On the Shores of the Mediterranean. Eric Newby
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A few stubborn inhabitants still lived within its walls, either in deep, dark, labyrinthine streets, from most of which the afternoon sun had long since gone by the time we arrived in them, that is if it ever shone into them at all, or in little squares, some of them still sunlit, in which children played happily, streets and squares in which the houses and palaces, most of them long since converted into tenements, were often either shored up with balks of timber or else had already been gutted and were shells empty of everything except rubble. Its fate, or only hope, perhaps, depending on how one regarded such things, was to become a museum city, although even that seemed improbable, for it gave the impression that even one minor tremor might be enough to demolish it completely. Meanwhile, the bulk of its former inhabitants, hoiked into the twentieth century in this unpleasant fashion, now either lived in caravans or in lightly built, more unattractive but less dangerous modern houses out beyond the walls.
Because of all this it was no longer possible to visit what other travellers describe as the amazing treasury of the twelfth-century cathedral of St Tryphon and see the head of the city’s patron saint, also the patron saint of gardeners, who was born in Phrygia, the son of a gooseherd, and was put to death in Nicaea in about AD 250, a relic which the citizens of Kotor are said to have acquired out of a ship bound for Europe from Asia Minor, together with other assorted relics of other saints, arms, legs, etc., for 300 gold pieces. Nor was it possible to see the great wooden crucifix, with its tormented Christ nailed to it, said to have been given by Baldwin II, the last Latin Emperor of Constantinople, to the widow of a thirteenth-century Serbian king. Perennially hard-up, he also, at about the same time, disposed of the Crown of Thorns, a portion of the True Cross, the baby linen of Jesus, the Lance, the Sponge and the Chain of the Passion, the Rod of Moses and part of the skull of St John the Baptist – to St Louis, Louis IX of France, the most Christian king.
By the time we left Kotor the sun had already gone from the town completely, as it does quite early, leaving it in cold, dark shadow, and dense black clouds hung threateningly over the tops of the surrounding mountains, although, out beyond the inlet on which the city itself is built, the Gulf was still bathed in sunlight.
The main road to Cetinje by way of the Lovčen Pass was a wild one even by Montenegrin standards. It climbed the steep side of the Lovčen, on the summit of which the remains of Petar II Petrović Njegoš, Prince-Bishop of Montenegro, last of a line of prince-bishops who began to reign in 1516 when the previous ruler retired to Venice, are entombed in a remarkable mausoleum designed by the Serbo-Croat sculptor Ivan Mestrović, who died in 1962.
The road to the Pass, lined with ruined forts, climbed through plantations of oak and pine ravaged by fires that had only recently swept the mountainside. It was loosely metalled, full of pot-holes, had twenty-four major hairpin bends on it and was only one vehicle wide, with lay-bys. Its outside edge frequently overhung precipices and at some places gaps in the masonry, as they did in so many places on the Adriatic Highway, showed where vehicles had been driven clean through the protecting walls taking the occupants on what had been, presumably, a spectacular exit to eternity.
Our ascent of it was made more difficult by a large caravan of picturesquely-clad gypsies who were descending it from the Pass in horse-drawn carts, on foot and with numbers of animals running loose along with them; but finally, having emerged from a tunnel that had been driven through one of the outlying spurs of the massif, we reached the Pass, which was literally white with sheep. Here the sky was threatening and a few drops of icy rain fell. Already old women in long, rusty black skirts and white-moustached men wearing little round black pill-box hats and waistcoats and what looked like baggy jodhpur breeches of heavy, brown homespun were urging the flocks and the cattle that had been grazing around the head of the Pass down to the little village of Njeguši in anticipation of the coming storm.
The village was disposed along one side of what Slavs call a polje, a big green meadow that had once formed the bottom of a lake, with dark woods extended down to the edge of it on the far side. Above it loomed the Lovčen, its limestone rocks now a steely grey in the rapidly gathering darkness. This wild spot was the birthplace of Petar II Petrović Njegoš, the future ruler of Montenegro, sometime between 1811 and 1813.
From the village the road wound up past abandoned and roofless houses to another pass, the Krivačko Ždrjelo, at around 4300 feet, on the rim of another enormous polje in which Cetinje stands more than 2000 feet below.
Just below this pass there was an inn, a gostiona, which is the Montenegrin way of spelling gostilna, where we stopped for a drink.
Inside it four men, one of them the proprietor who was in his shirt-sleeves, were drinking the Albanian brandy called XTRA. All were drunk and beginning to be acrimonious. It was not a place to linger. The three customers had their vehicles parked outside, one of which was a large petrol tanker, and when we got up to go one of them, who turned out to be the driver of the tanker, easily identifiable by his overalls, got up, too, clutched one of the lapels of my coat in order to keep himself in an upright position and, swaying backwards and forwards on his feet like some Cornish rocking-stone, announced that he was about to drive his tanker down to Kotor by the road we had just climbed to the Lovčen Pass. How he was proposing to do this and remain alive was a mystery.
By the time we emerged from the gostiona the storm was directly overhead and for an instant a single, blinding flash of lightning turned the grey limestone of the mountain a dazzling white. It was followed by a single, deafening roll of thunder which reverberated among the rocks. Then an apocalyptical wind blew, bending the trees as if they were reeds. Then the heavens opened.
Thanking our lucky stars that tonight we would sleep in a Grand Hotel instead of in the back of a van unconverted for this purpose, which was what we had now been doing on and off for months, we set off downhill through the downpour into what, insofar as we could see anything at all, resembled a crater filled with twisted rocks, narrowly missing a head-on collision with a bus that was groaning up through the hairpin bends on its way to Njeguši, loaded with what we later discovered was part of the day shift of the ‘Obod’ factory in Cetinje which made refrigerators and other electrical appliances, the ‘Košuta’ footwear factory and the ‘Galenika’ factory for processing pharmaceutical preparations, all of whom would have been a serious loss to the economy.
By the time we reached the city it was completely dark and the rain that had been clouting down had given place to a monotonous drizzle; so dark that in a dimly-lit boulevard opposite what had once been the building occupied by the Italian diplomatic mission I ran over and killed a black cat which darted across the road in front of us. However, even this melancholy incident failed to dampen our spirits completely. For we were looking forward to staying the night at the hotel, which was not just any old hotel but the Grand Hotel of Vuko Vuketič, as it used to be known, otherwise known as the Lokanda, one of the last hotels of its kind in the Balkans: the Balkans strictly speaking being the mountains in Bulgaria that extend across the country from the Yugoslav border to the Black Sea: but in the sense in which I interpret it, the one in which it is commonly used, of the Balkan Peninsula, the lands between the Adriatic and the Black Seas.
I had last stayed in it in the 1960s. I remembered it as a rather splendid cream- and yellow-coloured building with a sort of semicircular foyer that was a bit like a Victorian greenhouse. Originally built in 1864, it was the first hotel to be constructed in Cetinje and to it were sent the official and honoured guests of what was then the Montenegrin capital, which even in its heyday never had more than 5000 inhabitants. (Now it had more than 10,000 inhabitants and had several large factories producing, as well as electrical appliances, shoes, pharmaceutical products and white bauxite.) At one time the hotel housed the United States diplomatic mission. Reconstructed in 1900, and enlarged in 1929, it had two restaurants and forty bedrooms. In its remarkable foyer and in other public rooms, all rather dingy when I was last there, tall old men in national costumes with huge white moustaches, some, almost unbelievably, still with Lugers and Mausers and other weapons stuck in their cummerbunds, sat sipping away at their rakijas, their Albanian XTRA brandies and various other strong drinks for hours on end while remembering old blood feuds, an activity which in Montenegro had been raised to an art form. In fact one visitor, the author of the excellent Companion Guide to Jugoslavia, J. A. Cuddon, records one of these Montenegrin