John Clare Property Blog. Travels in Montenegro  

 Montenegro: Part 3

I am well into the interior of the country which is a maze of mountains and steep valleys, and somewhere in there is lake Skoda. From every turn the views are spectacular.

Behind me is the white high-rise of Podgorica. Below is the fertile plain on which it sits, cuddled round by mountains. Ahead is a motoburro, pulling a rake. An ancient crone comes down the road beating a brown and black cowwith a ragged branch. Everywhere is the rich, smoky smell of fennel.

The lake twists into the mountains. I climb up and up, thru wisps of cloud, thru woods, rock rocky outcrops, and then turn the corner and there is the lake again disappearing into the misty distance.

I am heading to Cetinje, which is the ancient capital of the old principality. It is set somewhere up in the mountains, but for the moment I am tied to the lake. Wherever I go I seem to end up driving round another of the lake's interminable bends.

I turn off the main highway, and wind down to the shores of the lake. Apparently there is a famous restaurant on a bank overlooking the edge of the lake. Since Montenegro is well-known for its awful cuisine I guess I had better take advantage of this special place.

In the distance I can see a coach winding its way towards me. Since the road is only about two metres wide I pull in to the verge and get out of the car to stare idly across the wonderful valley stretched out below me. The coach is on my right. Now it is on my left. Now it is back on my right as it winds its way up the side of the mountain.

Suddenly I realise i have been standing dreaming for several minutes and the coach is nowhere to be seen. It has obviously taken a different route.

I get back into the car and drive down to the hotel and restaurant.

The silence is mesmerising. I can hear a blackbird in the bushes in front of me, and then silence. The next house is several miles away round the corner in another valley. I am looking down across the heavily wooded hillside to the lake where it gradually thins into a river, which meanders round the various headlands. I steamer plods up the middle and disappears in the distance.

The lady of the house insists I go up to the roof terrace for my lunch, and she serve me a starter of smoked carp. I wish she'd filleted it. It is a bit tough, but it is served with a garlic and herb sauce. It is okay, but nothing special, and the carp tastes of smoked fish rather than of carp. I am wondering whether this meal will be any good after all, but who cares, the sun is shining, the view is incredible, and I am indolently happy.

Next comes the fish soup. The lady of the house recommended a carafe of the local red wineto drink with it. I am dubious, but if it is local, and if it is recommended, who am I to argue? I take a sip. It is sour. I cant drink it. The fish soup, however, is excellent. Freshwater fish are mixed with carrot and peppers.

Next on the list are two small trout. They are so fresh, and lightly cooked. They are wonderful. The lemon and mushroom sauce is totally redundant, especially as the mushrooms are frightful tinned buttons. This is crazy. We are surrounded by wonderful mushroom country and they give me tinned button mushrooms. Argh!!

I am sliding thru a late summer haze. The haze is all around, and oozes into my head, and i am almost asleep here on the terrace miles from anywhere. But eventually I stir myself and drive to the next village which is on the river which feeds the lake. Here I sit in a small cafe perched out over the edge of the water, then I lean over the bridge. Then I snooze in the forest, then I wander thru the village. This has to be one of the most stress-free wonderful days of my life.

In the centre of the country is a valley
where the rocks are grey
covered by a scrub of green
and a lake grows
from the grey-green water
smooth under a slender
stone arch

The houses are slotted among the trees
there is a screeching gaggle of geese
calling from a tiny garden
a roofless ruin
and a chimney climbing halfway up the hillside
an upturned boart lies among the stones
beneath the water
a grey mud of mould growing over
yet another ruin

Beyond the arches of the second bridge
a tree
its upper leaves are autumn-red
shading three new boats
moored against its trunk

Beyond the shadow of the bridge
the stones drop sharply down
where the golden leaves float
so infinitessimally slow
to somewhere
beyond another cliff of rock

In one direction lies the old capital city
hidden among the spikes of mountains
In the other on the long flat plain
the white towers of the new commercial capital
rise against another range of mountain peaks
these mountains cradle an old
sleeping nation

The new city looks down highways to the world
while beyond a bend in the twisting outskirts of the lake
a pheasant flaps its way across the marshes
or is it the shadow of a falcon rising on the warm air
testing its new wings?

I drive on to Cetinj, and wander down what used to be the main street, past all the old legation buildings. It now looks like some out of season spa town. I sit under a spreading chestnut tree looking across fields, down to a stream and the wooded hills beyond, which is an odd scene for an old capital city.

And during the rest of the afternoon I drive round and round tortuous mountain roads to get back to Kotor. At onepointi look over the edge of a massive ledge of rock, and there below me is the walled city. If I was going down by cable car it would be about a mile and a half, but by road it is about fourteen miles.

Trucks delivering goods park outside the city gates and the produce is laden into a small truck, which is really no more than a big basket on a three-wheeled bike.It is then peddled in to the shops. Inside the city is a tangle of streets. How wonderful there are no cars. The squares are what sqaures ought to be, places where people can stand and chat, or sit and have lunch and a beer.

Outside the walls the cars go by bibbing at each othertosay hello. Everyone is saying hello. Beyond is the lake that is the sea. The water plays games with the harbour lights as the ripples pull the globes of light until they split in two, then suddenly meld back together again.

I am staying in a hotel right at the head ofthe fiord,and every morning I look out my window right across the water to the montains.

I decide to head back towards Croatia. I drive slowly round the fiord. There is a splendid ruin running down to the sea.

I spend an hour or two wandering around. I could really make something of this.

I drive back along the coast. Every few miles I stop to take yet another picture. The whole region is unbelievably photogenic.

I whizz round a corner, straight into a speed trap. There are two very laid-back policemen sitting in their car eating chocolate. I'm sure if I was speeding I cant have been over the limit by more than a smidgeon. After all I was busy looking at the view.

"How do you like Montenegro?" they ask.

"Wonderful." I wave at the scenary.

They apologise, breaking off more chocolate. "I'm sorry but you must pay a fine of 25 euros."

I sit on the bonnet of the car. "Sorry. I was getting a bit worried about lunch. There is a restaurant on the other side..."

"Ah yes. A good restaurant. You are hungry?" He offers me a chunk of chocolate. We chat about the lake, the country, the future, then he aplogises again and gets out his ticket book. "I have to charge you as it has registered on our machine," he says. He purses up his lips. "You must pay ten euros."

I drive on round the fiord, taking photos every inch of the way.

There is a village called Morinj. There are half a dozen houses around a stream that tumbles down the rocks and then wanders thru long grass and into the fiord. There is a mill which is now a restaurant. The stream wanders into a pond. I look down at the water, andnotice there are half a dozen bursts of bubbles coming up from the bottom where springs are bubbling up into the stream. Ducks and geese float across the surface. The tables are set around the ponds. The view takes in the straggle of village houses, and the lake beyond.

We start with some splendid cheese, then onto tinned shrimp, which they claim are prawns, frozen chips reheated, and low quality wine. Then comes one of their specialities. It is ham rolled round scrambled egg, but it is so salty it is almost unedible.

It is a wonderful day spent in an idyllic position. The service is attentive, and the view is supreme. The food is just hopeless. And much too expensive.

© John Clare 2006