Lessons in Island Hopping by Claire Gervat
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The crowd clustered round the sandy square was yelling encouragement at the players, who frowned in concentration in the fading light. You could see how much the match meant to everyone. Every so often, the roar would drop to a murmur, only to swell again after the next ball hit the ground with a muffled thud. Obviously, they take bowls very seriously in Croatia.
We were in the region called Dalmatia, famous for its dramatic mountain-backed coastline. Off shore, scattered through the crystal-clear waters of the Adriatic, are more than 1,000 islands of all shapes and sizes. It’s a perfect area to explore by boat, and we were doing just that.
The second night of our one-week sailing holiday had brought us to the pretty little fishing village of Zlarin. Our 38-foot yacht, the Stella, was tied at the end of the jetty from which several of the locals were fishing with hand lines, unsuccessfully, for squid. Neatly painted red-tiled houses were clustered round a small harbour, with the bowls arena just beyond and, more importantly, the one and only restaurant. All that sea air had given us quite an appetite, and we were beginning to develop a taste for the local wines, too.
After a vast tray of deliciously fresh grilled seafood -- presumably not caught by the men on the jetty -- I was ready for bed. It had been a fun but tiring day for, unlike the three other crews in our small flotilla, we on the Stella -- a motley crew of singletons -- were new to sailing. There’s a lot you need to know before you can skipper your own yacht, and our live-aboard tutor Gary had been keeping us busy hauling sails, tying knots and reading charts. As I finally drifted off to sleep on my tiny bunk to the sound of waves slapping gently against the boat and the occasional mysterious creak, I wondered how I’d ever remember it all.
Yet somehow, almost without us noticing, it began to sink in. The days took on a relaxing pattern: a reviving mug of tea on deck first thing, a wash and brush-up in the marina bathrooms or in the cramped shower on board, followed by breakfast in a cafe. Then, after a quick briefing from Gary, it was time to head out. We’d sail among the islands or along the shore, gliding past untamed countryside or huddles of weathered terracotta roofs.
At lunch, we’d anchor in a sheltered bay for a simple meal -- whatever one of us had rustled up in the tiny kitchen -- followed by a swim in the enticingly sapphire-coloured water. Then we’d point the Stella towards our stop for the night, arriving in time for a sunset glass of wine on deck and a bit of gentle sightseeing.
At Skradin, up the River Krka, we took the morning off to visit Krka National Park with its famous waterfalls. We explored the small town, too; like several of the places we visited, shrapnel scars pockmarked its church tower, a reminder of the civil war from 1991 to 1995. Otherwise, you would never realise it had happened.
Vodice was livelier, its waterfront thronged with bars and restaurants; we escaped to a cobbled back street to eat juicy steaks (they’re not big on vegetarianism in Croatia). Prvic, in contrast, was a tiny, one-café village where we lingered over drinks before crawling into bed for an uninterrupted night’s sleep. We sailed past Sibenik, with its magnificent 15th-century cathedral dominating the skyline, but didn’t have time to stop; with such a variety of places to stay, from the smartest marinas to plain fishing harbours, you can only see so many in one holiday.
The end of the week came all too soon, just as we had really got the hang of sailing; in retrospect a fortnight would have been better. But at least now I had my Competent Crew certificate for the Mediterranean, and happy memories of a beautiful -- and, for the time being, unspoilt -- region to boot.