COMING TO GROUND IN ANDALUSIA

Human Kite

The other day there were over a dozen of these creatures flying above me on the drafts from the cliffs so close to shore, right above ‘my spot’ on the beach.  They have motors you know! so not entirely dependent on the fickleness of the airwaves.  The take off is always a bit ragged, as they try to catch the wind; but the landings are very precise.  They have a couple of red and white 15-foot poles about 20 feet apart, on the beach to guide the landings.  The day after I wrote this title, I saw my first landing.

Landing the kite

The words, ‘coming to ground in Andalusia’ have been haunting me.  There is more darkness apparent in this part of Europe than elsewhere, even Montenegro.  Haunting, because it has been hard to put my finger on it.  I mentioned in the earlier blog that there is a “lighted merriment in the people and joy for living the day to day… a sense of the past and the present as one” (Gothe); but there is also the shadowy, just plain dark part of Andalusia… and there is an intensity which brews.  With this combination I have found it overwhelming.  I would say madness is close to the surface here… not just mine!  It has been an adjustment that has ended up being kind of fun, so I will try to put words to my ‘coming to ground in Andalusia’.  I find a strength here that I have not encountered in other places.

The roots of a 300 year old olive tree  

It seems I could talk about Andalusia forever.  I counted the pictures I recently took in Granada.  I knew it was ridiculous.  I have over 260 of just the Alhambra and the General Life Palace.

  One of many patios

  A detail of a floor

 A detail of a ceiling

(That is madness!) It has been the same in Rhonda, Cordoba, and Malaga… even here in the little pueblo of La Herradura.

This morning I was at the window at 6:30 am trying to capture a very unworldly yet simple ‘happening’.  It has been going on for a few days.  It is so subtle I hardly know it is happening.  It is a heavenly sound that comes gently into the sleep, so it could be dream.  Then as it comes closer you realize there is music passing your windows.  It took at least 2 days before I just had to see it, and leapt (teetered) out of bed to get to the shuttered window and get it open.  Quietly, in the dark outside, walking in slow procession, as if down the church aisle were over 30 people, muffled up for the early dawn cold, playing the most gentle of instrumental music (a triangle, a recorder, some bells, a soft guitar??) and chanting a most sweet and gentle song (The only word I understand is ‘Maria’). 

Click for a video of the music in the street 
(Sorry! You must log in to Facebook for this link to work.)

                  

Leading was a man holding a lantern.  Already I am planning if I can be in a different place and wide-awake tomorrow morning, with the hope that I can get a better take (video).  Tomorrow is Christmas.  It will be the last day; or today’s procession was the last?  I hope I get one more chance!  That! is what it is like.  Every time I try to capture Andalusia, it slips past me.

I get pieces.  It is like my leaping on the fragments of glazed tile on the beach, which are a tiny hint of the culture.  They are broken then smoothed by the sea, so hardly make a statement, yet still I am in ‘awe’ at finding them. I try to find as many colours and patterns as possible.  Somehow it is never enough.  I say, “No more! I have a table top full.”  Yesterday, I decided I would just hunt for blue ones… and I found two!!  Whether it is taking pictures; or picking up pieces of tile; or going out for a glass of wine at sundown… to catch yet another sunset;

 The end of a day in La Herradura

and try yet another tapas! I can’t seem to get enough of it to feel I have grasped it. Andalusia is both overwhelming and illusive.

There is the Mediterranean part, which is as full of Life as all the places I have stopped at on the Sea.  I do love it… the light; the salty air; the virile fertility.   With just a drop of water it is a vigorous garden.  The ‘Garden of Eden’ images are ever present, particularly here in Andalusia (the snake too!)  It is said that in Malaga you can take a snip of a plant, stick it in the ground, and you will have flowers in a week. The name ‘Andalusia’ comes from the Moorish,  ‘Al Andalus’, meaning garden.   This that is ‘Mediterranean” and so full of Life, I can talk about, loving every minute of it.

 Christmas Alter to the Mediterranean (flower, olive oil and honey)

But that is not the whole truth of Andalusia.

The African continent is within a few miles of the shores of Andalusia.  Apparently the two continents were one in primeaval geo times. Later in history, there is evidence that the early peoples came from that direction, an easy boat ride away.  This part of northern Africa brings not just Africa, but the Orient as well.  There is one story that tells of the early pre-bronze period people, and their connection to the Dravidians of southern India who have perhaps the most ancient heritage on earth.  Once again, the images and stories are never ending.  You catch a glimpse, but it is not the whole.  You know you have come upon a fragment, but it is not even a full piece of a ‘part’ of the structure that once stood:  The seas of time have smoothed the edges and weathered the pattern: passions, stories and myth take over.

When one struggles to comprehend Spain, particularly, Andalusia; Africa and the Orient cannot be left aside.  Try that on.  What happens when you take the picture of 15^th century Europe with Queen Isabella & King Ferdinand; then add Africa; and the Orient?   The Moors ruled for 800 years here in Andalusia.  There is a haunting darkness, along with the light… and the images get very strange.

 The Alhambra at night

There is also intensity.  Queen Isabella was perhaps the greatest ruling Queen of all time.  Her qualities span Joan of Arc (she rode all of Spain), Florence Nightingale (the first to give nursing aide on the battle field), and Queen Elizabeth 1 of England (Isabella sent Columbus to the New World).  Now add the bullring.  Think of the bull cult of Crete and the labyrinth… adoration and a God sacrificed; then the matador… knowing he will be gored, yet a dedication to fight clean, ‘a handsome young athlete with death in his eyes’. 

Go to Cordoba and walk into the Great Mosque spread over 6 acres:  originally 1, 013 columns (now 856) “creating an illusion of space with no defined axis, static whilst at the same time dynamic, opening in all directions at once.”   That is not all… there are a series of early Catholic chapels at one end (the Moors built on the grounds of a church they bought from the early Christians); then there is a full baroque Cathedral set right in the center open to the vastness of the columns… built when the Catholics took over from the Moors.  Every column is different, collected from all over the Mediterranean:  the Visigoth, the Roman, the Greek, the Egyptian, and the early Christian.  It goes on… and on.

  Columns of the Mosque

 And again...

I took over 20 pictures of Madonnas… in Andalusia, always a young woman, a budding girl (never a matron) 

with a slight smile on her face, and the symbol of the crescent moon of Astare or the horns of Isis.  The belief in myth and magic persists.  Below the patriarchal face of Andalusia is a matriarchal spirit. 

St. Francis (as the Madonna) with Jesus

My second night in Cordoba I watched the Andalusian Extravaganza, where to the music of the guitar, they put the horse through it’s paces...  the graceful moves necessary for the bull ring.  They dance with a man on their back to the music; they dance in step and! in response to a flamenco dancer; they dance around a long pole… in front of it, around it, beneath it; and they dance together... 4 horses at once.  The manes and tails flaring; the hoof stepping precise; the haunches rippling; the body so light it is as if on a spring  The Andalusian horses are the forerunner of the magnificent Lipizzaners of Vienna.  I add this comment now, to bring in the image of the magnificent, instinctive vigor of the bullring in contrast to the Madonna.  In both cases, such intensity… overwhelming!  Always.

 After the horse show

How to go on?  I haven’t touched Granada:  the Alhambra and the General Life Palace…  both places so amazing as to have influenced such diverse men as the American, Washington Irving who wrote fairytales set in the Alhambra Palace; and the Dutchman, M.C. Escher, a mathematician whose art manipulates reality through optical illusions (to get the full effect in some rooms, one must sit on the floor… the incoming light modifies the room’s shape) and impossible designs.  There was an exhibit of his work by the palace, “Universos Infinitos”.  Very appropriate for our current world, I thought: yet, after seeing the gardens and architecture, I just couldn’t take it in.  Such a stunning exhibit!  I can’t believe I chose to bypass it.

In Granada, there are over 2000 Gypsy caves.  I bumped into a Gypsy cave when I got lost walking along the river, which runs below the Alhambra. 

A gypsy cave

The next night I watched Flamenco dance in a Gypsy cave (Flamenco means ‘deep song’… see the video I put on Facebook).  I must! mention ‘the Don’ of the clan:  He stood by the door of the cave ‘allowing’ us (it did not seem an invitation) to enter; when we left there he was again, ‘ensuring’ our exit (it did not seem he was wishing us a “Good Evening”).  What an extraordinary man: such impressive dignity.  My GOD! he was good looking.  (Madness!!)  Earlier that day, I went shopping near my 16C hotel, along an avenue that is like 5^th Avenue New York,

 Shopping in Granada

                

to look for shoes of Spanish leather… the softest of leather!  Beautifully luxurious on the feet!

Then there is Cervantes…  who lies “in the hearts of all Spanish peoples in a way that no other work of fiction in any other country can be approached.”  You see the characters everywhere!  And Picasso! Goya, and mob rule.  Anarchy.  The Civil War began in Almunacar, the town next to la Herradua. (This was also the landing place of the man who set up the Moorish Kingdom in Andalusia… it’s just a little! town.)  “Unhappy Spain!  Such natural wealth; such original and virile people beggared by incompetent rulers: One of the tragedies of Europe.  God denied to Spain only one blessing – Good Government !”  There is Spain’s dogged individualism on one hand; and on the other, the fact that the Jesuits taught wholesale ‘domestication’ until the 1970’s.  Live with those two pieces!

Christmas Day is celebrated (you have seen the banner of Jesus that hangs from the Andalusian balcony) but the real holiday here is January 6^th, when the 3 Kings parade through the streets; and the children get their presents.  The even bigger celebration is Easter, when every church brings out their Virgin (not a Christ on the cross) to parade it through the streets (by the way, a guild owns the statue, not the church).  

 The Virgin

I need to tell Caroline to go to Seville for Easter… they dance the Flamenco in the streets of Seville for a week! “Dancing like they are in the Cretan Labyrinth!” it is said. 

The ethos of the sherry of Jerez… 35 varieties… always a blend… some include a 100 year old sherry’; the ethos of pressing the olive… the best tasting is from trees over 100 years old (do read the tiny print on the label); the ethos of ‘running the brandy bull’… the cape is to quiet the bull… the matador is to kill cleanly; the ethos of ‘gold’… Columbus sailed from here… they plundered for gold not land.  It goes on and on… a steady stream of conflicting, maddening (don’t forget the inquisition), stunningly beautiful, fun! images and experiences.  Andalusians are fiercely independent, “Anarchist by nature, perhaps the last of the European to maintain this:  they are fierce, virile, beautiful and pagan… and never dull. “

Of the men in Andalusia it is said, “The Arabian Spaniard is like steel among men; like wax among women.”  Goya said of the Spanish woman:  “She is a Saint in church; a Lady in the street; and a Devil in bed.”  A New York executive was quoted as saying, “The Spaniard stands for the individual instead of the machine.”  And when an Andalusian commented on this man’s dithering about whether to stay and live in Malaga, he said, “In Andalusia we swallow people.  He will stay.”  I think perhaps I have met my match!

I believe it!  Inside every Christian there is a pagan lurking, just gauging the moment… to leap forth.   I’m thinking about taking up ‘The Flamenco”!!  My ‘R’ hip says, “Madness!”

Flamenco dancer

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

PS:  Quotes that are not referenced are from Alban Allee’s “ANDALUSIA  -  two steps from paradise”.  1974. (I have used his spelling of Andalusia.  These days it is usually spelled Andalucia.)

ON THE BEACH IN SPAIN

Following our arrival from London, Andrea and I did 4 days of touring from our base in a little white pueblo house in La Herradura, Spain. After some jolts at the airport… I have lost my license so the car rental was a bit dicey; and our landlord’s instructions for leaving the airport to catch the divided highway A7 to Herradura were vague… we arrived in town starved, but thankfully just in time to catch a 10:30 pm dinner at the local tavern across the square from our ‘home’.

 Home is the second door on the right

I continue to find the Mediterranean cuisine so very tasty. We started with wine and tapas: a lovely fried filleted white fish, followed by tiny clams in a garlic and herb butter… then our dinner which was topped off by a light creamy cake, and a sweet chocolate liquor. The only thing we paid for was our simple but oh-so-flavorful main course:  soup of the day (chicken and egg) for Paula, and beans with Serrano ham for Andrea.  Tipping is not expected… perhaps topping up the ‘la quenta’ to even it off (10% at most!).  There is so much given graciously for your pleasure.  The Andalusian people are known to be casual and frivolous:  “None of the grasping, moroseness that one would find among the Argonese and Catalans of the North,” so it is said.  

Delicious garlicky mini clams

The next day we found a good coffee shop on the beachfront street; then a bakery for bread and pastries, and a market for other odds and ends, both within one block of the beach street.  Everything so near! We are three blocks back from the beach. 

Looking west down the beach

(Actually, Andrea had sussed out all of this prior to my rising… rather late.)

After our domestics, we took off to the bay town of Nerja to the west of us for a meander through the town; lunch on the promenade over looking the beach; and a walk down a poinsettia bordered stairwell for a walk on the beach.

Down the stairs to the beach

 

Looking back from the other end of the bay

On returning to our little town we discovered it was in the midst of a classical guitar competition and we were able to catch one of the last evenings.  Unfortunately, we faded two thirds of the way through the performance and had to go home (two blocks away).  But! What a way to enter into the Spanish culture! 

The second day we left early for a 2 hour meandering drive through the hills and into the Sierra de las Nieves, to Ronda  (mid way between Seville and Granada, just north of Malaga), a medieval hill town which straddles a grand river canyon about 400m in depth.   As the name suggest… ‘rounda’… it has a bull ring at its center, seemingly more important then its cathedral.  Such a historical town:  still vestiges of ’Rome’ with the odd wall sticking up through a medieval cum renaissance building; parts of a wall which circled the medieval town; the still present Moorish architectural decor; and all the historical markers etching the history through the 17^th and 18^th centuries. It was a totally overwhelming experience, even though it is a small town.  We both took way too many pictures.  How to capture this canyon; this history; the magnificent, instinctive vigor of bull fighting!

The "New" bridge (finished in 1793)

The old city walls

The bull ring (1784)

On the third day we were into Malaga to see the Picasso Museum. (Picasso grew up in Malaga and started painting there at age 19.)  The museum has 155 Picasso’s donated by the artist’s daughter-in-law and grandson… a good overview of his artistic development. 

 

Currently, the collection is contrasted with a retrospective of Alberto Giacometti’s work… an artist Andrea has always admired and so found great pleasure in being able to see originals.  My pleasure was, as always, to see Picasso. Such strong lines!  My favorite artist, I think.

Malaga is an ancient port town and the modern port is still busy with cranes loading freighters; and cruise ships at anchor.  Its history is revealed where they have housed the Picasso museum, also a site of Phoenician, Roman and Moorish remains.  Dominating the town is the 17^th C castle on the hill right in the middle, which one circles endlessly when trying to find addresses and parking!  (Not a town based on the grid system.)  It is the largest town in the area so highly developed with office buildings, shopping malls, and apartment complexes more obvious than pleasant.  Still, some elegance remains with its 19^th century, very beautifully treed boulevard for its main thoroughfare through town; and the Moorish styled ironwork decorating the older buildings.

Exploring the old city center of Malaga

Yesterday we lingered in ‘our’ coffee shop (which happens to have wifi) as Andrea helped ‘clean up’ my laptop; downloaded some new applications for my i-phone e.g., a translation program which helps me along with my Spanish; and I transferred all my India Journals to her, for posting on the blog.  Then it was back to Malaga to turn in the car. (I have decided I don’t need a car.  I can simply walk about town for all my needs, and take a bus if I decide to tour.)

We arrived early so Andrea could help me find a SIM card; find me transport back to Herradura; and to take time for a good lunch prior to departure.  By 5:30p I was on my way back to Herradura by bus; and Andrea was off back to the airport for her late evening flight to London, on her way home to Alabama the following day.

OH! So hard to see her leave:  “Good-byes” create such a dislocation.  The emotional separation; the change in personal space; the reference to the day; the sharing of the little problems of a day; the searching out of restaurants; and probably many more aspects of living I am not taking the time to delve into enough to name.  It was a very empty home upon my return.

My living room

By the way, home is in an old fishing village.  Though the village site is as ancient as the Bronze Age, the old section of the current village was built early in the 20^th C.  There are photos of the ‘old village’ displayed by a white painted adobe water trough on a terrace by the banks of the river… the water trough is the town's monument to its past.  I cross this terrace when taking the steps down from the bus stop into ‘the old town’, and ‘home’.  The photos are labeled ‘1922’ and it is easy to recognize the main drive into town, which borders the river and the cluster of village homes just steps from the river… where I have rented the ground floor of an old ‘Moorish’ styled home with its wrought iron window grills and balcony railings, and an inner patio.

Looking down my street towards the bay

November 29^th:  Now, to the slower rhythm of my day to day; and the beginning of what I can tell will be days ‘on the beach’.  Walking the bay from one end to the other is, at least, a two-hour endeavor.  I usually walk about half the bay.  There are treasures for me as I walk… not shells or rocks, but scraps of terra cotta tile with the remnants of a colored glaze; the edges of each fragment are rubbed smooth from the wave action of the Mediterranean.  I am collecting Mediterranean housing debris! and am childishly tickled.  My first findings were in Dubrovnik.

Fragments of tile

I leap upon them like diamonds!  Fragments of a Mediterranean life:  Yes, I am still charmed by the Mediterranean.

Right now the Sea is brisk.  Thank goodness for my experience of swimming in the Quadra lakes.  (Think of the Quadra lakes at the end of May, and the first warm days when swimming is just! possible.) I sit at the water’s edge, letting my body acclimatize as the water drenches me up to the waist and I swish my arms in the swelling waters lapping the shore.  Gradually, the body starts to want more and I drift into the deeper water.  It always seems such a luxury to be able to swim… well, bob around.  The sun is just strong enough to warm me when I climb up the steep slippery bank of small pebbles onto the beach shelf of larger pebbles. Some days there is even a tinge of real heat.  So far I have had one day when the sun brought out a sweat as I sat soaking up as much warmth as possible, before heading into the water.

 Looking towards the east end of La Herradura Bay, where I have found a swimming spot

Wish me well:  a calm sea and warm sun!   

THE ISLAND OF MLJET … pure gold 'Mediterranean'

An olive press

Mljet is one of over a thousand islands in Dalmatia, governed by Croatia (Republika Hrvatska).  The people on the island see themselves as belonging to Dalmatia, more so than to Croatia: they say they have experienced more Italian influence, than Slavic or Turkish.  I’m told that the dialect on the islands and that of mainland Croatia are distinctly different, and the peoples have to listen carefully to catch each other’s meaning.

It’s October 29 and I have been sitting in the sun all day (20C) watching the butterflies and bumblebees; and listening to the birds sing.  There are the little yellow ones that I met in Ibiza, chirping away; and a new one I have just noticed… a grey-brown sparrow sized bird with a red throat and upper chest, maybe yellow under the tail, as sweet singing as a robin.  I have also seen my first Praying Mantis, known here by a name that says, ‘praying woman’… a woman giving thanks, since she eats the male after copulation.  (Upon hearing the interpretation, I must admit I laughed… apparently most women do).  My small cottage (8ft X 16ft) is set in an olive grove; amongst old terracing; at the west-end of the old village of Babino Polje.

 My cottage

 The village Babino Polje

I walk out each morning and stand on the terracing, still in awe, even after a stay of 2 weeks.  Each terracing wall (and there are thousands! all over the island) is about 3 ½ ft wide and 2-4 ft high.  I used to think that the stones making such walls were all about the same size.  But no… the same sized rocks are used for the facing, while inside the wall there is every size of stone… many about an inch.  Can you imagine! Picking up all those stones?

Terraces

 

 Close up of a terrace 

Like most of the islands in the Mediterranean… Adriatic/Aegean it matters not… it is rocky, though fertile.  It just takes some sifting to set aside the rock!  The olive trees dominate here, but there is also the almond, orange (small mandarin type), fig, pomegranate; and then there are the grape vines; the goats; and the beehives (Mljet is a derivative of the Roman word for honey).  It is Mediterranean. If the crop-producing trees are not tended, the indigenous pine proliferates again, with a scattering of cypress, a unique small oak tree and a wide variety of low bushes.  On this island, now only 700 people, many of the groves have reverted to pine.  Not only has the population been reduced from its high of 2000+ in the 19^th & early 20^th C; but people are giving up on the old life… tending trees, gardens, and animals is hard work.  These days, most everyone of a working age is earning by working for the government, or by the tourist trade.  There are still olive groves, and in good years there is a commercial production.  The rest of the crops and production from livestock are for use in the home or sold to the tourist.

Fish still seem bountiful.  A couple of evenings ago as I sat by the bay eating dinner at a restaurant in Sorbu, I watched an old (late 60’s!! at least) fisherman untangle his net. 

 Sitting at restaurant

He was still at it when my dinner was over and I was leaving.  There he was … standing in his boat (rowboat size), his weight on one leg with the other leg propped on the side of the boat, keeping it all steady, while he was bent over the bow, pulling the net up from below and gently tossing it (a handful at a time), setting the net in order for the next day’s haul.  That’s work:  it was 6pm when I left the bayside restaurant; his day started about 6am.  The nets are usually set at night and catches come in quite early in the day.  These are not commercial fishermen, if there is more than the fisherman can use himself, he will offer it to others.  I was lucky enough to receive a plate load the other day:  fresh sardines!  My host gave me some of his home pressed olive oil for the cooking… lightly fried in a hot! pan.  SO! Good.

Still almost alive...

...now almost gone.

Everything I have been given has been SO! good:  homemade sherry (which is actually a cherry liquor); local small sweet oranges; home pressed olive oil; homemade flat bean soup with a locally made bacon and ‘hard’ sausage; local honey with a taste so special I can’t get enough; and homemade bread.  My hosts, Ante and Zora, are wonderfully generous.  Every day I have received:  a gift of food, of books in English! of movies (downloaded by their daughter), an invitation to join them for coffee or lunch; as well as a shower of local knowledge.  Ante has walked in every direction and knows all paths; Zora grew up in the village, inheriting this property from her grandmother.

The village houses… over 300 yrs old

Main road through village

They raised their children here and ‘the kids’ are now in their thirties.  Everything is happily provided.  I want for nothing:  even the ‘rice milk’ I need (which is not carried by the island markets) turned up on my patio chair.  I have not found out ‘the how’ yet, but my guess is that someone in Dubrovnik was asked to put it on the ‘fast boat’, which arrives daily about 2:30p).

Having described all this wonderful food, it was not a good year for produce:  no rain from May to late October.  The figs fell off the trees; there are few olives, so no ‘pressing’ this year; and the pomegranates split open prior to ripening…  remaining sour.  To have to rely on the land is hard, let alone to work it.  No one wants to return to the old ways.  I am lucky, to be still benefitting from the old ways… people in the village know about goats, chickens, bee keeping, olive and grape pressing.  The Mediterranean food is naturally good; and it is a food we naturally seem to devour with great pleasure.  Regardless of its simplicity it always seems like an indulgence.   Beyond the sun and soil, I think there is a knowledge that also makes a difference… these people on the island are not just old masters, they are descendent from old masters.  All this knowledge of harvesting and preparation is ‘in the blood’; they have lived it for hundreds of years.  The Life of the Mediterranean is pure ‘gold’.

The olive groves

I do love it!  It seems quite natural to ‘Live’ in the Mediterranean… what I mean is that it is so natural, it is like an old glove:  Marvelously comfortable.  This is my second stay on a Mediterranean island this year:  Mljet and Ibiza, so different yet both so nourishing.  Ibiza still has its’ beautiful nature, though it is well developed; Mljet is 1/3 National Park and the old villages remain undeveloped, some incorporating old Roman ruins. 

300 year old house, using Roman ruins as foundation; in Polace

Roman arch in Pomena

A stay on Mljet is closely connected to the old ways; a stay on Ibiza the old and the new beautifully intertwined.  Ibiza is a vacation destination, though quiets after ‘the Season’.  On Mljet there are no small cities; no large hotels; no beautiful architecturally designed homes.  Mljet is quiet most of the time, with a relatively small influx of visitors in the summer.  On Ibiza there are 65 beaches; on Mljet there are, at least, 65 churches… many in ruin, most built in the 16^th  & 17^th Century.

Church steeple, common on Mljet

 Saint Marija

 Mljet does have a few beaches, and there is good swimming off rocky cliffs, or in saltwater lakes in the National Park.  The water is equally as warm.  It really! is the Mediterranean though it is located in the Adriatic.  

 Cove where fishing boats are kept

 View of cliffs

Ibiza warms your heart! Mljet strikes as deeply, drawing you into the poetic.  It is said to be a mystical place.  Just 20 minutes walk from where I am staying you can find Odysseus’ cave!  THEY say.  Then there is the Romanesque monastery, built on Roman ruins, on an island in the middle of the largest of the salt-water lakes.  Talk about atmosphere.  Imagine living in a hermitage on an island, in the middle of a large lake. You cannot see where the water enters from the sea; you are amongst mountains, though there are other lakes and channels proliferating just beyond your view.  Often when you look toward the island from shore you cannot see it, the light is wrong, or there is a slight mist.  You strain to find it: gone one minute, there the next.

Monastery in lake

 Architecture of monastery

 I was reminded of Iona and the old, isolated hermitages of the Hebrides.

Please forgive me.  I am going to put in a quote from a Dalmatian writer, V. Nazor, writing about the Dalmatian island of ‘Brac’ (2 islands to the north, closer to Split).  I am including it not so much because of what he says, but how he says it.  He is a beautiful, poetic writer.  His poetry is the feel one gets on this island:

“But true history is something else.  There are histories without storms with flashing lightning and rumbling thunder seen and heard from afar; there is also a quiet history which flows along the bed of time like a river that knows of no waterfalls, whirlpools and floods, yet full of life, full of events, the more tragic they are the less noise they make.  It is to the latter kind that the history of Brac belongs.

… here human destiny unwinds and flows along peacefully and quietly and yet… too often perhaps… full of long, hard struggles, struggles that could be cruel and merciless.  A drop of blood spilt by anyone, once and for ever, cries to the sky and everybody hears that cry; the river of sweat that flows for centuries down the brows of countless generations is soaked up by the mute earth and soundlessly disappears.  The cry of anger is heard from afar, the sigh of suffering dies without an echo.

Which sort of history is more difficult to grasp, discover, study, describe?  That of blood or that of sweat?  The answer to this is easy:  the history of that which does not clamour with colour and noise, which is quiet, continuous and everyday, the deep foundation and the even deeper root of human events.  This is history!  True human history!  But it is much more difficult to write about this than about the other.”

BRAC.  Simunovic, Peter, dr.  Graficki zavod Hrvatske. Zagreb.  pg. XXX11

(In his later years Nazor expressed his gratitude to this island, accustomed to thirst:  “Thank you, waterless isle, for having taught me to thirst and long for something all my life.  Brac, 1940.)

 

Old terraced olive grove

By the way, Brac had a population 12,900 in the 1970’s; and has many more tourists than Mljet, accommodating 15,000 visitors at any one time.  I have learned about Brac because my hosts, Ante and Zora, were caretakers of a Hermitage on the island of Brac during the 1970’s.  They left because it was getting too crowded.  Ante says the isle of Mljet is more mystical, so even more poetic… there is ‘something’ quite unseen that starts to inhabit your soul (those are my words).  It truly grows on you… leaving its’ deeply serene and peaceful mark.  ‘Serpentine’ is the word used on the island’s roads to designate the ‘S’ curve… subtly sly and tempting.

 Island road

Whether it is the shaded olive groves; the 300 year, old stone houses and churches; or the vistas that seeps into you, I am unable to tell.  A couple of days ago I once again took the long road SE across the mountainous spine of the island, to arrive at a soft and sandy beach, an unusual phenomenon on these rocky isles. On this narrow, mountain isle you drive on the side of the mountain wherever you go.  There are few guard rails; you are high on the mountainside; and it matters not if the road veers to the north or to the south you are presented with a stunning vista.  To the north it is the inner sea with coastlines, coves, and islands; to the south it is all sea… eventually a horizon. You cannot drive on the south side of the island without the eye being pulled into the distance… the peace of the savannah is stirred, yet it is over water to where there is a subtle line blue on blue.  A long horizon where there might even be a curvature, the fluidity of the two taking you… into eternity.

Vista from mountain

I have a friend whose son-in-law has a house on an island just south of here; my Victoria travel consultant’s in-laws sail these waters every summer.  The Dalmatian Coast is one of those well-kept secrets.   I think it is pure gold!  It is the gold of sunlight; of honey; of olive oil; of white wine from yellow grapes:  The Golden Life of the Mediterranean. Mljet, though not glamorous, is definitely worthy of your respect, definitely worthy of a glimpse.   BUT! I bet it would demand more of you. It marks you.

PS… Ante invited me to lunch yesterday, my last Sunday on the island.  As the front door opened I walked into the room, and stood very still as I faced the back wall which is usually covered by blankets and curtains.  Today the gold velvet curtains were tied back, revealing an inner fire room (not place… there is bench seating).  I saw an inner sanctum… of a Hindu temple.  It wasn’t.  There was hot ash in a small mound, on the floor, at the back of the room.  I thought it was the evening fire, rain was expected.  It was not, it was our lunch roasting under those coals: lamb, chicken, potatoes… with rosemary.  I shall remember the lunch, so delicious:  the lamb, mild! and juicy.  The flavor was unforgettable… not just a baking, a baking under hot ash which melds the flavors into a distinct dish.  More than the food, however, I will never forget that inner sanctum: a ‘Cave of the Heart’, where the dark and light are but one.  I fell into an altered state, silent for quite some time.  My words, I know, are inadequate.  

 Sunset across the saltwater lake...monastery just visible in the shadows.

The rest of the photos from Croatia can be found at this link: Croatian Slideshow