Scrambling off the Venezia Express, I was struck immediately by a rocket attack. It screamed across the headlines of the local newspaper in a splash of ruined buildings and severed lives.
Only a couple of hours before my arrival in the Croatian capital, Zagreb, Serb missiles had slammed into the suburbs killing three civilians in a war during which collateral damage was very much the norm. Edging away from the relative safety of the railway station, I descended into a twilight world of sandbagged buildings, khaki-clad soldiers and ashen-faced widows.
That was back in 1993, when I ventured to Croatia to report on the fledgling nation and its struggle for independence from the former Yugoslavia. Just over a decade later I rolled into Zagreb aboard the same express train and was greeted, not by missiles and gun-toting soldiers, but by the golden arches of McDonald’s. It was clear that Zagreb had changed, and that the country had moved on.
Back in 1993 I felt underdressed without a pistol tucked in my jacket pocket; now I just felt underdressed. Sitting in Zagreb’s stylish main square, Trg Jelacica, I could have been anywhere in Europe. Business people with mobile phones raced past Nirvana T-shirt-clad teenagers, while snap-happy tourists and Armani-sporting professionals jostled for space on the brand-new trams that zipped across the town.
Although the Austro-Hungarians didn’t really design it to be more than a provincial centre, Zagreb seems to be warming to its new role as capital, and a palpable buzz runs though the pavement cafés of Tkalciceva, where Zagreb’s large student population congregates. Goran, who studies at Zagreb University, echoed the popular mood of the city’s youthful population: “Life here is good and none of my friends even talk of the war anymore. To me it often seems like it never happened.”
While the MTV generation may rule in the city’s cafés, Zagreb’s wide boulevards and grand 19th-century architecture hark back to times when the Austro-Hungarians imported their own building styles from Budapest and Vienna – all ornate décor touches, bold domes and towering colonnades. I wandered around a city that had been given a serious makeover during the past decade, taking in its most impressive buildings – the pastel-yellow Art Pavilion, the neoclassical National Theatre and the sweeping Mimara Museum, which is home to 4,000 works of art by the likes of Raphael, Rembrandt, Rubens and Degas.
Zagreb’s voluminous, twin-spired cathedral neatly marks the boundary between the city’s 19th-century core and the older upper town. Serb warplanes targeted the cathedral during the war, aiming to crush local morale by destroying the most prominent symbol of the city’s strong Catholic faith. Delving inside, it was clear they had demolished neither building or belief – the impressive central nave was filled with worshippers.
In 1993 the rail route south from Zagreb to the Dalmatia region had been cut by Serb forces, blocking my attempt to get down to the shimmering Adriatic coastline; now, tourists flock here unhindered from all over Europe. The line slices down through the wooded hills of central Croatia before barren karst mountains take over on the run to the sea. The final approach into Croatia’s second-largest city, Split, opens up sweeping views of the Adriatic as it stretches out towards Italy just across the water.
Checking my ticket, the conductor enthused about his home city: “You’ll like it here. It is not like Zagreb. We are a bit more relaxed down in Dalmatia.”
The conductor was right. The formality and order of the capital’s grand avenues and manicured squares gave way to something different: a chaotic, vibrant oasis with the raffish spice of a port city. Split is one of southern Europe’s liveliest and most alluring spots, the sort of place that manages to seduce into staying visitors planning on just passing through. The wide bay was awash with small local ferries jockeying for position with the larger ships that ply the coast and service the 1,185 islands that dot the country’s waters.
These days Split’s waterfront promenade, the Riva, ripples with the chatter of waylaid backpackers and designer-clothing-clad locals, the Splicani. The Splicani see themselves as sophisticated southerners, a breed apart from their inland brethren – a confidence that many in Zagreb read as arrogance. As Vesna, who works in one of the waterfront bars, put it: “We have a very different way of life here. Relaxing and enjoying yourself is more important than working too hard and making money.”
Perhaps Zagreb’s jealousy is more related to the famed looks of the Splicani. Split’s inhabitants tend to be tall and lean with the sort of killer cheekbones that have attracted a flurry of top European model agencies to the city in search of new talent.
Split’s old core is as stunning as its citizens, built around a two-millennia-old Roman palace. When emperor Diocletian, a man with a penchant for throwing Christians to the lions, sought to retire from the nearby city of Salona (itself now a romantic ruin on Split’s outskirts), he decided upon a waterfront retreat in Split. Even when the Romans were ousted the palace was never really sacked and instead, while Roman town centres all over Europe fell into disrepair and were erased forever, Split survived. Over the centuries the Splicani have shown a remarkable ability to adapt; smart bars, boutique shops and cosy pensions all blossom within the sturdy walls of the grand Roman palace.
The centrepiece of Diocletian’s Palace is a sunken Roman plaza surrounded by columns. Above sits the Cathedral of St Domnius, which ironically stands on the Christian-hating emperor’s final resting place. A colossal sculpture of Gregorius of Nin, a ninth-century Croatian bishop, used to sit proudly in the square, but it became a rallying point for Croatian patriots (Gregorius wanted Croatian rather than Latin in the liturgy) during the communist era so was moved further north just outside the Palace’s Golden Gate. Unlike Diocletian, the man behind the sculpture – Split-born artist Ivan Mestrovic – is remembered fondly as one of Split’s greatest sons.
Gregorius of Nin may be the sculptor’s landmark work, but just around the bay is the Mes˘trovic´ Gallery, which houses the largest collection of his work. He had intended this grand mansion by the waterfront to be his home, but instead he emigrated, like many Croats, to the USA.
These days, now that Croatia is an independent country again, many exiles are returning and rediscovering their roots. Perhaps the most impressive homecoming was that of Goran Ivanisevic – in 2001, 100,000 cheering Splicani lined the waterfront to celebrate his win at Wimbledon.
Defying Split’s magnetic hold, I eventually broke away towards the islands that tempt just offshore. Bypassing the rising tourist stars of Brac and Hvar, I took the chunky Jadrolinija ferry out into the open sea to the island of Vis – the last Croatian outpost before you hit Italy. Vis holds a special place in the hearts of many Croats as Iva, a student from Zagreb, explained: “Until 1989 Vis was closed off by the Yugoslav navy and we could not see it. Now we all get to enjoy an island that is unspoiled and not full of tourists.”
Smiling at my backpack she added, “Well, not yet, anyway.”
The approach to Vis is spectacular, its rugged rock walls more reminiscent of a Scottish isle than a Mediterranean one. The first inhabitants were the Greeks in 400BC, but its strategic location made it a prized possession, and ownership has changed hands numerous times. It was here that the man who moulded Yugoslavia, Marshal Tito, hid during the Second World War and also where he met Churchill in a clandestine rendezvous as the new map of Europe unfurled.
The main settlement of Vis Town, its hotchpotch of architectural styles an indication of its turbulent history, may not be as immediately striking as some of the postcard-perfect towns on Hvar or Korc˘ula, but its orange-tiled houses and rambling waterfront have their charms. In Kut, the older part of town, villas built by wealthy Venetian merchants still swagger along the waterfront and old women hang their washing across the narrow lanes, while below a sprinkling of family-run wine cellars peddle their homemade vintages.
However, it’s not the wine but the top-notch, cut-price seafood that lures Italian gastronomes over the Adriatic. All along the Croatian coastline, diners feast on seafood risotto, roasted squid, fresh oysters and simple grilled fish. I joined the locals in a waterfront restaurant and watched, faintly bemused, as the beaming owner slaved over his grill with a cigarette in one hand and a hairdryer, to fan the flames, in the other. It may not be silver service, but the end product was as delicious as anything you’d find in the best restaurants of London – and a lot cheaper, too.
The island’s main road straddles the mountains on a swirling ten-kilometre route across to Komiza, the only other real town. I hitched a lift over in a ramshackle car seemingly powered by a lawnmower engine – something I did not mention to its driver, Josep. Like many people in Komiza, he earns a living from fishing sardines; Josep, though, saw things starting to change: “When I first came here the navy controlled everything, but now I hear more Italian and German voices.” With a cheeky glint in his eye he added, “It is better now as I have more to fish than just sardines.”
Arriving in Komiza, I saw what Josep meant – crowded around the waterfront were a group of keen tourists, eager for boat trips around the islands.
When I first visited Croatia it was on the brink of disaster, facing the ugly prospect of a devastating war. Now the headlines scream not of missile attacks and casualties, but of unspoilt beauty and rising visitor numbers. The country has scrambled back onto its feet with impressive speed and has established itself as Europe’s new ‘in’ destination. In fact, it may not be long before the newspapers talk of an invasion of an altogether different kind.
When to go: From April to the end of October days are warm and sunny. Temperatures in the peak months of July and August hover around 26-30°C. Winters in the hinterland are cold, with temperatures regularly dropping below freezing.
Health and safety: Visitors commonly suffer sunburn, sunstroke and dehydration during the peak months so precautions should be taken against the blazing summer sun. Those swimming in rocky areas should also look out for black sea urchins – their spines can lodge in bare feet and become infected.
Crime rates in Croatia are lower than in most European countries and crimes against tourists are rare. Women travelling alone are commonplace and rarely encounter problems. The usual precautions should be taken against opportunist petty crime.
