Ireland: A whirlwind few days with birds, rocks, and even some sunshine.

Posted on 07/19/2026 by Lesli W.

When you’re a wildlife photographer with a bent towards waterbirds and megafauna and you’re in a relationship with a geologist with a penchant for, well, rocks, your holiday plans tend to be a sort of negotiation; sometimes even something of a continental divide (there’s a rift pun in there, I know it!). So when G semi-surprised me with a trip to Ireland for a long weekend to see puffins (and rocks), I was thrilled.

The other surprise was that it doesn’t get dark in Ireland (especially Northern Ireland) until close to 11pm. We effectively had 3 or 4 extra hours each day. This felt like a bonus: exactly what’s needed when you have next to zero time to research before getting on a plane.
🗺️Here’s a link to the map I made of the trip.

Arrival and County Antrim.

Day 1 was a nice drive from the airport in Dublin through a couple of the designated Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty along the way. They did not disappoint. The coast is a magnificent contrast in extremes: sheer volcanic cliffs, stunningly green greens. The inland areas we passed through were vibrant and green, though it felt something like a patchwork quilt with the bulk of the trees stripped away to make room for the sheep.

We stayed 2 nights in Bushmills (whence the whiskey), which we were to learn is something of a gateway to the gateway to the Antrim coast. Also of note is that the Antrim coast is both seaside getaway and the bible belt of Northern Ireland, which makes Friday night make more sense.

Friday night: We arrived starving, so went into the quaint town of Bushmills to walk around, get our bearings, and find some dinner. There’s an old waterwheel, a walkway along the River Bush, which is stocked with salmon for the local fishermen (the river, not the walkway), and some really nice stone architecture. Overall, a charming ambiance to a solid-feeling old mill town. Dare I say stoney? As we were walking down the street, we ran into a triad of chatty teenagers, who foisted upon us chocolate chip cookies and an invitation to a BBQ and barn dance that evening.

After a dinner of the most gigantic fish and chips I’ve ever seen, we wobbled back out into town and towards the car – which just happened to be next to the Orange Hall where the barn dance was happening. And we just happened to run into two of the girls from earlier in the parking lot, who ushered us into the hall. I had a wave of déjà vu back to camp socials until the sea of people parted and a young, evangelical-type stood in the middle of the room and did a 15-minute talk on Jesus, excuses, reasons, and choices just as we were formulating our excuses (erm, reasons) to leave. I’m probably going to orange hell.

Afterwards, I learned of County Antrim’s deep Ulster-Scots/Presbyterian roots, and the Googles gave more info on the Orange Order as the civic/cultural/religious center of the region. So as we travelled through the area, it all came together and I lost count of the Orange Halls we passed along the way.

A boat…or three

The best place to see puffins on this part of the map is an island called Rathlin. Between the weather (rainy and windy) and the seas (choppy), we opted to walk around Ballycastle on Saturday morning, then make the best of a puffin boat tour in the afternoon.

Puffins, check. Spectacular shoreline and cliffs, double-check. But the sea was rough enough that trying to take action shots of small football-shaped flying things moving at 50mph was a challenge. I saved most of the photo shoot for the next day.

What the boat tour lacked in puffinocity, the cliffs and shoreline made up in rockdaciousness (a totally genuine term from a genuine Geologist. Probably). We went from Ballycastle (where the boat was), past castles and farms, to Giants Causeway, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and local legend (giants, bravado, babies, rocks, second thoughts…) where a spate of basalt columns form an amazing, stepped section that juts out into the sea. More walkway than jetty, it’s where the giant of geomythology built his causeway and hoodwinked a would-be invading giant that he was giant-er and sent the invader running home. Or something like that. In a geological sense, the basalt columns were formed by volcanic eruptions over the (softer) terrain, and subsequent cooling and fracturing of the rock. I’m sure I’ve butchered some part of that explanation, so will leave it to the geologist to fill in the cracks, as it were.

These formations, and the cliffs that soared hundreds of feet above where we stood, can really make you feel miniscule in the grand scheme of things; giants, legends, or otherwise.

We made our way to Portrush, a very odd holiday town (complete with Ferris wheel and a 100-year-old indoor amusement park!), for some dinner at a pub, then a side-quest to find the Dark Hedges. 250 years ago, a family planted hundreds of beech trees lining a long stretch of road. Over time, the branches intertwined to create a surreal arboreal tunnel flanking what’s now farmland. Game of Thrones lore turned this place into Kingsroad, and turned a quiet side street into an international tourist destination. That said, arriving at dusk (per recommendation) this time of year meant we arrived at 10:30 at night. We had the place to ourselves.

The next day we went back to Portrush and boarded a chartered RIB [Causeway Boats and skipper Richard: Highly recommend!] for a 3-hour tour that would take us water side around the Skerry Islands, along the Giant’s Causeway (very cool), and past Dunluce Castle, its frame still standing over 500 years later! All this on the way back out to Rathlin Island for a 2^nd shot at better shots. It being a calmer day and a smaller boat, the puffining was markedly better.

Richard left us on Rathlin for the afternoon. The plan was to bus/hike/bike out to the bird sanctuary part of the island, shoot some puffins on land, and head back to catch the ferry back to Ballycastle. Of course the gods of poor planning intervened, so not only did we not have enough time to get to the bird place and back before the ferry, but it began to rain in earnest. So fish and chips and Guinness and a wander ‘round the little town would suffice for this trip.

After a bus ride from Ballycastle to Portrush (and again past some of the landmarks we had just seen from the water), we continued our journey south towards Galway, again grateful for the late sunsets because we were cramming a day and a half’s worth of adventuring into a normal afternoon.

The rocky place.

The next morning, we packed up the car and headed into The Burren, a geological wonder and UNESCO Global Geopark. Time didn’t permit a day hike, so we drove through the park, stopping at different sites to wander and learn. We stopped at the Poulnabrone Dolmen, a prehistoric tomb, dating back between 3800 and 3200BC (a conundrum to the orange people, I’m certain). Strewn across the countryside were ringforts, family compounds from medieval times, so G and I both got our rock fix: I got castles and ruins while G nerded-out in karst and limestone. The Burren literally means “the rocky place.”

We visited the village of Kilfenora and its very cool cathedral, and the Caherconnell Stone Fort for a walking tour through medieval history and a sheepdog herding demo.

The Cliffs of Moher was our last stop in The Burren, with one final view of nesting puffins, before heading into Dublin for our last night.

That classic Irish pub.

Because we were packing our days and on the move in the evenings, we hadn’t really experienced a pub that didn’t feel like we were being plopped inside everyone else’s beach town summer holiday. So when we wandered into the local pub, late and starving, and encountered an old-timer called Jack (and his pub-mates) drinking Beamish (Guinness’ boggier, earthier cousin), and Jack pointed us in the direction of a shop where we could get snacks and of course bring them back to the pub while we all shared laughs and stories until closing time, it really felt like the Irish magic was a crowning moment in our way-too-short trip.

So thank you, Orange teenagers, and the sweet lady at the B&B whose name I forgot, and Richard the sea captain, and Jack and Kevin and the other chatty guy at Ryan’s pub in Beggar’s Bush, for ushering in the sunshine and showing us your real Irish heart.

We’ll be back.

A long weekend in the Maritimes

Posted on 07/17/2024 by Lesli W.

Last 4th of July weekend, I went up to Vermont to ride the Cross-Vermont Trail, a 100-mile stretch of linked trails traversing the middle of the state. So, when looking at the calendar and the way the holiday fell in the week, it made sense to do another bike trip this year.

Work schedules have been madness, and so a few days prior to the blocked time off, there was no real plan… except to go North. Canada. We decided to wing it: spend a couple of days in Prince Edward Island (mussels, lighthouses, no idea what else) and then a couple days in Nova Scotia (ditto: no idea what to expect, except that I’d been there about 30 years ago and I remember the crazy tides in the Bay of Fundy). A couple of years ago I went up to Maine over 4^th of July to see puffins… so I put in an order for sea parrots as well. You know, just in case.

With a Plan partially-baked, we set off. 6am departure and half a gazillion hours later, we arrive at our destination: a very sweet historic guest house in Charlottetown. I’ll admit that my expectations were lowering by the block as we drove there through strip malls and industrial areas that could have literally been anywhere else. But patience prevailed and the box stores and faceless motels gave way to tree-lined streets and lovely brick architecture in the historic downtown area.

We were zonked and starving, but found an Irish pub (we’ll come back to the Irish in a bit) and ate very respectable mussels and pub food and listened to some very respectable live music before crashing entirely. I’ll gloss over the part where we got back to the guest house and the key didn’t fit and we had to call the guy and get a new key. It was late but hard to be annoyed because the rumors are true: Canadians are really nice. Even when they screw up and you’re completely shattered and it’s lightly raining and midnight and all you want to do is go to bed.

Enter, bikes.

Even though clouds threatened the next morning, we set out to do a 30-mile loop in the PEI National Park. It turned out to be a really nice ride on gravel roads and jetties through the Robinsons Island section, and on the road for the rest. Lighthouses, check. Thriving dunes and red sandstone cliffs and pink-tinged beaches: also, check! The rain held off and we explored the rest of the national park by car and foot. A flat-calm Atlantic Ocean washed the fragments of work worries out to sea.

That evening we set out to wander the cobbled Charlottetown streets in search of dinner. An aside: I’ve recently adopted a new dog who is so different from my old one in many ways. One thing is that while walking, he will stop dead in his tracks to dramatically sniff the air in hopes of being magnetically guided towards wafting scents of backyard BBQ. I share this because, as we navigated down Great George Street looking for dinner, we walked past a waft of something good. So good, in fact, that as we arrived at the restaurant we were heading to, we stopped dead in our tracks, sniffed the air and were magnetically guided away from that and towards the spices emanating from Punjabi Bites, a local Indian joint. I have eaten a LOT of Indian food here and abroad (including in India), and so when I told the waitress at the end of the meal that it would be worth coming back to PEI just for their food I was not at all kidding. It was really some of the best Indian food I’ve ever had.

Bridge (droichead), not ferry.

The finger-like islands of the Canadian Maritime provinces are connected by a series of bridges and ferries. We decided to take the scenic route and drive across from PEI to Nova Scotia. There are plenty of French influences up here, but what I didn’t know or expect was the Scottish and Irish heritage still lingering as a result of descendants of refugees from the Irish Potato Famine. So as we made our way towards Cape Breton Island, at the top of the province, it was odd to see the road signs begin to change from French to (of all things) Gaelic subtitles. In addition to the First Nation place names and signage that abounds in the region, Gaelic is also widely spoken in these parts.

The Puffins, who thankfully don’t really care which dialect you speak as long as there is enough herring available, played not a small role in the destination choice (grateful for the Internet: a puffin boat trip magically booked from the car!). That and the Cabot Trail. Which I had no idea even existed just a few days earlier.

We rolled into the town of Baddeck (pronounced ‘buh-deck’) in time to drop off stuff at the inn, wander briefly, then get back into the car to traverse the bridges and windy roads flanking Big Bras d’Or, the ginormous lake or inland sea that feels like part Maine, part Vermont; the woods and sea and hills playing alternate roles in rolling out their finest scenery for all to share.

On-board the little birdwatching boat from Bird Island Boat Tours, Captain Ian put on a vaudeville-esque show while the puffins, eagles and other seabirds darted around us. It was nice to be out on the water, taking photos of these cartoonish cuties. I felt silly and light and very, very grateful to be right there as I was furiously chasing birds through my viewfinder.

The skies opened up in the morning, dashing any thoughts of a nice bike ride. Instead, we headed up the Cabot Trail, so named for the Italian explorer Giovanni Caboto (John Cabot), who sailed the ocean blue in 1497 and (re)discovered Newfoundland and Cape Breton Island. He may or may not have been friends with or inspired by a certain other Genoese sailor who claims to have discovered America a little farther south 5 years earlier. And even more unclear is whether this Cabot has familial ties to the Boston Brahmin Cabots for whom the main street in my town is named.

The Cabot Trail is a stunning roadway that circumnavigates the uppermost portion of Cape Breton Island, wending its way along the coast and around the densely wooded forest in the middle, home (apparently) to moose-a-plenty and Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The (apparent) moose did not appear, so I’ll have my moose-radar tuned on high next month when I’m up in Northern Maine. Stay tuned.

That first day on the Cabot Trail we began on the East side and went counter-clockwise, ducking in to hike a few of the little loops along the road, including the Franey loop (its stunning views might have been even more-so with clearer skies), a stop at a genuine general store for gas (replete with a 1950s-era pump attached to a large tank!), and a glimpse of the Lone Shieling, a replica of a Scottish shepherd’s hut along a path that also hosts a stand of 350-year-old sugar maples. Rain or non, the landscape was magnificent.

When in, erm, Ireland (?), you go to a local pub to hear local music. Or something. So there is a section along the coast called Chéticamp, which is Acadian, Mi’kmaq, and a little Scottish. It’s a peculiar little enclave that looks like part fishing village and part sea-level summer camp. There are about 6 restaurants, a couple ice cream shops, and a string of seaside motels catering to summertime fun. It was about 8:30 and as the sleepy village was about to shut down, we grabbed a table at the local Irish-ish bar and stayed for the band. Fish and chips: fab; Band: well, meh!

The rain persisted, so our last day was spent doing The Cabot Trail the other way around: a surreal walk on the foggy, spooky Skyline Trail, fog-dodging along the road as we drove along the coast, and a visit to a quaint whale interpretive center in Pleasant Bay, plus kilometres upon kilometres of ridiculous views as the fog came and went. The Cabot Trail is nearly 300 kilometres long, each twist and turn of the road holds something to discover.

Back in Baddeck, the last plan before the long slog home in the morning was to attend a local cèilidh (pronounced Kaylee), a traditional Gaelic musical gathering. What wholesome fun it was to spend a couple of hours after a really nice local seafood dinner listening to amazing local musicians play guitar and fiddle, tell stories, and share tea and biscuits with the audience.

Maybe next trip we’ll order a better forecast, but all in all, I think we crammed as much as possible into these few days up north. I’m sure there are moose up there… somewhere!

Print shop coupon alert!

I have puffin prints available and will soon have more cards up on my photography shop!

Use code TGM15-1 for 15% off your purchase of puffin prints and more.

Rhymes with Puffin: An impromptu photographic journey into tourist-land.

Posted on 07/08/2022 by Lesli W.

Note to self: don’t go to Mid-coast Maine during 4^th of July week unless armed with a bucket of money, a mask, a self-driving car and a high tolerance for touristic behaviour. If you do, take it all in stride in service to the Quest.

The Quest: I’ve always been a dabbler in myth; a sort-of romantic about knights and castles and stones and the sea…and every Quest needs a grail of some sort. So the Holy Grail of this expedition was the Atlantic Puffin. A bowling pin of an endangered waterbird that spends its time (precariously) in the cooler seas. Puffins fly back, in the summer months, to the islands from which they fledged to socialize and mate and breed new pufflings (YES, that’s what they are called!). I had never seen a puffin (or a puffling) in the (feathery) flesh, and the days I took off this week were well-earned, so I took advantage of the holiday and the season, consulted the birding bibles, and loosely stitched together a plan.

I’ve been a hermit these past few months, with work eating up my waking hours, and stress about the current climate consuming the remaining twilight before crashing after such long days… Then came the COVID. And while my case was relatively mild (it only kicked my butt for a week, but even 2 weeks recovered I’m still feeling lethargic!), I can’t imagine what it would or could have been without my being vaccinated. I’m grateful for modern medicine. Shameless plug: get vaccinated already please!

Medieval knights and castles or non, I set out to Mid-Coast Maine to see if I could at least find some puffins.

Maine. First stop on the micro-adventure was a visit with a dear friend I hadn’t seen in years. When miles and life and a pandemic all conspire to get in the way of an otherwise great friendship, it’s nice to know that there are certain humans on this planet with whom you can just pick up again as if all the intervening circumstance didn’t matter. It was one of the most pleasant afternoons I’d had in ages.💖

By the time I arrived at the little hotel I’d booked, I realised my plan to ride my bike along the seacoast the next day wasn’t in the cards. The windy, narrow, hilly roads were made only slightly more treacherous by the smattering of tourists driving too haphazardly, alternately too fast and too erratically, for me to feel safe on my bike on these streets. Time to consider a Plan B. Plan C, actually, since the following morning’s weather looked unfavorable, and I had already moved the puffin expedition out a day.

But first, the fireworks. I’d be remiss if I didn’t say it doesn’t quite feel like the year to be celebrating this country’s independence. But as a tourist in a sea of red (white and blue), it felt like there were two options: watch the spectacle or go to bed. It was 4^th of July after all, and the fireworks would go on regardless of whether I felt like celebrating. I used it as an opportunity to play with light.

The next morning’s Plan turned out to be quite lovely actually: I went down to Ocean Point, apparently the east-most point in these already quite eastern parts, and I recharged amongst the rocks as I gazed out at the Ram Island lighthouse and watched boats (and a small pod of porpoises) navigate the harbour. The hazy summer air commingling with the ocean breeze and its seaweed-y bouquet helped clear out some of the chatter in my brain as I meditated to the sounds of the waves on the rocks and the ospreys calling from the little island just offshore.

What this Quest lacked in knights and castles was recompensated in seabirds and rocky outcroppings. Fingers crossed that the Holy Grail of Puffinage would come through.

It was something of a lazy day after the rock-hopping. I napped during the rain showers in the afternoon. I started reading a new novel. I walked amongst the tourists in town and indulged: saltwater taffy and a lobster roll (when in Rome…); and readied myself for the puffin adventure the next morn!

Protecting puffins…

An aside about why we need to protect the puffins and terns and other arctic waterbirds in this part of the world (they are still prolific, apparently, in Iceland, Newfoundland and the UK, and they are even a delicacy in Iceland. Tastes like chicken?). It turns out that fashionistas in the late 1800s needed feathers for hats. In fact, the Victorian-era fancy ladies wore WHOLE STUFFED BIRDS (I sh*t you not!) on their hats, fast-forwarding the decline of these species. By the early 1900s, the entire colony of puffins and terns were all but wiped out in New England. Thanks to some of the fancy ladies, Audubon was started as a grass roots effort, and the anti-bird-hat contingent was born, aka, what the crap were we thinking?

As gulls began to repopulate the offshore islands, it was a concerted effort to bring back the terns and puffins to the area, success being only as recent as the 1970s and 80s. Read more about Audubon’s Project Puffin here.

Waiting in line to board the boat, I was hoping for less Disney and more nature, so I channelled my intention on a preponderance of Puffins rather than the annoying boatmates. The fancy ladies from Florida, arguing with the boat lady about why their short shorts and tank tops would be just fine on the open ocean and why she was crazy to suggest they bring along sweatshirts. The guy in the Yankees shirt and thick Long Island accent challenging anyone who would listen about baseball (apparently a Yankees/Red Sox series was in progress). The couple with the Giant Barking Poodle (On an Audubon boat? Really?) I wended my way to the bow: fewer seats, I thought. Fewer annoyances.

I grew up around boats and the sea and I’ve been on quite a few whale watches, so I had come prepared: sweatshirt and windbreaker, towels, binoculars, and, of course, cameras. It was a relatively calm and warm enough morning as we left the harbour. I was cautiously optimistic, but certainly aware that there was a chance we wouldn’t see any puffins. But it felt like a promising day, and I even caught a glimpse of a minke or pilot whale as we got farther into the sea on our way out to the destination.

The fortress, if you will, protecting the Holy Grail: Eastern Egg Rock. This little island sits about 6 miles east of Pemaquid Point and is home to roughly 150 nesting pairs of puffins, as well as a host of other seabirds like terns and gulls. It was about an hour from our departure point in Boothbay Harbor. The “Hilton” on the island is a research station, where teams of hardy scientists spend the summer studying the puffins and their offspring.

So as we approach, our tour guide (Audubon Lady) starts spotting birds: Puffin, 3 o’clock. Tern, 9 o’clock. Puffins flying, 11 o’clock. Puffins diving, 10 o’clock. And so on… Much to my delight, it was quite the puffin-palooza out there. A plethora of puffins. A preponderance even. And like that we spent roughly 30 minutes circling the little island, getting a glimpse of terns (arctic and otherwise), gulls (laughing and not so much), and of course our fill of the enchanting little stars of the day.

In our glee, what we passengers conveniently overlooked was the shift in the wind and the less-than-swell swells that we now had to motor back through to reach the dock. So, just as the captain announced, “the winds have shifted slightly and you may experience some light spray…” we did, and spent the next 40 minutes battening down hatches and bracing for the swells and spray (read: deluges), soaking deck and passengers indiscriminately. The sweatshirt and windbreaker came in very handy. The towels, not so much.

Cameras safely stowed inside, I remembered what my dad taught me about rough seas: breathe fresh air, watch the horizon, and for fucks sake hang onto something! I was wet enough that the saltwater shower didn’t matter by a certain point, so I enjoyed the sunshine, counseled a very green-looking teenager to get as much fresh air into her lungs as possible, and enjoyed the ride. It wasn’t that bumpy after all.

Being on the ocean always brings back warm memories, and this one, paired with the prolific puffin party, did not disappoint. The seas calmed as we were embraced by the harbor, and the warm sun dried salt crystals over my legs and face.

I’d drive home from this adventure salty but satiated; pleasantly puffinated if you will.

Balkan Doživljaj Part IV: fog, breathtaking nature, and the road to hell. Sort-of.

Posted on 11/04/2019 by Lesli W.

Read more about our road trip: Part I: Arrival | Part II: Into the Mountains | Part III: Fleeing the Russians

As we’d come to discover in this part of the world, the fog nestles in the canyons, blanketing the landscape in a dreamy cotton morning, sun warming the day and revealing the treasures that lay beneath. And it’s no exception when we arrive at the bridge spanning the Tara Canyon.

The story goes that the Đurđevića Tara Bridge was put into service just before the Italian army invaded at the beginning of WWII. Built between 1937-1940, it was quite the engineering achievement, earning the title of largest concrete arch vehicular bridge in Europe. Rather than help the enemy reach deeper into Montenegro, one of the project’s engineers sacrificed the bridge by blowing up its main arch and hindering the advance. When this man was ultimately captured, he was executed on the very same bridge he helped erect.

Sad history (and ziplines) aside, the bridge is gorgeous. As the fog swirls to reveal the canyon below, we are even more excited for the rafting trip we’ve just booked. So the (birth)day’s adventures are set: rafting in the morning, hiking Durmitor National Park (Part I) in the afternoon.

It’s rather off-season for the rapids as well, but we enjoy a spectacular view of the Tara Canyon from the river, C takes a dip in the frigid waters (I’m further convinced that Swedes do not feel cold), and we arrive back at our starting point with smiles on our faces and hopes to see the river again at its peak.

It’s late in the day to start a real hike, so we lunch in town, find a reasonable-sounding guesthouse for the evening, and take a nice afternoon stroll around Durmitor’s lake, where Chris is adopted by a local dog and we watch the sun fade over the water, mountains reflecting their tranquil mood in its mirror.

Birthday: pas mal, as they say. Also bonus: this night’s guesthouse ranks many stars above our previous evening’s experience. We’re greeted by a vivacious (!!!) host who not only gives us answers to every question we had but also answers to those we didn’t even know we’d wanted to ask. Suffice to say, we’ll be fully-armed to hike tomorrow, as it’s our last day and a last madcap dash through Montenegro, into Bosnia and back into Croatia to get C to his flight on time.

It’s only at dinner that we realise that each of us had the same thought whilst in the shower: our very friendly host lives with his mother in a little house in a little village and nobody knows where we are. But we meet mom in the morning (she prepares the strange and massive hodge-podge brekkie before we set off), and we’re convinced that they are just Montenegro’s sweetest mother-and-son team.

Erm, one hopes…

The next day: more cool nature, crazy roads, and why I’m going to hell.

Our host sends us off to the other side of Durmitor National Park, pointing us towards a hike he suggests will take approx. 5 hrs round-trip. We guestimate it’s a 4-hour drive from here to Dubrovnik, and we want to make the most of our last day. So we clip the hike a little (I think C feels a little guilty for giving me his cold and then sending me up and down mountains with a head feeling like a wax factory), then wend our way through the moon-like hills of this part of the park, stopping occasionally to gape at nature as it unfolds (several-fold) around us. NB: I could spend days here.

silly Google Maps direction aside, join us as we wind our way through Durmitor

We decide we’ve got time for lunch at another (ok, the only) roadside place, and also time to do a quick pass by the Ostrog Monastery, a marble wonder carved into (or superimposed on) the side of a mountain in 1665. Again we climb a white-knuckling switchback road towards this next really weird experience.

First, the pilgrims. People from all over the world come to this monastery to be blessed. They walk the umpteen bajillion steps, barefoot, to pay homage to the saint, who lays wrapped in a shroud in a cave in the monastery. When you get to the upper monastery (there are two), you are met with a sprawl of humanity, the pilgrims (literally hundreds) sleep on mats outside the monastery (to what end, I’m not clear), and queue to take their turn kissing (and, presumably, being blessed by) the shrouded saint. It’s at this point we decide to enter the monastery to see its intricate mosaics. We apparently get in the wrong queue because as I duck into the cave*, I realise I’m in line to view the saint. Who is flanked by a priest. Who is holding a wooden cross at my face so I can kiss it. And so I panic, wave it away, shake my head, bow a little and say no, thank you. To which he answers, aghast, shocked, maybe pissed off, Vere. Arrr. You. Frrum? in a rolling-rrrr voice that sounds more Count Dracula than priestly. (inside my head is shouting: What. Is Happening???) In my humblest voice, I say, The US. The priest nods. I leave (again, cursing my blue passport and all that it represents). Chris has a hearty laugh. I’m going to hell.

We heathens continue up to the top of the monastery, and into the other cave to view the frescoes, well-preserved in the cave’s cool atmosphere. There are thankfully no more run-ins with priests. All I can wonder is what kind of curse I’ve been dealt, and cross fingers, touch the Ganesha that rests around my neck, and hope the rest of the trip is incident-free.

(Note: blue sunbrellas were not part of the original design)

This bit of adventure takes a tad longer than expected: the book does not account for the harrowing road or the local traffic jam (a herd of sheep). But each little experience adds some fiber to the story, and we still have time to drive through Bosnia (country #3!) en route to the airport. The views are not bad as we go…

Tea in Bosnia, check! Passports stamped, check! Airport, check!

And, like that, the week’s adventure comes to an end. C is en route home and I’m on a bus back into Dubrovnik, and to the port from which I’ll take a ferry up to Split tomorrow and continue my wandering through Dalmatia. Just in time: there are 2 cruise ships in port when I arrive.

Some final observations: Montenegro is a tiny country with a history as meandering and unforgiving as its mountain roads. But it’s also beautiful and packed with terrain I never expected, its landscape reads as if nature tried to use everything in its palate to paint this little part of the world: rocky coastlines and breathtaking canyons and daunting mountains and rolling hills… Wild and rustic and rough around the edges, it’s a little place with a giant heart. In contrast to the attitudes we encountered in Croatia, the locals we met were warm and proud and content. Even in the bustling silliness of Budva, we were warmly received by our hostess.

It felt as though Croatia had somewhat sold out to the cruise ship industry, trading tourist € for a slice of their own heritage. And while Montenegro’s reputation as organized crime central is not a secret, one hopes that the tourism blight that has tainted Dubrovnik’s charm will take its time spreading beyond Montenegro’s coast, sparing the inland the tour buses and selfie-crazed throngs.

One can only hope. And look forward to revisiting the mountains, hiking the canyons, and maybe having some of that kačamak or cicvara again.

*Ostrog: how they built this is unknown. For centuries, monks and others have used these caves to hide out and hang out doing their meditative retreats (or, erm, whatever else one does when hiding in a cave in a supremely remote location). And so, the enormous marble façade of the monastery is actually built in front of the caves, creating a surreal structure when viewed from below.

Read more about our road trip: Part I: Arrival | Part II: Into the Mountains | Part III: Fleeing the Russians

The Balkan Doživljaj Part II: Up (and up. and up.) into the Mountains of Montenegro

Posted on 10/31/2019 by Lesli W.

[Read Part I here!]

Having escaped the throngs, we catch a local bus to take us to the main bus terminal to catch a fancier bus to take us to the airport to get the rental car we’ve hired to get us from points A to Z (and several others, like B, K, S, L, O and D*), and back to again in a week… it’s like a series of semi-strategic moves as we shuttle ourselves to the next square in the game of What’s Next!?

Car, check! Green card that clears us to move freely in and out of the surrounding borders, check! Snacks, check! And they’re off!

A colleague of mine whose family is from this area had told me that crossing the border into Montenegro is like going back in time 10-15 years. As we wend our way towards Kotor, over the border and through the (hills, villages and gorgeous seaside vistas), I’m reminded of his words as we pass through villages that look as if they’ve been bodged-together from scraps of Soviet-era block housing, brick, medieval limestone, corrugated metal and palm fronds (in not necessarily that order or quantity). Interspersed in the weird architecture are ancient palazzos, churches and other structures, each (IMHO) warranting its own page in Lonely Planet. Kotor is nestled in a rocky, fjord-like bay**; a limestone mountain backdrop springing majestically from the sea. The photos do not even do it justice.

Never mind the cruise ships… Kotor is still much more likeable than Dubrovnik

And it’s bustling. Kotor has become both a cruise ship destination and something of a smaller, sweeter Dubrovnik to the south. Because we’ve raced a cruise ship here (and there’s another already in port) we’ve decided to wander around the old town, climb up to the top of the fortress, and find lodging on the outskirts of town to avoid the bustle (and the congestion) in the morning.

The old town is a pleasant surprise: its narrow, labyrinthine streets, now a familiar folly from a few days in Dubrovnik, are softer and warmer and much more inviting than those to the north. Venetian lions flank every gate, many a corner and a few fountains dotted throughout the town. So we wander the alleys, marvel at the cats of Kotor (there are hundreds, perhaps thousands here – there is even a Cats of Kotor museum down one of these narrow streets) and bask in the Mediterranean sunshine.

Kotor’s fortress was built into the near-vertical limestone foothills of Mt. Lovćen (which we are to hike tomorrow), and it, too, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site (actually, two: it’s part of the Natural and Cultuo-Historic Region of Kotor as well as the Venetian Works of Defence between the 16^th and 17^th Centuries). The town itself dates back to Ancient Roman times (Montenegro was part of Dalmatia too), and while the original fortress on the hill was built by the Illyrians c. the 5^th Century, the fortress of Sveti Ivan (the one that stands there now), was built some 1000 years later. To get to the top, you first have to navigate to a back corner of the old city, find the guy at the entry gate and pay a fee to enter the city walls (NB: the book said 3€, we paid 8€; we couldn’t determine whether the fee had gone up or the toll-taker was making a side-living fleecing tourists). From there, you begin the climb. To the top, it’s roughly 1200 metres, or approx. 1350 steps.

Did I mention that it’s quite steep?

These city walls are higher than Dubrovnik’s, and perhaps this has kept out the nouveau-posh cafés and trinket shops besmirching its character. But along the way, there are a couple of old men selling water from a bucket and snacks from a blanket laid out on the old stones. Here, it just fits. We’ve come prepared (with water and trail food, but perhaps not expecting the day’s heat: it’s 25 and there’s not a cloud in the sky!), so we slog upwards past the Church of Our Lady of Remedy, noted for reportedly curing plague victims in the 1500s (also noted as the cover shot on Lonely Planet: Montenegro). The trail then continues up to the top, where, from his fortress, the spirit of Sveti Ivan watches over a now-peaceful Kotor.

If my Photoshop skills were better, I’d use them to blot out the two cruise ship-sized eyesores from an otherwise gorgeous view.

An aside about our itinerary: We had a guide book, some websites, and a rough plan of seeing as much of Montenegro (and possibly Albania) as the week permitted. No rules, no reservations, and fingers crossed for access to Wi-Fi so we could secure a place to crash for the night.

The day: simply wonderful, and we had yet to make it to our (first of many) last-minute choice of lodging, a B&B in a restored 16^th Century Venetian Palazzo in the (pick one or more adjectives: adorable, charming, romantic, lovely) exquisite seaside town of Perast. We had this tiny town virtually to ourselves, as the cruise ship folk don’t make it here and the regular tourists have mostly gone for the season. The architecture alone in this little gem is worth a night or two. Did I mention that there were loop-holes in the walls of the room?! (I had to look that term up: these are the slits in castle or fortress walls from which guards can shoot arrows). Ours had, of course, been restored as windows (not needed anymore, as the conquering armies are now safely tucked away in their cell-like berths aboard their floating cities).

The views from our B&B were divine, and in our short stay we could feel the different moods of this enthralling village: the nostalgic undertones of the Venetian stone buildings, old and new; the warmth of the sunset reflecting in a flat-calm bay; the whimsical fog dancing with the same at sunrise… this is a place that calls one back.

Morning came too quickly, as I wanted to revel in the understated luxury. I watched the fog play at the water’s surface as the sun warmed the air and morning dawned another perfect day in Montenegro. Today’s first adventure: a hair-raising, panoramic, thrill-ride up Kotor’s back road, a narrow, serpentine, one-lane (2-way) road that winds you up to Mt. Lovćen.

(sped up a tad for dramatic effect)

We arrive at the top unscathed and are rewarded with what Google calls “Best View of Kotor.” The rest of the views are not half bad either. For the effort, C wins all the adventure points for this drive! Had I been behind the wheel, I would have ended up pleading for mercy in a corner of one of the road’s 25 hairpin turns. And that was just the morning’s adventure (there’s also a precious resident stray mutt up here that, for some moments, I consider smuggling home with me).

As it turned out, by driving up the snaky road and following Google Maps into Lovćen National Park, we overshot the trailhead and ended up in a parking lot at the top of the mountain. So we did the hike in reverse, first visiting the mausoleum of Petar Petrovic Njegoš (Montenegro’s own philosopher prince. Ish.), the site situated atop Lovćen’s 2^nd highest peak, with its breathtaking views of the valley and surrounding mountains. The day was so clear, we could see into Bosnia. And, who knows…Montenegro is so small that perhaps we could even see into Albania. With these views, I guess they wanted to ensure Petar could look out over his kingdom in the afterlife as well.

Beginning with the hike down the 461 steps we had already hiked up, we found a rocky trail that led to dry, grassy fields, and came out on a local road in a mountain village that was quite obviously taking a deep breath after its busy summer season. So we had the outdoor restaurant virtually to ourselves, where we lunched in style on local cheeses and Montenegran salad. They present salad here in sort-of an “assemble-your-own” format, so each meal has been an interactive experience thus far. The local cheese, sir, is divine; the air, fresh; the travellers, sated. And the travellers push on, back towards the top, but not before missing a cue on the trail, ending up back at the park ranger’s station and having to walk along the road we rode in, then meeting back up with the trail a few kms ahead.

All in all, another stellar day. Montenegro is looking like a winner already.

Tomorrow’s adventure: Budva (the Russian Riviera of the Balkans) and into the National Parks of central Montenegro. Yay!

*Budva, Kotor, Skadar, Lovćen, Ostrog and Durmitor to name a few…

**while it looks like a fjord, Kotor (like Sydney Harbour and many more like Kotor up and down the European coastlines) is actually a ria, or a drowned river valley that remains open to the sea.

This Girl's Meanderings

Thoughts and photos from adventures far and near

Tag Archives: road trip

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