Friday, April 29, 2011

We venture up the river again this morning. We see locals paddling their traditional river skiffs, some now fitted with ancient outboard motors. Whenever we see an interesting character, we stop to chat. An elderly lady that we spied fishing with a crude reed pole greets us with a broad smile on her weather-beaten, leathery face. She is wearing an old grey skirt and a stained flowery smock, on her head, a floppy khaki fisherman’s hat. She quickly removed the hat to show off her new blue-rinse hairstyle of which she was so proud. She chats away, with Viktor translating, thrilled that she might be on TV. At the end of the piece Timot asks us to leave in the boat so that he can film us going. The lady was visibly alarmed thinking we were leaving Timot behind. I laughed and told her that he was on special offer for one day only. We are back at the boat by 12:15 in time to meet our friends. William Thuillier and Alvaro Picardo are waiting on the shore to be picked up by the tender, our next guests on board.

We pick up the anchor and get underway at once eating a delicious lunch under way. Four hours later we are anchoring outside the pretty Venetian town of Hvar. It is great to see our friends again after so long away. I have known William for over 35 years, longer than I have known Derek. He is an old master picture dealer and opera lover with a sharp intelligent wit. Alvaro, his boy friend, is Catalan and much younger than William; he loves good food and wild flowers; he is a gentle and artistic spirit. Both of them are now grey and have grown beards likewise flecked with grey. They are a good-looking couple and have been an item for fifteen years.

Hvar doesn’t disappoint; it is picture pretty with Venetian architecture, a beautiful Baroque church and an Italianate campanile. Our guide, Josco Domancic, is a local official and in charge of a major restoration project on the old theatre and arsenal building. He is an engaging young guy with floppy blond hair and a sweet rather shy manner.

He arranges a large combi taxi to take us to Stari Grad, the old capital of Hvar and originally a Greek settlement of 4^th C BC. Our driver is dressed as a cowboy complete with Stetson hat, Lee Marvin droopy whiskers, high-heeled black boots of tooled leather and an unbuttoned tan leather jerkin. Flushed with pride, he tells a friend in Croatian, “Look at me, I’m taking the English TV people on a tour”; he doesn’t realize that Viktor can translate every word. We cram into the vehicle with all our kit and head into the hills, Timot up front with his camera across his knees riding shotgun.

The site that greets us at every turn is remarkable, despite the rain we stop to look and film. The mountainside is covered with fields and terraces separated by walls of grey weathered limestone many feet thick. Most of the fields are square or rectangular; what is remarkable is the sheer number of stones piled into neat mounds with carefully dressed sides; the labour that it must have taken to create these fields, now mostly abandoned, is incalculable and all to gain a few square meters of dry, stony soil.

Stari Grad itself lies nestled at the end of a long estuary. The river here is narrow and looks like a Venetian canal lined with boats and, from a distance, attractive houses. The stonework is grey and the building style makes use of large blocks laid with a thick band of mortar giving impression of graph paper. Sadly, on close observation, the houses seem over restored and too brash with nasty modern doors and shutters spoiling the effect. We agreed that all would be improved with a little age, some distressed paintwork and moss between the stone courses.

Our tame cowboy took us on to two remote hill villages, Vela Grabljje and its smaller deserted sister Malo Grabljie. Picturesque and tumbling down, the first village nestles on a hillside; the church bells peeling as if to greet our arrival. Spring flowers in profusion, wild garlic, the lacy white flowers of Tordylium, scarlet poppies amongst the olive trees with the distant capriccio of crumbling ruins presented a painterly scene.

We drove on too the deserted village; the road became a dirt track flanked by high limestone crags. I thought that Apaches might ambush us at any moment. The small village is so well hidden and protected by these flanks of limestone hills that an army could search for months without discovering this secret hideaway.

On arriving back in town, we hear music and merriment and came upon a throng of people outside the pretty baroque church. A wedding was in progress, young girls in short silk skirts and flimsy blouses shivering in the cool spring air, wearing lots of make-up and very high heels; the boys in ill-fitting suits in which they seemed uncomfortable; some older locals in more homely attire but everyone having so much fun. A re-faced troubadour played an accordion with gusto and everyone joined in the singing. A young boy proudly swirled a Croatian flag atop a bendy pole creating dizzying circles in the air. I noticed two fresh-faced young boys craning out of a first floor window to watch the show, their happy faces caught in the low evening light and framed by the carved stone mullions and the period ochre stone façade. At last, the bride with her procession arrived to cut a swathe through the throng and enter the church on her father’s arm.

Saturday, 30^th April 2011

We woke to another cold, wet day, the rain poured down relentlessly; Timot was nervous that his precious camera might get wet. We met Drezan at nine as arranged to see the restoration work on the old theatre and arsenal. Inside we discover a miniature theatre complete with painted ceiling and tiny boxes all around; it can accommodate no more than a couple of hundred spectators; built in 1612 as a peace offering to the people after a rebellion against the aristocratic elite two years before; the first public theatre in Europe or so we were told.

I found the arsenal and the huge room above it more interesting and impressive. Above were the offices of the Captain of the Port and the draughtsman’s drawing office where galleys and merchantmen were designed on a scale of 1:1 or full scale. The ships were constructed in the cavernous arsenal space below – Venice in miniature. The great pine beams bore witness to the use of local timber that helped to denude the islands of forest cover. Venice demanded good Croatian timber for her galleys and public buildings.

We just have time for a dash through the wet streets to the Franciscan Monastery with its fine church. The complex is on a rocky outcrop joined to the shore and surrounded by a low retaining wall.

We meet brother Bernadino in his brown cassock, cowl and white rope belt, one of only two friars left in this house. This gentle, smiling monk spoke in French, our only tongue in common; he greets us warmly and bids us welcome. With his cropped grey beard and open face, he presents a picture of selfless devotion. First, we visit the refectory; there is a magnificent fresco at the far end of this paneled room. William gives us a short talk about this fine early 17th C work by a local Croatian master that depicts the last supper and covers the whole side of the room, about ten meters in length.

We filmed the Brother outside, sitting on a low wall at the far end of the garden he so clearly loves, a spreading cypress tree lending the space a shady cool. The garden is littered with broken pieces of ancient carved stone and on the low wall are two huge stone oil jars. He sits chatting to Derek looking out to sea towards our boat riding at anchor in the bay.