THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO
Steamer-day at Gravosa—Ragusa from the Sea—The Bocche di
Cattaro—Castelnuovo—Cattaro and Her Mountain Background.
I can assure you that it will be a hard matter to tear yourself away
from Ragusa. You will want to stroll through her narrow streets, or
watch the market-people in the public square, or play long sets of
tennis on the excellent courts in the shadows of the turreted town
walls, or sip “citronade” indefinitely under the awnings of the street
cafés near the Corso. There is a weird, delightful charm about Ragusa
that is well-nigh irresistible.
But just in the midst of ecstatic enjoyment there always looms up that
infallible something, which will, sooner or later, put an unwelcome end
to all good things; and we finally found ourselves facing our luggage
on the drive back, along the flower-skirted road to Gravosa to take the
steamer for Cattaro.
As we wound around an overhanging cliff we caught sight of the
beautiful bay, and were able for the first time to appreciate its
advantages. Its waters were smooth as a dancing floor; here and there
a smart little launch with striped awnings darted up and down; across
the harbour the gardens of handsome villas extended down to the water’s
edge, while out in the roadstead the gray hulls of a squadron of
Austrian sea-fighters silhouetted themselves against the sky-line.
The _molo_ itself was a scene of animation. It was crowded with people,
peasants, sailors and tradesmen, for the steamer _Codolo_ from up the
coast had just been made fast, and the arrival of any passenger steamer
is an event of no little import at Gravosa.
But what of unusual interest did the _Codolo_ have in store to occasion
such wholesale manifestation of inquisitiveness among the natives of
the town? Even our driver confessed he had never seen such a gathering
on the _molo_. The arrival of an official of high rank, probably. But
no, there seemed to be an absolute dearth of uniformed soldiery, and
no state official could possibly arrive without the attending pomp and
circumstance.
We drove through the old sea-gate at a gallop and descended pell-mell
upon the _molo_, our driver walloping his horses through the crowd
with reckless abandon and utter disregard for human life or limb, for
_he_ was curious, too.
As we came to a jerky halt at the foot of the gangway we saw that on
the steamer’s deck stood a great, mud-coloured object, which somewhat
resembled in size and contour the broadside of an elephant. This
mastodon, whatever it might be, was swathed in tarpaulins.
Tackle and planks were being rigged rapidly, and, at last, the puzzling
what-was-it was skidded to the _molo_ from the deck of the steamer. The
gaping crowd stood breathless with anticipation while the tarpaulins
were raised, and behold! a motor-omnibus for use on the road between
the steamer piers at Gravosa and the fashionable hotel in Ragusa.
Wonder of Wonders! The first automobile to denature with the fumes of
gasoline the virgin atmosphere of lower Dalmatia.
This marvellous machine was the most cumbersome parcel of freight
consigned to Gravosa and soon the reversed twin screws of the steamer
were churning the placid waters of the harbour into filmy patches
of white froth. We backed away from the _molo_ and its burden of
inquisitive onlookers, turned about and headed speedily for the narrow
harbour exit, through which we caught glimpses of the blue of the
Adriatic beyond.
The four hour sea trip from Gravosa to Cattaro is one replete with
scenic surprises, and the first of these is a magnificent panorama of
Ragusa and her stately fortresses as we round the rocky promontory just
to the north of the town. Ragusa is inviting enough from land, but when
viewed from the sea it is fascinating beyond description.
For a distance after passing Ragusa the coast line is unprotected
from the winds and storms of the Adriatic but, except in early spring
or late fall, little fear of the sudden rising of a “Bora” or a
“Scirocco,” the winds most dreaded along the Dalmatian coast, need be
felt. On account of the depth of water the course taken by the steamers
is always within easy sight of the shore, and the mountains seem to
rise directly from the red-tiled roofs of the village houses.
After the steamer rounds Punta d’Ostro, with her mediæval castle and
modern fortifications which keep watch for Austria over this part
of her territory, an hour’s ride through some of the most beautiful
scenery is in store for the traveller, for this promontory marks the
entrance of the famous Bocche di Cattaro, the most wonderful and best
naturally protected harbour in the world. I should not say that at
this point is the “entrance” to the Bocche, for the word “Bocche”
itself is the plural of “Boca” and means, literally, “entrances” or
“mouths,” but the term “Bocche di Cattaro” has been so generally
applied to the basins themselves which, together, make up the harbour,
that it enjoys almost universal usage.
Of these basins there are three which are of considerable expanse,
resembling small inland seas: the basins of Castelnuovo, Teodo and
Cattaro. The remaining two, for there are five in all, are not so
extensive and might be considered as bays leading off from the larger
bodies of water. These latter are joined by narrow straits or channels,
which is not the case with the smaller bays, like that of Risano.
The narrowest Boca is at the entrance of the sea of Perasto and is
familiarly known as “La Catene,” because of the fact that at the time
when Lewis of Hungary was defending Cattaro against the Venetians he
sealed up the entrance to this particular body of water by stretching
a “chain” across the mouth so that it would be impossible for the
caravels of the enemy to enter.
Lofty, barren peaks rise on every side from the very shore line,
while the water of the harbour is peacefully calm, translucent
and, in colour, a deep blue, rendered deeper by the dark shadows of
the overhanging mountains. Constantine Porphyrogenitus, the ancient
historian of the country, probably stretched the time limit an hour or
two when he said that the sun never penetrated the Bocche di Cattaro
except in summer, but, nevertheless, it has been proven a fact that in
the course of a winter’s day Cattaro enjoys but five hours of sunlight,
so hemmed in is it between the tall mountain peaks and ranges.
The picturesque little town of Castelnuovo lies directly across the
bay from the Punto d’Ostro. In front of the town the steamer stops
long enough for a few fussy Dalmatian women to climb down the ship’s
accommodation ladder to the boats, which have put out from shore
to take off any passengers or freight the steamer may be carrying
consigned to Castelnuovo.
[Illustration: A GENERAL VIEW OF CASTELNUOVO.]
Steaming onward toward Cattaro we pass two small islets, each of which
seems barely large enough to keep the little churches and gardens which
they hold on their surfaces from sliding into the bay. Upon one of them
stands the monastery of San Giorgio, strikingly diminutive and quaint,
but complete from bell-tower to cloister; on the other island is the
chapel of Santa Maria della Scarpello, containing a portrait of the
Madonna said to have been painted by none other than St. Luke.
As we enter the bay of Cattaro, after turning abruptly around the foot
of a cliff, the view is one of beauty beyond adequate description.
Ahead, at the farther end of the bay, the town of Cattaro clings like
a vegetable parasite to the steep base of the majestic mountain.
Above it the famous “Ladder,” the trail used by the Montenegrins for
five hundred years to descend from their mountain homes to Cattaro on
market-days, scales the face of Mount Lovčen (pronounced Lovtchen);
higher up, and a little to the right, may be seen the white zig-zags
of the wonderful wagon road to Cettinje, the smallest and most
inaccessible capital in Europe.
But distance lends enchantment to Cattaro, and the most favourable
impressions of the town may be had from the deck of the steamer. Once
having set foot on the stone quay the place seems to have lost its
individuality, and reminds one of any other town which has huddled
itself together under the dominating influences of the Venetians. You
might think that the houses had been thrown upon each other in a heap,
and when someone wished to move about the town he dug a path between
them as he needed it. The streets, if such they may be called, are
little more than passageways between the walls of the houses. The
hotels are dirty and offer the poorest excuses for accommodations to be
found in the Balkans.
On Saturdays the Montenegrins from the mountains climb down the
“Ladder” to the market in Cattaro, first being compelled to leave their
weapons in the custody of an Austrian official outside the city gates.
In the evening they climb wearily back to their homes, with nothing to
look forward to but the market on the following Saturday.
Notwithstanding the unattractiveness of the town, there are two very
patent reasons for visiting Cattaro. One is, that the delightfulness
of the boat trip through the Bocche, with its magnificent scenery,
far excels anything of the sort to be had south of Norway or north
of the Straits of Magellan, and the other, that the drive over the
Black Mountains to Cettinje unveils to the traveller some of the most
wonderful views to be had in Europe. Indeed, it is said that the
panorama of the Bocche and the Adriatic from the cloud-encircled summit
of the mountain cannot be surpassed in the whole world.
[Illustration: THE FAMOUS “LADDER” ACROSS THE FACE OF MOUNT LOVČEN.]