Sunday, 1^st May 2011; Hvar

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.

Weighed anchor at about 3pm and arrived the tiny fishing port of Komiza on Vis at about 6 pm.

Monday, 2^nd May; Komiza, Vis

Wake to a sparkling morning and a feeling of summer, we go ashore to walk around the small port then decide to hike up the steep lanes of the old village, so little touched by modernity, to the church set alone high among terraces of olives, carobs and vines. The fields present the best show of wild blooms to date, carpets of yellow crown daisies, scarlet poppies and bright Large Blue Alkanet (Anchusa) humming with bumble bees. Attached to a dried flower stem we find a potter wasp attending to her tiny nest of perfect honeycomb cells looking like a delicate creation of papier-mâché.

On closer inspection, we find that the church is built inside the ruins of an old fort; the thick outer wall has gun embrasures and a sharp-pointed corner arris like the city walls of a 17^th C fortification. Wild pink snapdragons grow profusely out of cracks in the stonework. In front of the tower two straight, pointed, tailored cypresses stand sentinel, thrusting skywards; dark green against the mellow grey stone. It is a calm and reflective afternoon; Timot takes advantage of the low golden evening light to capture some beautiful vignettes of walls and flowers and, finally, Alvaro and I walking down the steps from the church chatting while the bells peal out seven o’clock.

Tuesday, 3^rd May 2011; Vis and at sea to Split

During the night the wind increases to 35 knots and Tim and Viktor stand watch; three hours on and three hours off for some fitful sleep. By morning the storm has abated but the forecast is for further high winds all day. Indeed, the wind did increase somewhat but, as we had to be in Split, we decided to try and run before the storm. We leave the shelter of Komitza bay with some trepidation fearing rough water as we round the headland. The voyage across will take about six hours and, so far, is peaceful and only a little lumpy. Bruce feels a bit sick but still manages to make some delicious sandwiches for lunch. The rest of us go up-top and laze around watching the coast slip by while we listen to music on headphones. I love these calm days; reflective and soulful, to be at sea is an excellent therapy for a troubled soul or an over-anxious brain. I can’t help noticing the absence of birds on the crossing; a few seagulls and the odd shearwater and nothing else. The depths of the ocean, once so fecund now seems raped by man; fish catches diminish and the once huge shoals of sardine and tuna are no more. I hope we can stop this greedy mining of the sea before there is nothing left at all.