Bay of Kotor

by Flavia Brilli

'What country, friends, is this?'

'Twelfth Night', Shakespeare.

In Shakespeare's  Twelfth Night  Viola, the heroine of the play,  finds herself shipwrecked on a strange coast. "What country, friends, is this?" she asks. That country was Illyria: an ancient region of the Western Balkans whose coast along with Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, included the tiny pearl of the Adriatic coast, Boka Kotorska, also known as Kotor Bay. And, like Viola, when I first set my eyes on Boka's beauty, on the ferry crossing from Lepetane to Kamenari, I too felt a sense of awe and strangeness: with its brooding Wagnerian karst mountains plunging into the bay like ancient mammoths of prehistory, and Perast's ancient, island churches floating on the sea like stone maidens. 

For something magical occurs when the mountains meet the sea: that spellbinding combination of the sea's eternally shape shifting character, set against the stone force of a mountain's unyielding, fixed endurance, inevitably creates a captivating tension. Two opposing forces with two opposing voices: one which stands for stubborn, immutability; the other, for tempestuous, unpredictability.

And it is these landscapes which attract me the most: since with opposites there is always drama and change. Throughout the summer, the bay is a glittering benign jewel. In autumn, as the weather changes, the sea breezes and mountain air mix together bringing their own strange dramas: wild winds, theatrical sunsets and torrents of rain; a Wagnerian drama all wild, grand and beautiful.

For Kotor Bay is not simply a playground for idle tourists and relaxing locals: it's a geological wonder with its own internal dramas.  Look to the skies and to the mountain tops; or the sea, when it's in a belligerent mood, to really know and love Boka.  Find a rock to just sit and watch from. Watch the people at the shoreline; the fishermen in their boats; watch the mini dramas unfurl in the skies above.

And, then, when you are done with the sea, climb to the top of Lovcen and look down from its majestic heights across the breathtaking beauty of Montenegro's mountainous landscape, and think of the English writer George Bernard Shaw who wondered " am I in paradise or on the moon?"

All images and words © 2014-2018 Flavia Brilli.

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more."

Lord Byron, "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"

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BOKA JEWELS: The Seasons

In early summer, the bay is a glittering benign jewel; its karst mountains verdant green and fertile plunging into emerald and sapphire waters. Perfect reflections mirroring the natural splendour of Boka's magnificence beguile and enthrall the viewer: a divine, double duet of sumptuous colour and visual drama.

Empty fishermen's boats lie quiet and still on transparent shallows, revealing life below the shoreline: a miasma of rocks and algae and fledgling sea creatures. Shoals of young fish skitter by undisturbed, as of yet, by mid summer's motor boats and noisy tourists. 

Peace, quiet and stillness reign supreme and Boka's dress of jewels are flaunted for its real admirers.

After the summer, when the crowds of tourists have finally returned home, the bay slowly and determinedly reverts into its autumn character. The motor boats have left, the extraneous clatter of unwelcome fun seekers has faded, and now the beauty of Boka reveals itself in a different mood and tone: glassy still waters reflect soulful, sweet, magenta sunsets; and the last golden hours, just before, caress the bows of fishermen's drifting boats. Time for long walks and thoughts and the opportunity to immerse oneself in an empty watery space of tonal pastel colours, divinely calm and empty of people. 

On the hottest autumnal days, the clouds and sun conspire to set the sky ablaze with thrilling sunsets: magenta hues colliding with brilliant golds and fiery oranges stopping casual walkers in their tracks. Nature's sky born fireworks amazing even the most jaded viewer.

As winter approaches and daylight hours diminish, the bay retracts and sleeps. Tranquility takes hold. The first coat of snow clothes the jagged peaks of Lovcen's sloping shoulders and pallid pink winter sunsets caress its crest. And, whereas in summer, Lovcen's lofty peaks could hardly compete with Boka's brilliant sea colours, it now takes center stage towering defiantly over its watery playmate, otherworldly and mysterious.

All images and words © 2014-2018 Flavia Brilli.

Human Seasons

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

     There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

     Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

     Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

     Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

     He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness—to let fair things

     Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

By John Keats

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The Remains of the day and quiet beginnings

“What is pertinent is the calmness of beauty, its sense of restraint. It is as though the land knows of its own beauty, its own greatness, and feels no need to shout it.” 

― Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day

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