by jonathan soroff

Spot On
Many countries need and deserve our help, and in the early ’90s Croatia was certainly on the list. Yet even now that they’ve recovered from the war, I’d still like to buy them a vowel.

Take Mljet, for instance—the last island on our sailing trip along the Dalmatian Coast, from Split to Dubrovnik. I’ve never seen a prettier spot: The electric blue Adriatic forms two inland saltwater lakes, and in the middle of one is an island with a 12th-century monastery. I ate one of the most memorable meals of my life on Mljet—wild boar, shot that afternoon—and the people couldn’t have been more hospitable. But I’ll be damned if I could wrap my tongue around the name of the place.

That was pretty much the case wherever we went, beginning on the mainland, in Split. We were shown around by a local, Andro Tartaglia, who owns an outfit called Meridien Adventures. The country’s second biggest city, Split is built in and around the remains of the Emperor Diocletian’s palace, and the exterior (in pretty good shape after 1,700 years) contains labyrinthine alleys punctuated by piazzas and Roman ruins. Diocletian persecuted the Christians mercilessly, so it’s worth a chuckle that he wound up buried inside the basilica, and there’s an undeniable charm to the incongruity of stores selling the latest sneakers and T-shirts inside a structure whose original inhabitants wore togas and sandals. 

We chartered a 40-foot sailboat with a skipper from Hvar Adventure, and we cruised out past Brac, the island where the marble for the White House was quarried. Hvar was our first stop and probably the glitziest of the islands we visited. The town square—dominated by the lion of Venice—is lined with cafes where sleek tourists fresh off their yachts indulge in the Croatian equivalent of Nantucket barhopping. Still, the place is nowhere near as developed as, say, the Algarve, and retains a tremendous charm.

The Dalmatian Coast is rocky, with mountainous islands covered in pine trees, and on our second day, we dropped anchor in a little cove. After a swim in water so clear you could see straight to the bottom 20-feet below, we strolled through vineyards to a tavern where we ate octopus salad, a mille-feuille of eggplant, cheese and tomato, and kebabs large enough to choke a horse. All this, of course, was washed down with local wine. Then we went for another swim and set sail for Vis.

The island’s old port, Kut, is home to the Villa Kalliope, a restaurant set in a sculpture garden where we enjoyed scorpion fish and the owner invited us to join his poker game. In the morning, it was blowing 40 knots, so we opted to stay in port and explore. We’d brought along bikes and rode to Komiza, a town on the other side of the island, dominated by a Romanesque church, a citadel with a clock tower and cafes lining the waterfront. We resumed the eating and drinking at a restaurant built inside a 19th-century lobster hatchery, which was delightful but for a table of 55 voluble German tourists.

Korcula, which we sailed past the next day, is the purported birthplace of Marco Polo, and it’s a wonder he ever left such a sweet spot. At sunset, we reached Lastovo, the only Dalmatian island whose main town faces inland and away from the sea, either to defend itself from pirates or because the pirates lived there, depending on whom you ask. A cove where we encountered a boatful of naked Russians was followed by spiny lobster for dinner.

After visiting Mljet, we returned to the mainland. Dubrovnik, Venice’s greatest rival and the former Republic of Ragusa, is a walled city-state that successfully played the Italians off the Turks and maintained its independence until the Hapsburgs added it to their empire in the 1800s. One of Europe’s true gems, the limestone “Stradum” is worn to a high gloss and lined with treasures like the Rector’s Palace, the Church of St. Blaise and Onofrio’s fountains. The narrow side streets, meanwhile, offer an escape from the hordes disgorged from cruise ships, and our meandering walk led us to a wine bar where the owner uncorked some of the finest reds I’ve ever tasted.

It was the perfect way to say good-bye to a place where, incidentally, we never set eyes on a single white dog with black spots. But I’d gladly go back to the Dalmation Coast 101 times.

 

Captions: Sam Mazzarelli pilots through the Adriatic; the seaside town of Kut, famed for its tasty scorpion fish