Beside the busy town of Kotor is a quiet little slice of Montenegro called Perast. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Beside the busy town of Kotor is a quiet little slice of Montenegro called Perast. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Kotor and its Old Town are a popular place to visit but for a quieter taste of Montenegro, hightail it to the sleepy seaside village of Perast, writes Sarah Pollok
Few moments in life feel utterly perfect, but as I lean over the railing of the cruise ship, gazing at the still waters of Montenegro’s Boka Bay, I know this is one of them. It’s 7am and standing on the empty upper deck it’s already far hotter than it’ll be for weeks back home.
The sun hasn’t yet crested over the steep mountains that surround the long, snaking inlet but it’s light enough to see the terracotta roofs clustered along the coastline, and spot cars zipping along the single road. Pulling through a narrow section, we sail close enough to hear a dog bark and see a green bath towel hanging outside a window.
Morning view of Boka Bay in Montenegro. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Eventually, the sky blurs from pink to powder blue and more cruise travellers appear en route to breakfast. I soon follow suit and we drop anchor before the city of Kotor as I polish off the last of my cereal. It’s day four of an eight-day cruise with Holland America Lines and today I’ve booked to see the “Best of Montenegro” on a 20-person group tour.
Soon after stepping onto the port, we meet Dijana, a short-haired but very tall local brandishing an orange paddle bearing the number 17. Her height is nothing unusual, she reveals on the tour bus that whisks us out of the bustling town and along a winding coastal road. “There are 620,000 people in Kotor, so we are very small but we are very very tall,” she says, adding Montenegrins are the second tallest population in Europe, behind Norwegians.
Dijana, a local tour guide and expert on Montenegro and its towns. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Yet don’t let their location or use of Euros fool you, Dijana says; Montenegro isn’t part of the European Union. This means many things but most relevant for us is that it isn’t included in EU phone plans, which has me scrambling to switch my phone to flight mode.
At the front of the bus, Dijana does her best to explain Montenegro’s knotty history, which involved breaking away from the Ottoman Empire in 1887, only to be absorbed into Yugoslavia after World War I. In 1991, Yugoslavia shrank as Slovenia and Croatia declared independence, followed by Macedonia, Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1992, leaving just Serbia and Montenegro. By 2006, Montenegro was an independent state. Meanwhile, to our left, I gaze out at the muscular, lush mountains that plummet down into the glittering bay.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in Perast, a village that is home to 400 residents and a famous little island called Our Lady of the Rocks. One of the many legends about the island’s origin is that seamen discovered an icon of Madonna and Child on a small crag jutting out of the bay in the 15th century. This then inspired a tradition of sailors throwing rocks in the area after successful voyages. Over the centuries, unused sailing boats and large stones were dropped in the same spot and eventually, an islet emerged from the water, upon which a Roman Catholic Church was built. Centuries later, the island remains, as does an annual tradition of residents sailing out to the island every July and tossing stones into the sea to bolster the island. Its preservation isn’t just for tourists; the petite stone church built in 1452 and upgraded in 1722 continues to hold weekly mass and religious celebrations.
Sveti Dorde (Island of Saint George) on the left and Our Lady of the Rocks on the right in Montenegro. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Piling on to a dinghy, I lean over the edge and watch us skip along the bright blue water, savouring the breeze that wicks the sweat from my forehead. Seconds later we pull up to the island’s edge, hopping onto the large concrete slabs and join a small group waiting to enter the chapel. At 10am, there’s little reprieve from the fierce heat and thankfully it’s only a few minutes until we’re shepherded inside, chatter instantly softening to a murmur as our eyes adjust to the cool darkness.
Once they do, what we encounter is nothing short of spectacular. Despite its remote location (or perhaps, because of it) every square inch of the small chapel is adorned with opulent materials and intricate artwork— gigantic frescoes of biblical scenes framed by rich cobalt blue and gold moulding. Below, a checkerboard marble floor has been polished by millions of shoes. Ahead, a tall marble altar pops against the sanctuary’s crimson walls and two statues of saints stand on either side of a gold-framed painting of the Virgin Mary holding a swaddled baby Jesus.
Inside the church located on the islet named Our Lady of the Rocks, i Montenegro. Photo / Sarah Pollok
So far, so typical for a Catholic church. However, my attention snags on thousands of small silver plaques that run in a band around the nave. Roughly the size of small saucers, some have scenes embossed on them and others are shaped into elaborate hearts or body parts. “They’re ex-voto, promises,” Dijana murmurs, symbols of gratitude the citizens of Perast have offered Our Lady of the Rocks for protection from events such as storms, earthquakes, battles or illnesses.
In the sanctuary, bunches of flowers are pinned along the headjamb of two side doors on the left and right of the altar. Most have turned stiff and caramel coloured after weeks in the heat but one bunch still has soft, white petals hanging from a shiny pearl ribbon. Bouquets, we’re told, from the many weddings the church continues to hold, where it’s tradition to nail the bride’s flowers to the door frame in an unusual but touching measure of time.
It's tradition for brides married in the church of Our Lady of the Rocks to nail their bouquets to the doors beside the altar. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Moving through one of the doors, we meander past several small stone rooms that now act as a makeshift museum full of sepia-stained paintings in oxidised gold frames, worn old coins and chipped stone statues.
The next stop is lunch at Vila Perast, a restaurant easily found by following the village’s only main street, which has a quaint row of shopfronts on one side and the bay on the other. Having given our orders during the bus ride, the meals arrive fast and fish is the star of the show, featured in the light soup starter and plates of tasty risotto.
Once plates have been scraped clean, we sleepily stroll back to the bus and head to Old Town Kotor, which has just 1300 residents but what feels like thousands of visitors. The guess isn’t far off considering the four cruise ships hanging out in the bay. Perast’s postcard perfection is, admittedly, a tough act to follow and Old Town’s labyrinth of laneways is a blur of heat, sweat and noise as people bounce between souvenir shops and restaurants boasting pizza and free Wi-Fi.
Compared to the bustling streets of Kotor, the village of Perast is positively serene. Photo / Sarah Pollok
Beneath the bustle, there is, of course, a history and beauty that simply don’t exist in a country as young as Aotearoa. It’s one thing to gaze at the faded hand-sketched atlases in the Maritime Museum or town squares built in 809, another to fully comprehend how some of these items are older than the country I call home. Sensing our waning interest in maritime history (possibly because of the few people grumbling that they wanted enough time to shop), Dijana hastened us through the final exhibits, then set us free to explore the markets or follow her back to the cruise port.
Back on the deck that evening, the view is just as spectacular as the morning. The sun hangs low on the horizon, bathing the coastline in gold as we drift back through the inlets, past groups of beachgoers who wave up at us. Eventually, I spot Our Lady of the Rock and think again of those countless ex-voto and wish I could place one up on the wall; not as a prayer for safe waters but as a thank you, for the memories I was collecting along the way.
