Lament for Dubrovnik

I find Dubrovnik a depressing place nowadays.

I remember the first time I stepped through the Pile gate into the old city, all those years ago. The main street, Stradun unfolded before me, funnelling down to the clock tower at the far end. The shiny flagstones shimmered in the fading early evening light. The immense city walls towering up on either side. I had never seen a more impressive sight.

I was young then. I sat on the steps climbing up the narrow side streets, overflowing with greenery from the tall houses. The little bars supplied cushions for us youngsters to sit on as we wiled away the carefree nights. It was beautiful.

In daytime, exploring the streets, the palaces, the monasteries, the old harbour, all the little narrow streets, walking the walls, taking the cable car up the mountain above the city, marvelling at the view. The sea lapping at its walls, a blue sky overhead. A city built on the trade between Europe and the Ottoman Empire, one of the greatest summits of European civilisation.

Then there was the war, the destruction, the vandalism of one of Europe’s greatest treasures and the careless slaughter and terrorism of its people, by barbarians. Returning a few years later, Dubrovnik’s charms were no less. The crowds had gone, the city was struggling. But it was still beautiful, and the endurance of the war seemed to have given it an even greater nobility. Dubrovnik was lovely in winter as well. Evenings in the Trubador jazz club, the random punters joining in the jam sessions of Marko and the regulars. Lunches at Kamenica, the oyster bar on the main square, or at Rozarij.

Afternoons on Lokrum, swimming in the clear sea, wandering the island, alone like it was my kingdom, strolling up to the castle at the top, sitting in the botanical garden. Lunch at the restaurant in the ruined monastery, whatever fish had been caught that day, the recommendation of the waiter never failing, washed down with wine, looking out over the garden, with the peacocks, to the sea beyond.

Things started to go wrong when the Lokrum restaurant was taken over from the hotel Argentina by another, lesser hotel. All quality gone, the waiters clueless and uninterested, the beautiful ruin made gaudy.

But still visits to Dubrovnik were delightful. Buying fruit on the market and taking it off to Lokrum, to sit and reflect between dips.

But then the crowds started to increase. And not the exuberant youths, the excited backpackers of 20 years before, staying for a pittance in private accommodation. Now it was the cruise boats, two, four at a time, spewing forth thousands of people for a few hours each day, clogging up the streets, the cafes, not eating, going back to their boats for lunch. The antagonism of the locals, for whom the hoards became nothing more than money fodder, people to be filched, the lowest quality they could get away with, for the highest price. Even the wonderful Kamenica succumbed.

This year I arrived at Dubrovnik in a huge thunderstorm, massive cruise boats towering above the harbour, others standing off at sea. I got out, soaked, as soon as I could, down the coast to Cavtat, still charming, still delightful, the locals still friendly. Lounging on the rocks, soaking up sun, coffee at Zino’s. Evenings on the dreamy terrace, the sea lapping below, figs by the armful. Alas, even Cavtat had its disappointment though. The once wonderful Leut, now with higher prices, the quality gone to pieces. This was the second year it was so. I gave it a second chance, but I will not give it a third. The once beautifully dressed seafood salad now flat and dull. The fried squid, once so crisp and delicate, so perfect, now sloppy and tasting of nothing but the oil in which it was cooked. The house white, once pleasingly fresh and fruity, now lifeless and not even chilled. Perhaps they just don’t care anymore. Perhaps they don’t think they have to. A shame. They had a reputation once. Gerard Depardieu had eaten there, and Misha Saakashvili. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone now.

Dubrovnik has become little more than a commodity to be sold. But it is being devalued. Nevertheless, the walls, the palaces, and somewhere, no doubt, the spirit of the people, the troubadours, is still there. Maybe still in winter.