The view from Bella Vista--New scenery--Promiscuous shooting--The
market in Rijeka--The shepherds--Their flocks--Wayside
hospitality--The plain of the Zeta--The Moraca--The Vizier bridge--Old
war-marks--First and last impressions of Podgorica.
The drive from Cetinje to Rijeka, and from thence till the final
descent to Podgorica, is quite as fine as any other part of
Montenegro. For about twenty minutes after leaving Cetinje the road
climbs and attains its greatest altitude on this tour, and at its
highest point--only half an hour's walk from the town--possesses one
of the most striking and beautiful views. It is rightly called "Bella
Vista," and a shelter hut and chairs are thoughtfully provided for the
visitor.
A wonderful panorama meets his eye as he suddenly reaches the top. A
fantastic sea, as it were, of hills, like the waves of a storm-tossed
ocean, encircles him, and at his feet, green and wooded, lies a long
fertile valley. Stretching far away into the gates of distance in its
vast expanse, glitters the Lake of Scutari. Round a small dim spur of
land running into the lake, lies Scutari itself, which is, however,
not visible. To the left a forbidding chain of magnificent mountains,
dwarfing the intervening hills into insignificance, fascinate him by
their repellent grandeur. Snow-clad, except in the height of summer,
these mountains seem symbolical of the land they border, that savage
and unknown Albania. A glimpse of a green valley below can just be
caught, there lies Podgorica, our destination. At our feet a long,
low-lying plateau ends abruptly in a wall of rock, through which the
road vanishes, and which can be traced white and threadlike on the
overhanging hillside. Beyond is the valley and town of Rijeka. The
mountains to the right are the Rumija, behind whose naked comb is the
deep blue Adria, and which we must climb to reach the port of
Antivari. The lake is dotted at the near end with islands,
distinguishable amongst which is a conical-shaped hill crowned by a
fortress. That is Zabljak, the whilom capital of Crnagora, and home of
its ancient rulers, the Black Prince dynasty. The whole view is like a
map in bas-relief.
Gone now are the barren rocks and sparsely vegetated hills of the
Katunska, and we are now in the fertile middle zone of Mediterranean
vegetation, which includes the valley of the Zeta right up to Niksic.
As we careered along, we were closely followed by another carriage,
in which were crowded five Montenegrins and Albanians, who were
evidently bent on making the pace. The Montenegrins are ever reckless
drivers; they dash round sharp corners at full gallop, with a
precipice of several hundred feet below--and there is never sufficient
parapet to prevent a carriage dashing over--so that one involuntarily
leans to the inner side of the carriage with that uncomfortable
sinking feeling which can be experienced at sea. With a shout to warn
anybody coming up the hill, the driver cracks his whip and dashes
round each corner with a sublime indifference to danger.
Whenever we slackened, our pursuing carriage came up at a rush, and
its occupants emitted wild yells and vociferated polite requests to
pass. Off we tore again, and at last reached that point where the
descent begins in serpentines to Rijeka. When we were tearing along a
lower level of the road, but a few yards below our rivals, we noticed
with momentary misgivings that they had drawn their long revolvers and
were holding them in their hands.
Suddenly they began to fire, for no apparent reason, which habit is
apt to be startling to a nervous traveller on his first journey. But
our youthful driver let fly an answering shot; on inquiring he told us
that it was to encourage the horses. Afterwards we never rode or drove
any distance in the country without our revolvers, so that we too
might help in the encouragement.
That afternoon Rijeka presented a brilliant picture. On entering the
town hundreds of peasants were congregated round the cattle-market on
the outskirts, but it was on the broad street by the river bank that
the most animated scene was to be witnessed. Every Montenegrin town
should be seen on a market day, for then the peasants from far and
near, in their best clothes and rifles over their shoulders, flock to
the town with cattle and sheep and field produce. Rifles are usually
carried when going on a long journey, particularly in the vicinity of
Albania. This is partly as a sign of allegiance to their Prince, but
chiefly because Montenegro stands ever before a sudden mobilisation.
Should the soldier peasant hear the alarm, he must make his way at
once for the rendezvous as speedily as possible, without detour.
Further, hundreds of armed Albanians from the borders are always in
their midst, as was the case to-day.
Rijeka is a very busy little place, being the half-way village between
the capital and Podgorica, and is still more important as the
starting-point of the little steamer which plies twice weekly down the
lake to Scutari. The river runs between lovely green hills rising
straight from its banks, wooded and luxuriant, reminding one not a
little of the Thames at Cookham.
The Prince has a small palace just beyond the town, and spends the
coldest winter months here, where he escapes the rigours of the
climate in Cetinje. About half-an-hour's walk is the ancient fortress
of Obod, famed in history as the site of the first printing-press
(destroyed very soon by the Turks) in the Balkans, and indeed one of
the first in the world, for Caxton was only a few years ahead. The
fact speaks for the ever forward striving spirit which has animated
Montenegro's rulers since its very foundation, and which only the
rigours of pitiless warfare have hindered.
On leaving the pretty little township, we had considerable difficulty
in forcing our way through the flocks which continually blocked the
road. All the way we ploughed through herds of cattle and stampeding
sheep and goats, much to the disgust of their shepherds. These men,
chiefly vicious-looking Albanians, with loosely-slung rifle, and round
their waist a bandolier of cartridges, lend a wildness to the lonely
road which is likely to mislead the new-comer; and should one of them
empty his revolver light-heartedly in the air, to be answered by
another some distance away, the impression is considerably heightened.
The road climbs to a good height immediately and commands a fine view
of the valley with the little river winding in and out. In winter the
effect is that of a great flood, for everywhere partially submerged
trees and bushes show above the water. But in reality it was only a
natural course of events, for in summer the water recedes and leaves
great fields on which crops of maize are grown, while during the
winter or rainy months the whole district of fertile land becomes
again submerged. This view of the Rijeka was decidedly one of the
prettiest in the country, combining, as it does every now and then,
glimpses of the lake and the majestic Albanian Alps.
Always followed by our rival party, we halted at a wayside inn to
refresh both man and beast. These inns are quaint little places. There
is seldom any other floor than that already provided by Nature, which
has been beaten flat.
We called for coffee, and partook of the country's wine, to whose
acidity we never accustomed ourselves, and entered into conversation
with our convivial companions. One, a horse dealer, spoke excellent
Italian, and we met him often afterwards in the course of our travels.
When we had finished our libations, we naturally wished to have the
bill or rather to know how much there was to pay.
"Nothing," was the answer.
"But we have had ----" It is not well to particularise--it was a
thirsty day.
"There is nothing to pay," the woman reiterated.
The other party had guiltily slipped out of the room and climbed into
their carriage, and our driver became impatient to maintain the lead.
With mixed feelings we followed him out, and in another second were
off again at a gallop.
It was always like that in Montenegro. We have gone into an inn or
cafe and drunk a liqueur (a polite name for the fiery but wholesome
local spirit), when a fresh glass will be silently placed before us.
We have waved it away.
"Not ordered it," we would say.
"That man has," answers the boy, and points at a smiling Montenegrin
on the other side of the room. Sometimes, and very often too, other
guests follow suit, and the result is trying. We gave up visits to
cafes afterwards, except when we were on pleasure bent and had an hour
to spare. Hospitable, reckless, poverty-stricken Montenegrins--one can
travel far before another such a race can be found.
The last two hours of the drive are uninteresting, chiefly because
eight hours in a carriage is trying. Podgorica comes in sight long
before it is reached, in the form of a cluster of trees on a grassy
but dead-level plain, out of which two minarets show their graceful
spires. The background is imposing, lowering Albanian mountains rise
abruptly to their lofty heights from the level of the plain.
For an hour we drove along the plain, and passed a solitary building
situated on a slight eminence. It was Krusevac, one of the Prince's
country palaces, or, to be more correct, Prince Mirko's palace, as
"Voivoda" or Duke of the Zeta, which ancient and historical title is
his. Then for some distance we skirted the Moraca, driving in an
opposite direction to Podgorica till we came to the "Vizier" bridge,
over which we crossed and retraced our way to the town.
The River Moraca is a large mountain torrent, into which the Zeta
flows only a short distance away from the town. It rushes over great
boulders, forming here and there formidable rapids, between two deep
banks, which, without any warning, break off suddenly from the flat
and form precipitous sides fully two hundred feet deep. Two or three
hundred yards away, no gap or break in the plain is observable.
Sometimes the river swells almost to the top of its banks, and then
the effect must be terrible. There is a ford near Podgorica, which the
peasants use to avoid the long detour by the bridge, but woe to the
man who makes a false step. Three women, carrying loads of wood, lost
their footing during our stay, and were drowned. In its waters we swam
every evening, and even in midsummer, when the river is low, the
strength of the current required an expert and powerful swimmer to
breast it, and it was invariably very cold.
[Illustration: THE VIZIER BRIDGE]
The bridge, built by an old Turkish Vizier many, many years ago, is
most picturesque, and completely in keeping with the rocky banks and
the foam-flecked, emerald-green waters rushing beneath. From this
bridge a man once sprang into the depths below, to show that he was
not intoxicated. As a matter of fact he was, but he emerged dripping a
hundred yards lower down, unhurt and at least in his right mind.
There used to be a deep indentation in a stone of the bridge
parapet--during our stay in the country it has been plastered
up--which credulous Montenegrins relate to be the cut of a Turkish
horseman pursuing a fleeing Montenegrin. The story goes that the Turk
severed the Montenegrin's head from his body, and so violent was the
stroke that he cut into the stone wall as well.
Again, just before the town, two slabs, standing exactly thirty paces
apart, mark a similar episode, and the headless man is said to have
run that distance before falling. This legend--which, furthermore, has
many eye-witnesses still living in the town who swear to the truth--is
more capable of belief if one takes into consideration the flight of a
decapitated fowl in any of our poultry yards.
The road entering Podgorica is very similar in appearance to that
which leads into Cetinje, only the first impressions are considerably
wilder and more uncivilised than that of the capital. Hundreds of
Turks and Albanians are smoking their evening "tchibouque" in the
streets, and scowl in no friendly manner at the stranger. Some of
them, namely, the merchant class, are, however, excellent people,
travelled and educated, as we found out afterwards. The Albanian and
Turk are the enterprising merchants of Montenegro, and improve on
acquaintance, which is sometimes necessary.
We had a lonely, solitary feeling as we drove through the crowd of
loiterers, and were glad to descend at a presentable-looking hostelry.
How often first impressions are wrong we proved to the full in this
instance.
Podgorica saw more of us than any other town during our stay, for we
made it afterwards our headquarters. It would be difficult to forget
that mountain-bounded valley and the town with its bustling streets of
picturesque humanity. And then those sunsets! The peaks towering
behind bathed in crimson, and the intervening hills rising one above
the other to the furthermost summits like a giant staircase, rich in a
mysterious purple. As we walked back from our evening swim, over the
short, springing grass, that scene at sunset never abated its charms
one whit. And we were always glad on entering the town that no one
wore plain, ugly European clothes but ourselves. The national
costumes, so full of colour, blended harmoniously with our feelings,
and have left behind them an indelible picture.