Croatia Diaries: Age is just a number

Making a racket in Croatia's oldest town

Everywhere I go in Croatia there seems to be a Stari Grad. That’s an old town to us English speakers. Dubrovnik has one, so does Trogir. Split’s old town is the remains of a Roman palace, a super old town, an old town to beat all the other old towns. But the old town that’s been there the longest, the oldest of all the towns in Croatia, sits on a bay on the island of Hvar, and has a name that’s a little bit on the nose: Stari Grad.

It’s not that easy to get to Stari Grad if you don’t have a car. The island runs a bus service from Hvar Town that would be more at home in a rural British village. The first departure available is at 12:30, and to make sure everyone can get their money’s worth, you can’t leave Stari Grad by bus again until at least 15:30.

The bus, when it turns up is actually a coach, and we board it along with two young American siblings, and an older couple who seem to be following us around the island.

We first encountered them on the catamaran over from Split. I was stood by my seat inside and in came the man wearing a floppy hat with a string around his neck. He saw me settling in and asked, “is this a good place to sit?”

“Uh, sure,” I replied, though without any confidence or conviction since I had never boarded this particular catamaran before. I had never been to Croatia before, so I was woefully underqualified to have an opinion on the Split-Hvar catamaran’s seating arrangements.

I tried to convey this to him in a shrug but he wasn’t looking at me anymore, instead he was telling his wife, who was trying to persuade him to sit upstairs, that these people over here, meaning us, meaning, to my consternation, me, had said this was a good place to sit.

As she joined him I tried my faulty conveying skills on her. I now tried to tell her, not with a shrug but a look this time, that as far as the seating arrangements on this catamaran went, I was absolutely clueless and just said yes to her husband because I didn’t know what else to say and that she really shouldn’t take my opinions on this matter seriously. She wasn’t attuned to this, naturally, why would she be? And so she joined her husband and sat next to him.

I meanwhile had sat down and hidden my face in a book so that this floppy-hatted menace didn’t get the idea that I was up for talking. I wasn’t reading though, I was instead wondering why these people always seem to find me, even on a catamaran that I have never boarded before to go to an island I have never visited.

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Gosh, sorry, where are we? Yes, on the way to Stari Grad. I got distracted for a minute there, my apologies. We sit on the coach as it winds its way up along the coast and then over the hills inland.

Before coming to Hvar I thought it would be similar to Capri, another destination that is swamped with sun and celebrities in the summer months, but Hvar is much more substantial. We come down through the Stari Grad Plain, another of Croatia’s multiple UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and those of us getting off the bus are dropped off on the edge of town.

It’s almost completely silent, and the noise levels don’t really increase as we walk into the centre. Stari Grad may be Croatia’s oldest town, but it is also possibly its quietest. We hardly encounter a soul. The streets, particularly in the very oldest parts, are narrow and cobbled and show signs of recent construction work.

We see this in the cathedral square too, a small open space surrounded by pretty tall houses and Sveti Stjepan church. A sign in the square explains that the construction was actually recent work which uncovered some incredible Roman mosaics right here where we stand. I only know the mosaics are incredible because I can see them on the sign. For reasons unclear, the town has covered these mosaics back up, so now underfoot one can only see the old cobbles.

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After visiting the cathedral and finding no people there, we walk down narrow streets that also, we are told by signs, have mosaics under the cobbles. We see almost no one there either. It’s as if all the inhabitants of Stari Grad have fled a curse brought upon the town by the unearthing of these mosaics. Perhaps a Caesar or two have been patrolling the streets looking for people to throw into some gladiatorial gear to fight some lions.

Or perhaps it’s just out of season. This would explain why the museum is closed, a hefty blow to our morale considering the number of hours we now have to spend in this lifeless town.

We find a bar to consider our options. It’s a simple affair, with cheap, tattered tables outside, and one simple whitewashed room inside. We drink and, when the floppy-hatted American passes, study the menu very. very closely until he’s gone. Our options are have lunch, which is what every other tourist who has misjudged the amount of time needed to see Stari Grad seems to be doing, or hike up Glavica Hill.

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We decide to hike because it seems like it will take longer, kill more time. Only it doesn’t. We could make a lunch last a good two hours if we really tried. Bread for the table? Yes please, two helpings actually. Starter, main, dessert, coffee, booze, more coffee, hide in the toilet when the floppy-hatted American passes, one last glass of booze.

The hike by contrast, because this town is tiny, is twenty minutes through the outskirts and then up a really steep hill to where a cross stands overlooking the town to one side and the Stari Grad Plain to the other.

It’s extremely unpleasant. I won’t lie to you and say it’s lovely, a great way to pass twenty minutes. The hill is shockingly steep, my calves ache, and the beer I’ve just drunk goes straight through me so that I know that even when I reach the top I’ll have no relief.

The view, though, is brilliant. We sit eating Tuc biscuits and ignoring the urge to urinate, and look down at the town. It looks like an actual town from here, where people live and work and actually do things. But it’s out of season, so for the moment, people might live here but they’re not doing much work. They’re waiting for May through to October. Until then they’ll have to put up with us.

And the floppy-hatted American. If he was here at the top of this hill, I’d show him the bench I’m sitting on. It’s an excellent place to sit.

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Some housekeeping.

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