CHAPTER XIV

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.

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.