ATTRACTIONS OF DALMATIA—INTERESTING EXCURSION—ISLAND OF
LACHROMA—CLIMATE—A. A. PATON, ESQ., FORMERLY CONSUL-GENERAL
AT RAGUSA—AN ITALIAN DINNER—EPIDAURUS—THE CANAL OF
CATTARO—TERRITORY OF RAGUSA—TOWER OF PERASTO AND FORT OF SANTA
CROCE—STRANGELY BUILT CHURCH—A PALAZZO—SAN GIORGIO AND LA
MADONNA—PICTURE ATTRIBUTED TO ST. LUKE.
It has always been a source of much astonishment to me, seeing the
facility with which these parts can be reached from Trieste, that so few
of the ubiquitous English—indeed, I might say none of them,—ever visit
them, or any of the other many beautiful and interesting localities
which crowd the Eastern shores of the Adriatic. I really believe those
countries are not visited because they are in a certain sense unknown.
I trust, however, that some of my readers who may perchance be tired
of those hackneyed tours which, year after year, are undertaken by the
travelling multitudes, will try a venture some day in Dalmatia.
Starting from Trieste in one of the many coasting steamers which trade
to Corfu, stopping at every place on the Eastern shores of the Adriatic
from Capo d'Istria downwards, and making excursions from each into the
interior, anyone fond of everything beautiful and picturesque, whether
in nature or in art, would have the most delightful trip imaginable;
and if getting out at Cattaro he will scale those wonderful mountains
which seem ever on the point of toppling over on that devoted city, and
penetrate into Montenegro, coming back to the Adriatic by the Lake of
Scutari (or Skodra as it _ought_ to be called) in Northern Albania, he
will have made an excursion in the heart of Europe, within seven days
from London, and in the short space of five weeks, which for beauty of
country, wildness of scenery, novelty of life, and magnificence of native
costumes cannot be equalled from Spain to the Caucasus, or from Norway
to the Lebanon!
Having made my adieux to Mr. Paton, our Consul at Ragusa, to whom as
well as to Persich Effendi, the Ottoman Consul, I was largely indebted
for much kind advice, as well as for a personal introduction to Mr.
Yonin, Russian Consul at Ragusa, who subsequently at Cattaro and at
Cettigne proved a kind friend and most valuable and charming companion,
I returned on board and was soon steering south again. We steamed quite
close inland, and had an excellent view of the ancient fortifications
of Ragusa and its old harbour, only frequented at present by the felucas
and trabaccoli which carry on the coasting trade of the country.
We also passed close to the island of Lachroma. The Russian Consul,
Mr. Yonin, told me it was for sale and would probably go cheap. I can't
conceive a spot on earth where a man tired of the bustle of life and the
feverish excitement and turmoil of cities could more delightfully spend
the remainder of his days. There is a fairly good house on the island,
which is itself beautifully wooded and laid-out. It is sufficiently
near to Ragusa to enable one to obtain everything one could require from
that city, it is right in the gangway of all the steamers going up and
down the Adriatic, within five days of London, and with such a number
of communications with the outer world that it would be seclusion only
as long as one wished it to be so.
As to the climate, none more beautiful could be desired—sufficiently
warm to grow figs, grapes, and oranges, yet daily tempered in Summer by
the delicious sea-breeze of the Adriatic, which prevents the heat from
ever being oppressive, while of Winter there is barely the name—the
thermometer seldom going down to frost.
The sea teems with fish of the most delicious kinds, some of which are
totally unknown among us; the dentale coronato, for instance, the true
sardine, and the rosy mullet, the woodcock of the sea, which here grows
to an immense size—while from the mainland one can always obtain at
wonderfully low prices abundance of small mountain mutton, poultry, and
game.
I never was in any place that took my fancy like Ragusa and Lachroma—so
lovely, so picturesque, so secluded, and yet so accessible!
Since my return to England I have heard with deep regret of the loss we
have sustained by the death of A. A. Paton, Esq., our Consul-General at
Ragusa. The country has to regret in him an able and industrious servant,
while literature has to mourn for one of its most gifted votaries, as
his works on Egypt, Servia, and the Adriatic will amply attest; but only
those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance can at all venture to
measure the loss which his death must be in his own family circle!
Now the bell rings, and Giovanni bustles up and down the deck, intimating,
"_che'l pranzo ze pronto_," so down we all plunged into the saloon,
where a good dinner, as usual, welcomed us.
As the coast is uninteresting, besides which I don't want to go on deck at
present, I may as well tell you of what our Italian dinner consisted. We
first had an excellent Julienne soup, with abundance of grated Parmesan
for such as appreciated it; next was served the "_fritto_," according
to old Italian custom, which always enumerates the following dishes,
to succeed each other in an orthodox dinner:—minestra, fritto, lesso,
umido, arrosto, dolce, frutta, and, when in season, slices of melon, or
fresh figs, served up immediately after the soup, to be eaten with thin
slices of raw ham or Bologna sausage. Figs being in season they were not
wanting, so conforming to the usage of the country I ate some with raw
Bologna sausage, and learnt fully to appreciate the strange compound,
which I afterwards always indulged in whenever I had a chance.
The _fritto_ was delicious (assuredly nowhere else can they fry as in
Italy); it consisted of zucchettine and fiori, _i.e._, young unexpanded
gourd flowers and very young gourds not bigger thin an egg, cut in thin
slices, dipped in the thinnest of batter and fried quite crisp and golden
brown, and served dry without a particle of grease. Then came a dish of
_gnocchi alla Milanese_, a superb dish, but difficult to explain; imagine
the ingredients of a colossal _vol-au-vent à la financière_, replete
with livers, cocks' combs, unborn eggs, &c., &c., surrounded by a bastion
of a peculiar preparation, made of maize-flour, and the whole bathed in
tomato sauce and sprinkled right over with grated Parmesan, "_proprio da
far riavere i morti_," as the _chef_ exclaimed to me after dinner, when,
handing him a cigar, I complimented him on his _gnocchi_. Then came the
_arrosto_ which consisted of veal and fowls, and after that a splendid
_piatto dolce_ of stewed peaches in an artistic cage of caramel sugar,
ornamented with strange devices of most delicious marzapane.
Having slowly worked our way through this sumptuous repast, we went on
deck, where coffee was served with its usual accompaniment of Maraschino,
both sweetened and unsweetened, together with the inevitable smoke, which
contrary to reason, as one would think, is even more comforting in hot
countries like the Levant, than it is in cold damp regions like Holland.
I have a dim recollection of the captain tapping me on the shoulder
and telling me something about Ragusa Vecchia and Epidaurus as we were
steaming down the coast; but I was in too dreamy a state to pay much
attention to him at the time, and as I knew the coast was uninteresting,
I told him to call me as soon as we should come in sight of the Bocche
and Castelnuovo, and dozed away again.
I afterwards learnt that this Epidaurus, about which I was rather fretting
for having refused to stir from my siesta to look at it, was really not
worth seeing, though an ancient city, having been founded by a Greek
colony somewhere about 700 years B.C., more or less; but all its
antiquities had been removed long ago.
It was between three and four in the afternoon when I awoke of my own
accord, thus anticipating the captain, who was just coming to tell me that
we were about entering the canal of Cattaro, as it is called, but which
to our ear is far better described by the name of Fjord of Cattaro. It
is to all intents and purposes a Fjord, being an arm of the sea running
up for eighteen miles into land, between high precipitous cliffs; and
if there is not a glacier at the end of it, but only a quaint Dalmatian
town with the most picturesque fort and fortifications in the world, it
does not alter the character of the inlet.
The entrance to this Fjord, called "le Bocche di Cattaro," is guarded
on the right by the Fort of Castelnuovo, and on the left is bounded by
a narrow strip of Turkish territory, a portion of Herzegovina, which
here comes down to the Adriatic, separating the Circolo of Ragusa from
that of Cattaro. By some strange political arrangement, or oversight
more probably, another narrow strip of Turkish territory comes down to
the Adriatic on the north of Ragusa, completely isolating that ancient
Republic which finds itself thus entirely surrounded by Ottoman territory
on three sides, while on the fourth it is bounded by the Adriatic.
The country about the entrance of the Bocche di Cattaro is fine,
well wooded and planted with olive trees, through which can be seen
numerous habitations, while many of the rugged heights are crowned with
semi-fortified churches, which served as places of refuge to the women
and children in troublous times.
Proceeding onwards, the scene varies and the trees lessen in numbers,
though the landscape loses nothing of its beauty, as by the constant
windings of the Fjord the changes are continuous and rapid, and the
many villages built on the edge of the water, and sharply reflected
in it, add one more charm to the picture. At one point the Fjord is
barely half a mile across, when suddenly it expands into a lake of many
miles in circumference, where all the navies of the world could lie in
safety. But now the scene changes again and the Fjord becomes a narrow
tortuous channel, bounded on either side by naked rocky cliffs. Like
the rest of the coast of Dalmatia it is, however, very beautiful. About
half way between Castelnuovo and Cattaro, the Fjord expands and divides
right and left forming two bays, that of Risano to the left, and that
of Cattaro to the right; while in front rise the almost perpendicular
crags of Montenegro, at the foot of which, with barely room to build
on, so near does the mountain come to the edge of the water, stands the
town of Perasto with the ancient fort of Santa Croce just above it.
This place must have been of considerable importance within late years,
still I never saw such a picture of poverty and desolation. The houses
are not in ruins, but look dilapidated; the windows are broken in, the
jalousies hanging by one hinge and in pieces, while in many places the
roofs are stripped of their tiles. The position of Perasto cannot be
surpassed; built on a promontory facing the west, it has the lake-like
expansion of the Gulf of Cattaro in front and does not consequently
labour under the disadvantage Cattaro suffers from, by having a chain of
mountains in front of it to the westward, which deprive it of the sun in
Winter before two o'clock in the afternoon. The style of the houses in
Perasto shows that not long ago it could boast of an opulent population,
which is further exemplified by the fortress built at the expense of
the town—by its lofty steeple and by its churches. One in particular
caught my eye from the steamer, _it had no façade_, not that it had
fallen into ruin, neither had it been shaken down by an earthquake, but
was built so; open to the weather with a half cupola something like one
of those little roadside shrines dedicated to the Virgin which we meet
with constantly in Italy and other Catholic countries, only on a very
much larger scale.
I felt quite interested in Perasto, it looked so picturesque, so noble,
so poor! One house especially struck my fancy, but the word house does
not convey its appearance, it was what an Italian would call a palazzo.
The entrance was evidently from a back street, while the side which faced
the water consisted of a _loggia_ of many pilasters and arches, into
which opened the rooms of the ground floor, while above it were tiers
of large and handsome windows. In front of the _loggia_ was a paved
terrace, from which a series of steps, the whole length of the house,
led down to the water. It was uninhabited and in fact going rapidly to
ruin! I fancied to myself what a little paradise one could make of it;
I saw in my mind's eye a row of orange trees growing on that terrace,
a yacht moored close into those steps, and life and bustle in those
chambers where all was now silence and decay. What can have brought
such desolation on Perasto? I asked several people but I could get no
satisfactory answer! some blamed Austria, some _il commercio_; I suppose
I could have bought the fee simple of that house in Perasto for a £10
note.
In front of Perasto are two small islands—San Giorgio and La Madonna. In
the church of La Madonna is to be seen an ancient picture of the Virgin,
attributed as usual to the artistic efforts of the Evangelist Luke, who
evidently, from what I have seen of his works of art in different places,
was not possessed of much talent in that line. Tradition states that
the picture was transported in 1452, by an unknown hand, from Negropont
to this rock; and being seen amidst lighted candles by some fishermen,
it was removed to the church of Perasto. The next night it returned to
the island; and the same action having been repeated three times, it was
presumed that the picture preferred remaining there; thus they built a
church for it, which no doubt turned out a profitable speculation.