Trogir and the Propitious Moment

I first visited Trogir in 1990. My recollection of this beautiful old town, as one of the most charming in Dalmatia, was confirmed by this return visit. Since 1997 it has been a UNESCO World Heritage site, although I could not help wondering at the placing of the word ‘UNESCO’ in neon lights above the entrances to the old town. Perhaps someone had misunderstood the point of that honour. Still, wandering the narrow streets and alleys of Trogir is as great a pleasure as in any town in Dalmatia.

Portal of the Church of St Lawrence, Trogir

The jewel of the town is the church of St Lawrence, on the main square in the old town, and especially its intricately carved portal by the 13th century master Radovan. I was especially struck by the carved figures holding up the portal on their backs, some of whom clearly appear to be in Muslim attire, complete with turbans. Trogir had been sacked by Saracens in the 12th century, and it seemed interesting that Radovan should have wished to represent such figures in his creation.

Trogir was founded as a Greek colony in the 3rd century BC. Early in the 20th century a relief of Kairos, the Greek god of the propitious moment, from the 3rd century BC, was discovered in the abandoned house of a local family. It depicts the god as a young man whose forelock must be grasped in order to catch the fleeting moment, or else it will fly away, never to be caught again. The poet Posidippos described how Kairos, in answer to a question about why the artist had created him, replied that he was a moral, to remind people. The relief and the story attached to it struck a chord with me, as it might with anyone who has ever missed an opportunity, and as a reminder to grasp opportunities that come our way.

Kairos, Trogir

There is another nice story attached to the Trogir Kairos. Before its significance was realised, the stone had apparently for some time been fitted into a barrel and used for pressing down salted fish. Nowadays it is housed in the Benedictine convent of St. Nicholas in Trogir. I had to see it. Finding that the convent museum was closed, it being out of the tourist season, I went to the evening Mass and afterwards asked one of the sisters if I could see the Kairos. She kindly opened the museum for me the following morning.

Travellers in Šibenik

In setting out on a journey through Dalmatia, revisiting many places I had been to before, as well as some I had not, I was inspired by a book by the excellent Sonia Wild Bićanić on past British travellers in the region (British Travellers in Dalmatia, 1757-1935, Faktura, Zaprešić, 2006). I envisaged myself following in the footsteps of such travellers as Robert Adam, A.A. Paton, J. Gardner Wilkinson and T.G. Jackson in the 18th and 19th centuries. The experience today, in the age of mass tourism, aeroplanes, buses and tourist offices is vastly different to what those earlier adventurers found. In the 1880s Jackson could write of Dalmatia as “a strange, mysterious and almost unknown shore.” Nowadays you can fly there with Easyjet.

Yet in Šibenik I could look at the same old streets as Jackson, still dominated by the marvellous cathedral of St James, which so inspired him. Jackson approached the city by sea, passing through the narrow channel into the elongated bay that leads to the city and the mouth of the Krka river. He described it as “an imposing mass of picturesque old houses piled up the mountainside, with the great white-domed cathedral in the middle.” I arrived overland, but the impression is much the same.

Cathedral of St James, Šibenik

The architecture of the cathedral is noteworthy, built entirely by blocks of stone, pre-carved before being lifted into place. Great interlocking stone slabs make up the roof on one side and the ceiling on the other. It was built in several stages in the 15th century, but the principal architect was Juraj Dalmatinac, who was born in nearby Zadar. In 2000, it was proclaimed a UNESCO World Heritage site. Jackson, a leading Oxford architect, was astounded, describing the cathedral as one of the wonders of Christendom, its architecture ‘original to the point of daring’, adding that ‘it would be difficult to match it in singularity of construction.’ The cathedral’s ornate baptistery, to one side of the main alter, is particularly fine. A notable and unusual feature is the depiction of God the Father on the ceiling above the baptismal font, as an old man with flowing long hair.

Also appealing are little touches of humour in the cathedral’s construction. Either side of the side entrance, giving on to the central town square, are touching statues of Adam and Eve, naked and sheepishly holding hands over their private parts, their faces pictures of embarrassment. Around the outside of the apse are sculptured portraits said to be of people known to Juraj Dalmatinac, some of them plainly caricatures.

Out of the tourist season, Šibenik was quiet, nearly deserted on the Saturday evening when I arrived. It came to life on Sunday, as people gathered on the square outside the cathedral, drinking coffee in the sunshine, spilling out of the cathedral following the morning Mass. Among the devotees attending the Mass was a group of men and women from Bosnia decked out in traditional dress, who performed traditional dances for the onlookers, the older men intoning haunting, wailing, almost howling chants.

Sunday lunch was at a restaurant overlooking the cathedral entrance, Pelegrini. A marvellous place, highly unusual in my experience of Dalmatian restaurants, its cooking displayed a sophistication, ambition and adventurousness I had not previously associated with the region. Seafood in Dalmatia can be very nice, so long as you are happy with a narrow repertoire of grilled fish, crustaceans, seafood pasta dishes and risottos. Nice, but safe and unexciting. And unfortunately not always very nice, with a surfeit of restaurants offering poor quality, over-cooked fare aimed principally at ripping off easily pleased tourists. But Pelegrini is so far above all that. I started with an aubergine soufflé, perfectly executed, light and delicious. I followed it with a mushroom risotto with truffles – yum. And their home-baked bread was exceptional.

Šibenik is a charming and rewarding town to walk around and explore, with beautiful views around almost every corner in its narrow streets and alleys, and intimate little squares. So many of the buildings feature wonderfully ornate stone doorways and windows, attesting to the wealth once enjoyed by the town’s notable residents. Little churches abound, most of them closed at this time of year. Among them is a small Orthodox Church, the centre of the Serbian Orthodox diocese. Serbs have clung on in Šibenik, despite ongoing resentment from the war in the 1990s, when Serb rebel forces controlled territory inland from the city.

The Krka waterfalls

Jackson travelled by boat up the River Krka, marvelling at the waterfalls. With none of the tourist boats operating in November, I travelled by bus, but the falls are still splendid, a series of cascades interspersed with blue-green pools, framed by the greens, reds, browns and yellows of autumnal trees. Nowadays there are wooden walkways enabling the visitor to stroll around the network of pools and falls. There is a cluster of stone buildings, given over to tourism today, although closed when I visited. In their day they housed mills, powered by the water flows. Gardner Wilkinson also travelled up the Krka, continuing to the Franciscan monastery of Visovac, and then on to the Orthodox monastery of Michael the Archangel.

Zadar post scriptum

Not long after my visit to Zadar (see journal posting of 18 November 2011), it was announced that the city was granting an award to Ante Gotovina, the Croatian general convicted of war crimes for his commanding role in Operation Storm, which in 1995 returned swathes of previously Serb-controlled territory to Croatia. The operation resulted in the murders of hundreds of Serb civilians, the flight of almost the entire Serb population, and the destruction of thousands of Serb properties with the intention of preventing their return.

A Zadar city councillor from the ruling Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) expressed the view of most in Croatia when he said that Gotovina “defended the truth about himself and the Homeland War … with honesty, dignity and pride.” Opposition councillors abstained from the vote, one of them explaining that, while they considered Gotovina a hero, his name should not be used for political purposes.

Indeed, the move is probably connected with the coming parliamentary elections in Croatia. The HDZ faces an uphill struggle in the wake of corruption scandals that have seen its former leader and prime minister Ivo Sanader accused of bribe taking, and an economic crisis that has hit the country hard. The party, which ruled throughout the 1990s, under its founding leader Franjo Tudjman, has appealed once again to wartime patriotism, stressing the rights and dignity of veterans. It may be helped by the 20th anniversary of the fall of Vukovar in November 1991, an event still pregnant with emotion in Croatia. However, with some pointing the finger at Sanader for alleged war profiteering, the appeal to patriotism rings hollow for many Croatian voters. Fifteen years after the end of the war, some object to the power of the veterans lobby, suspecting that the numbers of its beneficiaries are in any case inflated.

Given the image that Zadar, so close to the emptied former Serb-controlled lands, has honed as a centre of virulent Croatian nationalism, it was not surprising that a decision to honour Gotovina came from there. But, whatever the merits of the case against Gotovina, or lack thereof, the move reflects the continuing failure of most in Croatia to face up to the fact that war crimes were also committed by Croats, and that many of their hallowed veterans were far from being heroes. The trial of Gotovina by the international war crimes tribunal for former Yugoslavia served mainly to burnish Gotovina’s reputation in Croatia, and if anything set back any proper accounting with the sins of the country’s recent past.

A visit to Nin

Nin is a tiny little town at the northernmost end of Dalmatia, close to Zadar. I visited on a bright, blustery autumn day, the town swept by the bura, the north wind that is such a relief in summer, blowing away clouds along with stiflingly humid, muggy weather, leaving everything clear and fresh. In winter it is cold and bracing, and at its strongest, on the coast roads, can be dangerous.

Nin had a key place in the early medieval history of Croatia, one of the oldest Croatian towns and the seat of early medieval rulers. It is a charming little place, a small island situated in a lagoon, reached by two 16th century bridges. But its historical place as the cradle of the Croat nation is much bigger than its physical size. At the entrance to the town is a statue depicting Prince Branimir, a ninth century ruler whose loyalty to Rome in its rivalry with the Byzantine Empire elicited letters from Pope John VIII in 879 referring to the Croatian people, the first recorded international acknowledgement of Croatia.

Gregory of Nin, Split

Another important figure in medieval Croatia, Bishop Gregory of Nin, is remembered for his defiance of Rome for, in the tenth century, defending the use of the Slavonic liturgy, in the Glagolitic script, rather than Latin, as insisted upon by Rome. An enormous statue of Gregory, by Ivan Meštrović, the most noted 20th century Croatian sculptor, stands just outside the walls of Diocletian’s palace in Split. It had originally been placed in the peristyle of the palace, but was moved by the Italian occupation authorities during the Second World War. A smaller replica of the statue stands in Nin.

Church of St Nicholas, Nin

Nin is also notable for some remarkable churches. In the town itself is the 9th century Church of the Holy Cross, known as the smallest cathedral in the world. Perhaps even more extraordinary is the tiny pre-Romanesque Church of St Nicholas, situated on a mound not far from the town. Popular tradition associates the church with the coronation of medieval Croatian kings. Especially incongruous looking are the battlements around the roof of the church. These were apparently added during the Turkish wars, to turn the church into a lookout point. As well as being at the centre of early medieval Croatian settlement, the site of Nin has an earlier pedigree, with Roman remains, including a fine mosaic floor.

A return to Zadar

My first ever visit to Dalmatia, in 1989, was to Zadar. Looking back, it seems a strange choice. I went on from there to Dubrovnik, but would not Split have been a more obvious starting point, if choices had to be made? But Zadar too is a remarkable town.

Dating back to Roman times, it was, under the Venetians, the administrative centre of Dalmatia, and the largest and most important town. Later, in the 19th century, it lost out to Split, which surpassed it in size and importance. Following the First World War, Zadar (Zara in Italian), with its Italian majority, was ceded to Italy, while the rest of Dalmatia, which had been part of Austria for the previous century, passed to the new Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, Yugoslavia. The city’s severest blow came during the Second World War, when it endured carpet bombing by the Allies in 1943-44. The town was devastated, 60 per cent of its building destroyed, and an estimated 1,000 of its inhabitants killed (Italians claimed a much higher figure). After the war, only the churches were renovated, while large swathes of the old town were rebuilt in modern style, medieval streets replaced by soulless blocks. Most of the Italian inhabitants fled, either from the bombs or from the Yugoslav Partisans who took control in 1944 and summarily murdered several leading Italian citizens.

The town has spread out since then, its population boosted by an influx of Croats and some Serbs from the hinterland. There is little sign of its previous Italian character. When I visited in 1989, I noted that the waiter at a seafood restaurant repeated my order to himself, and counted out the bill, in Italian. But that was about it.

Church of St Donat, Zadar

The most striking feature of the town is the extraordinary church of St Donat. A ninth-century, pre-Romanesque edifice, it is quite unlike any of the later, more familiar styles of church architecture. An enormous rotunda, with three apses on one side, it looks like an enormous drum. On the inside, it has a gallery, held up by arches and, in front of the apses, two pillars from the Roman forum that once stood in the area around the church. In fact, the church includes a great deal of masonry filched from the forum. Most remarkably, chunks of Roman masonry, including upended bits of pillar, were fitted higgledy-piggledy into the foundations in an extraordinary mish-mash. Visiting Zadar in the 1880s, the English architect T.G. Jackson described St Donat’s as ‘rude to the point of barbarism, but not without a certain simple dignity’. The bombing during World War II levelled an area next to St. Donat’s, including the forum, whose outline and much masonry have now been revealed.

Jackson thought highly of other churches in Zadar, describing St Grisogonus (Krsevan, being renovated during my present visit) as a perfect example of Romanesque architecture. He left his own mark in Zadar, as he was commissioned to design the campanile of the cathedral of St Anastasia, which had been left unfinished in the 15th century.

In the 1990s, Zadar, like several other Dalmatian cities, became a noted hotbed of hard-line Croatian nationalism. In May 1991, following the murder by Serb paramilitaries of Croatian policemen in Borovo Selo, in eastern Slavonia, and of a policeman in a small place nearby, there was an anti-Serb pogrom in Zadar, as well as in Šibenik, during which Serb property and businesses were trashed, in what a local newspaper, Narodni list, described as ‘Zadar’s Chrystal Night’. That Croatian nationalism was especially fierce here may have been in part due to the proximity of Serb-controlled territory during the war. Zadar was partially cut off from the rest of Croatia for part of the war, and atrocities were committed against Croats in the surrounding area. All this left a legacy of bitterness. When Croatian forces swept through the region in 1995, most of the Serbs in the formerly Serb-controlled areas fled. In the years following, in the hinterland of Zadar, around the town of Benkovac, which had previously had a Serb majority, the local Croat population offered especially stiff resistance to the return of Serb refugees to their homes.

When I visited Zadar in 2002, a huge poster was prominently displayed, expressing support for General Ante Gotovina, who had the previous year been indicted for war crimes by the international war crimes tribunal for former Yugoslavia, in The Hague. A decade later, and following the guilty verdict against Gotovina (see journal posting of 1 May 2011), such posters can still be seen in Dalmatian towns, on walls, in bars, proclaiming that Gotovina is a hero, not a criminal.

Zadar had not always been such a breeding ground of Croat-Serb antagonism. Narodni list, the oldest Croatian newspaper, founded in the 1860s, had, as a focus for Croatian aspirations, been directed against Italian domination. At one time it had appealed to the town’s Serbs as well as Croats. Indeed, before the formation of the Yugoslav state, Dalmatia had been a centre of Yugoslavism, and some of the most prominent advocates of Yugoslav unity had been Croats from Dalmatia.

In addition to its old churches, Zadar also boasts some fine examples of modern design. Along the quayside from St Donat’s is the Sea Organ. As one approaches, one can hear the gentle, randomly piped sounds of an organ. There in the quay are holes, the entrances to pipes that go down to the lapping waves below. As they wash against the quay, the waves push air up through the pipes, creating a soothing music. A little further along, is the ‘Greeting to the Sun’. Discs of glass set in the quay, representing the sun and all the planets, soak up sunlight into solar panels by day, the energy from which powers a multi-coloured light show by night. Visitors and the citizens of Zadar stroll over the sun disc, some of them dancing across the coloured floor, while children run about, inventing games with the lights, jumping as the colours move and ripple across the ground.

Blood sausage and chestnuts in Zagreb

Any time of year can be lovely in Zagreb. Walking up Sljeme, the mountain on the edge of Zagreb, on a crisp autumn day, with the trees a mass of golds and browns, and still some greens, is a delight. And autumn has its special food opportunities. Krvavice (blood sausages) on Sljeme, with kiseli kupus (sauerkraut) have me salivating even before the plane touches down at Zagreb airport. Nowhere else have I enjoyed black pudding as much as here, deliciously spicy, homemade. That’s what makes the food in the Sljeme mountain huts so special. Good simple fare, sourced from local peasants, homemade, luscious.

And it’s also the time of year for chestnuts, found in abundance on Sljeme. Sunday walks punctuated with long detours to pick them by the sack full. Roasted chestnuts on sale in squares and on street corners; the cooperative effort of roasting and peeling our own at home; pureed chestnuts served with cream; cakes made of chestnuts with cream and chocolate. Gorging ourselves on chestnuts.

None of this is sophisticated fare, just simple, traditional and delicious. Zagreb is in many ways a conservative place. I hope it stays so, and that all the things that delight me so do not change. Let them open new, fancier restaurants, catering to more cosmopolitan tastes. But let’s keep the old pleasures as well.

I was sorry to see that my favourite Kod Žaca is no more, at least not in the form it used to be. A cosy little restaurant near the Archbishop’s garden, run by a couple of young boys from Slavonia, but with cuisine from Istria. Can there be two cuisines more dissimilar than Slavonian and Istrian? One old gentleman from Rijeka told how, when he first married, he wondered whether his Slavonian wife was trying to kill him with the heavy food she served. But, as my Italian friend, one of their most faithful customers, put it, the mama of the two boys at Kod Žaca had taught them well. Wonderful food. Delectable steaks. Perfectly textured gnocchi with a truffle sauce. And such an atmosphere, and such generosity. It felt like we were their guests, in their own home. A grater and a truffle were placed in front of the eater, who was left to grate his own. It was at Kod Žaca that I first tasted the delicious Istrian honey liqueur, a wonderful aperitif. And again, no messing about; the bottle and glasses were simply placed on the table, the guests left to serve themselves. I have not tasted as good anywhere else. They had their own source. The restaurant was, I think, not legal, part of the grey economy; there was no sign outside the door. That did not stop prominent politicians eating there. Now there is a sign, still called Kod Žaca, but a pizzeria.

Plov and lepeshka in Kyrgyzstan

Leaving behind the modern comforts of Bishkek, we boarded a flight for the southern city of Jalal Abad, close to the border with Uzbekistan. The flight, in an old, rickety little aircraft, with seats that would not go into the upright position, and smelling much like the old and decrepit buses still found around the former Soviet Union, was not a lot of fun. The weather was atrocious, and the plane kept swooping and diving, leaving stomachs behind as it went. I concentrated hard not to spill the beaker of water the stewardess had given me, as she struggled up and down the floor of the plane, now sloping one way, now the other. One of our party sat next to an official from the transport ministry who told him that the model of plane we were flying in was now outlawed in Kyrgyzstan, but it was still flying – just.

Arriving, relieved, at Jalal Abad airport, we had to wait for our luggage in the driving rain. Turning around, there was a sign above the entrance to the runway wishing departing passengers ‘good luck’. After our flight, it seemed apt.

A short stop in Jalal Abad to eat samsa (samosas) and delicious little pastries stuffed with pumpkin. Then the bus journey on to Kerben, through the still lashing rain. We arrived during a power cut, a rare event, we were told, due to the weather. Supper was by candlelight, starting with tasty little scraps of mutton fat, followed by salad and plov, the ubiquitous plov, found all over central Asia, consisting of rice, laced with raisins and pieces of mutton, boiled until they resemble leather. All washed down with green tea and vodka.

We had been expecting the worst from the accommodation, but in fact it was not too bad, if basic. The rooms were clean and warm, and the beds comfortable. And though the water pressure was weak, I had a hot shower.

Kerben is a quiet little town, quite dark at night even when there is no power cut, with just the very centre dimly lit, and one solitary set of traffic lights – the central feature of the town. Walking along the dim main street in softening rain, we heard pounding music off to one side. Perhaps Kerben had a night life after all.

Aksi district

Then a couple of days off in the villages of Aksi district. Muddy, charming little places with smiley people and a spectacular surround of snow-capped mountains. Ladies with scarves and men with tall woollen hats. Some on donkeys, sometimes a man atop a sprightly horse, reminding of the nomadic Kyrgyz past. One old lady sitting on a donkey, asked by our interpreter if I could photo her, cackled happily; ‘does he love me’, she asked?

Then there is our most frequented eating place; a little shack in one of the villages, the only restaurant for miles around, if the word restaurant is appropriate for such a hovel. Goat soup; fried potatoes and chicken; fried potatoes and eggs; and truly the worst plov I have tasted – inedible for me and my Russian companion. Hailing originally from Kazakhstan, she professes to like central Asian cooking; her father spends hours preparing gargantuan quantities of plov for the whole family. But neither she nor I could eat this. Our interpreter and driver wolfed it down however. But somehow I grew fond of the place, and of the cheerful lady who served us. Arriving for a pot of hot green tea and the latest offerings from her blackened pots seemed almost homely. And her lepeshka (central Asian bread) was the most delicious of my whole stay in Kyrgyzstan, when it was fresh and warm.