, worse off. The second
jug, this time taken at a table under an umbrella, soon loosened me up to
ignore the price. After an hour or
so and a further round of beers, we paid our bill and slovenly walked back to
the apartment, where we napped for a few hours.
That evening we decided against the “Brits
abroad” area, and opted to see Dubrovnik first at night. We looked at the
helpful portfolio that the apartment had for public transport, and located the
bus number and bus stop we needed. We retraced our steps from the previous
night to the roundabout, and joined the gaggle of people also waiting for the
same bus.
25 minutes later, we arrived at the
northern gate. There was almost a carnival atmosphere here, with masses of
people passing by, others eating at restaurants under the walls of the city,
and more people funneling in and out of the gate. We walked in that direction. The
walls of the city, when looking at the gate, came from the hill to our left,
and down towards the sea to our right. It was discreetly lit to give it that
medieval feel. We went inside, and then down some steps into what may have been
the vestibule area to check arriving visitors in eras gone by. Here, you could
pay to go up on to the walls. We decided against that, for tonight at least. We
then passed through another gate that opened up on to the familiar main
boulevard running almost north-south through the city. I have to say, it was
very pretty. Smooth stone slabs on the floor were almost slippery through being
worn down by visitors over the years. The buildings on either side could easily
have been a film set for a 14th century royal court drama, adorned
with regal banners and such.
The only downside was the tourists. I know
we were of them too. But having avoided the hoards up to Mostar, this really
was intense. We did our best to have a wonder around, because off the main
boulevard were a myriad of alleyways and side streets to explore. To the east,
these alleys immediately went up at a steep gradient. To the west, towards the
sea, they were laid out on a flat, gridded system for about 4 or 5 short blocks,
before they too rose up. So the main city was in a small valley, it seemed.
We hit upon one of the main plaza areas,
and decided we were both hungry and thirsty. So we people watched for over an
hour, as we sank two beers over pricey food. It was then that I noticed John
glowing, and not in a romantic sort of way. He had really caught the sun. He
did admit that his skin did feel rather sore. After that, we went to a bar back
near the entrance and began talking to two other tourists, both from Germany.
The night ended at an Irish pub back in the centre of the old town, downing
shots of Jager (or was it Rakija?).
The next day, we woke up rather late and
had sore heads. John now started to feel his sunburn, and it didn’t look too
good either. We decided to explore the old town in daylight, so we could soak
up the history and admire the architecture. We meandered around the part of
town nearest the sea, getting lost in the maze of streets, sometimes following
tourists we thought knew where they were going, and at other times eerily alone
thinking we were intruding into someone’s private garden or such.
The alleyways were one and a half meters
wide, at best, and the grey, stony, functional buildings rose up three or four
floors beside us. The Italian/Venetian appearance was no surprise, given that
at one time or another, when not its own independent city-state, it was run by
Venice. It also played on my image of the quintessential Mediterranean way of
life – wooden shutters in place for when the temperatures rose, or the plastic
cables for hanging the washing on stretching between the houses above. My
immediate observation, though, was that there was no apparent trace of the
damage done by the JNA during their siege of Dubrovnik. It was one of the handful
places to seemingly have itself protected by the few instances of international
public outcry, because of its status as a UNESCO world heritage site. It’s
shaming that the international condemnation did not extend to other parts of
the former Yugoslavia during the Bosnian war. Buildings counted more than
people, it seemed, as the shelling of the Mostar Bridge could also highlight.
We ended our little exploration in a
different square to the one last night, on the south side of the city. Again, we
sat and people watched whilst making plans for what to do next. We settled on a
further walk to the old port of Dubrovnik, where we saw that in the sea a
football goal was erected, and a group of people were playing, whilst the rest
of their group were on the rocks having a BBQ. In the distance, across the
water about 2 km away, was Lokrum. Although we had never watched the show, this
was apparently where they filmed some of A Game of Thrones. I’m sure others
would be thrilled, but we wanted to visit because it involved a boat ride. We
planned that for the next day. We walked to a pharmacy on the main avenue, so
that John could get some after sun. It turned out that he needed some extra
special industrial cream, as his skin was very puffy.
Despite his ailment, and in a seeming pang
of motivation and energy, we decided to walk back to the apartment. It was a
good few kilometers, but we fancied the challenge. Beyond the old city to the
north, we passed through mostly suburb, but often we would happen upon a
“secret” cove occupied by an extended family or a smattering of couples - locals,
I presumed. At one point we could see a fancy hotel that was built into the
south-facing hillside of Babin Kuk. It looked luxurious, with its own private
beach. That evening we stayed local again, going for a few drinks to “Brits
Abroad” boulevard early on, as it had a bit of a buzz about it that evening.
The next day was the boat trip. So we made
our way back to the old town, and the old port. There were about 4 or 5 boating
companies offering a range of services, from a functional boat taxi, to a full
on tour around the islands - one even had a glass-bottom. We decided on the direct
boat taxi one. It was a busy service running every half an hour, and had an early
last departure service from the island at 6:30pm or so. Given its popularity,
and my anxiety to have a plan, I decided we should get the second to last
return one at the latest, lest we arrive to a full boat and become stranded.
We disembarked at a thriving entry point to
the island. But the first thing to hit you was the all-encompasing and constant
sound of crickets. There must have been millions of them on there, as I though
I was experiencing the onset of tinnitus. We reconfirmed the return journey
times at the port house, and then walked clockwise around the island. The
island was more or less covered in pines, which provided relief from the shade,
and gave off a fresh smell. Aside from the crickets, two forms of wildlife
emerged out of the bushes that surprised me - rabbits and peacocks; the latter
being in abundance. We passed the FKK sign to our left, and circled around to
the north west of the island. Here we pitched up and sunbathed for a couple of
hours. The bottle of wine I packed was a lovely relaxant. Afterwards,
dehydration mixed with genuine hunger led us to seek out food at one of the two
available restaurants on the island. The one we chose was in the centre, and
had landscaped gardens, presumably one of the reasons why the TV show was
filmed here. As we tucked into pizza, the odd peacock appeared, scavenging for
scraps as if they were a stray dog.
The return journey was sufficiently busy
but not full, and the breeze that came over us was welcome in the late
afternoon sun. Instead of heading straight back, John had discovered a bar that
perched out from the old city walls, with views to the west. We decided to head
there. What initially was meant to be the odd drink, turned into a wonderful 3
or 4 hours sipping beers and cocktails as we chatted, or just sat in silence
admiring the view. This consisted not solely of the sea and islands, nor indeed
the passing boats and kayaks, but also the handsome men diving into the sea
from the cliff edge below us. As our intoxication increased, so did my slight
irritation at a couple sat in front of us. Not their presence as such, or the
volume of their conversation, but the sheer absurdity of what they were
discussing; especially the ignorant opinions on the history of the region.
John, I believe, showed solidarity with me for once, rather than the usual
eye-roll he does when he sees it as my problem not other peoples.
A bar tab that again raised my eyebrows,
saw us leave very much closer to drunk than sober. And in that spirit, we
tracked down a pizzeria and endeavored to make a night of it. We hungrily ate
our two slices of pizza, and then went to a bar that promoted itself as a rock music
place. We climbed up the steep steps of the east side of the city, and then
into a doorway, and up further still to get to the bar. It had echoes of an
Irish pub, but it certainly wasn’t that. The darkened room with dark oak effect
paneling was the backing canvass for an array of Americana/rock paraphernalia.
The rectangle room was divided in two by a central wall with door-less doorways
either side, with the bar occupying the central wall on the opposite side to
the entrance. We sat at a table under the gaze of two members of Fleetwood Mac,
which basically represented the style of music we heard and enjoyed through the
night. Afterwards, a taxi was in order to get us home in one piece.
We yearned for a fancy brunch with views.
So after 10 minutes of searching online, John found one nearby that was set in
a small marina. It also overlooked the cruise ship docking area and the modern,
steel road bridge that had echoes of the sails of a yacht to it. We walked down
casually, to sea level, and saw a white wall stretch from our left for about
500 meters, with an entrance halfway down. We walked over and into the private
marina.
Small boats and pocket-sized yachts were
moored here on a few wooden jetties. We sat down on the quay and ordered a set
menu for lunch. This was indeed what we wanted and needed, but the service was
incredibly slow. Still, it meant we had the time to admire the view. The cruise
ships before us, on the other side of the bay, were gigantic. How they stay
upright always fascinated me. After two hours, we finally managed to leave. We
decided to walk around the bay to see what was what. There were a number of
passenger ferries, charged with taking people up and down the Dalmatian coast
as well as across to Italy. The one I wanted most to try was the catamaran. It
looked speedy and grand, and the classiest way to travel.
We’d packed for the beach anyway, so we
walked the same route as on our first day; the bottom of the stairs we took
previously began near to the brunch place. We walked past the fancy bar and up
to a similar level as the apartment. We got wind of a secluded beach, so turned
off at some ruins surrounded in long grass that then led to a dense but
low-rise forest that occupied the cliff edge. We walked over and entered the
forest. We soon began a steep descent and clung on to the dry, fragrant
branches as we skidded over gravel on slate-like rock. After emerging out of
the trees, we were still 10 meters above the water, on the cusp of a more or
less sheer drop. We managed to locate and navigate a series of outcrops and
lowered to near sea level. There were literally two people here. So we found
possibly the only two remaining “flat” spaces to drop our towels. We un packed
our belongings, and as I settled in with some Factor 30 and a book, John went
straight into the sea.
We lazed about for hours, in and out of the
sea, applying and reapplying sun cream. We observed one cruise ship after
another depart north westerly into the distance. Parties of kayakers streamed
past. A furry looking guy near to us constructed some sort of bear cave with a
shawl draped over and between two high-rise rocks around him. A woman in her
50s seemed high on life, and raved with him to his trance music. They were far
enough away for it not to be annoying, but close enough that it agreeably
blended into to the sound of the sea.
We returned to the apartment to shower, and
possibly snooze, before our booking at a recommended restaurant. John’s parents
had come to Dubrovnik earlier in the year and visited Otto’s. After brunch this
morning, we dropped by to book at one of their only two sittings a night. We
opted for the 7pm sitting. We decided to smarten up as best we could with
holiday gear. We sat down to a lovely three-course meal, outside but under a
canopy, with only about 25 other diners. The service was impeccable, and the
wine was very complimentary with the food. As the sun set on us, we became
drowsy with booze and rather giddy. We made plans to return to the Fleetwood
Mac bar.
After settling the bill, we returned to the
apartment and ventured to the bus stop. Once in the old town, I had it on
apparent good authority that there was a bar frequented by the LGBT community.
It was described as a jazz bar, which I thought I could stomach so long as it
wasn’t too avant-garde. We negotiated the maze like side streets, to come to a
diagonal thoroughfare that had a small square to the left, and then proceeded
to have one on the right. All rather jagged, no doubt planned to accommodate
the grand church that occupied one of the spaces between the squares. We found
this “jazz bar” located in the space between the two squares. Most, if not all,
of the patrons were outside sat at cabaret-style chairs and tables, all facing
towards the door of the establishment. We sat down at one about two thirds away
from the door, so that we didn’t have to lead the interest in any jazz
performance. I ordered a wine, third up from the lowest price. It cost me the
equivalent of £10. As the performance started, we concluded that it was not a
gay place, but that a smattering of the patrons clearly read the same review as
us. We stayed for 20 minutes or so, and left feeling slightly cheated by the
price of the wine and mediocre number of gay attendees. Instead, we returned to
the rock bar and made a night of it.
The next morning, the banging upstairs
reached a peak. I even videoed it as proof for the people we were letting it
off. I banged the ceiling with a mop handle, to no avail – and John’s eye
rolling. In a huff, I immediately sent off a further, angrier message on
Airbnb. Profuse apologies came later that day, but at that moment we just
packed our bags and left for the beach. We decided to get some breakfast on
‘Brits Abroad Alley’ and, following that, we went to the beachy cove that lay
at the other end. This was very family centered and had a little café, unlike
the secluded beach. Overlooking us, to the south, was just another rocky cliff
face. To the north was a steep hill, cut horizontally by a road, with a couple
of smart looking hotels below, and private houses above. After an hour or so here, we decided to
walk along that road, and follow it clock wise to the secluded beach in the
north.
Once we walked past the hotels and houses
we saw from the cove, the roadside became bare and arid. But the views to the
west were unspoiled. The road was quiet with traffic, possibly because we only passed
two hotels on the way to the beach, so we were undisturbed, but thankful for
the water we carried, as there was no shade from the sun. We descended back to
the beach and occupied it for a good few hours until sun set. This time the sea was less
choppy than it was the previous day. John was put to use with his skills of
finding great restaurants on TripAdvisor, and located one near the brunch
place. After a snooze at the apartment, we left for our final night in
Dubrovnik.
The restaurant served gastro pub style
food, with a coastal edge. It turns out that the guy who ran the place was from
London and this was the second season that the restaurant had been open. The
food was delicious, and the setting in a private, open aired courtyard next to
the marina screamed Mediterranean life.
The next day we packed up and left the
apartment in a taxi to the quayside where the bus station was. This was only
the start of our ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ trip back home. We booked the
flight back from Split, as it was considerably cheaper than Dubrovnik, even
with the bus fare. We allowed 45 minutes before departure, so we could grab
snacks for the journey. It was going to be 3 hours or so to Split, and half of
it on road already travelled, so there was less intrigue that usually comes
from seeing pastures new. We threw
our bags into the undercarriage and boarded. Again, the bus was an improvement
on the last - modern leather seats, air con, and a toilet. We set off on time
and meandered our way back to the Bosnian border, stopping off at the hotel
restaurant again. We then crossed back over, on towards Ploce and beyond, to
new territory. The terrain was much the same. To our left was the Adriatic,
pocked with islands long and short; to our right was the Balkan hinterland,
ascending both steeply or slowly in equal measure away from us along our route.
I nodded off for a while, and came around
as we hurtled down a modern highway about 40km away from Split. The scenery was
much the same. I felt somewhat drowsy, possibly from lack of water and the air
con. Once we turned off the highway for Split, it became a lot rockier and
mountainous. It so happened that as we approached the city from the east, we
had to navigate around then through a horseshoe of peaks that encircled the
city, leaving it as an enclosed enclave looking out to the sea.
Once through a tunnel, the city before us
was the largest we had seen since Sarajevo. I noticed lots of Hajduk Split
graffiti emblazoned on walls and houses on our route in. We arrived at the bus
station, which was again next to the dock. This one was a lot busier, and made
not just for passenger, but cargo. We booked our shuttle bus to the airport
(another 50 minutes away) but had an hour to kill. So we walked to the main
square nearby, that looked out on to the sea. We surmised that perhaps Split could
be a future destination. It seemed more like a city, and one that was not just
filled with cruising tourists.
I think we had reached the pinnacle of
buses, on the one to the airport, but there was a bit of commotion on how many
people could fit onboard. We were fine though, as John and I had seats. But I
did my usual huffing, aimed at those tourists, who seem never to have planned
or organised anything in advance. Anyways, we set off on our last bus journey,
which took us anti-clockwise 180 degrees around the wider bay Split was set in.
The airport was a small affair, surprising for what I could only assume would
be thousands of tourists this time of year. John and I got suitably tanked up
for the flight, Wizz Air no less, boarded and settled in for the return home.
