Is ‘morning tourism’ a thing? My phone registered a first photo at 6:31 am.
The 500m, early-light walk from our flat down to the sea front in the quiet fishing village of Postira was paused every few metres to allow our eyes to take in the view across the Splitski Kanal (The Split Channel), a strip of the Adriatic which divides mainland Croatia from Brač, the second-largest of the Dalmatian islands. This waterside gem is where traditional architecture and modern island life intertwine seamlessly.
The temperature hadn’t yet reached the levels where the pine trees release their perfume, nor had the cicadas begun their buzzing to signal that it’s hit 25(ish) degrees. My sleepy brain searched for adequate descriptors as titles of books I haven’t read (but should) floated into my head as we find a coffee spot among the seaview cafés: Far from the Madding Crowd and A Room with a View. The soft-focus clarity of the Mediterranean morning light has not yet been blurred by the heat haze of an August day. This was not a bad way to wake up.
You notice a different crowd at 7 am: a quieter scene that allows for deeper people-watching and idle speculation.
Joining groups of older men chatting in (we assumed) Croatian at a café overlooking the little harbour, we imagined they were local business folk: boat owners waiting to take visitors on island tours; restaurant managers enjoying coffee at someone else’s table before starting service at their own; Airbnb hosts gearing up for a busy Saturday changeover day. They could have been other tourists, for all we knew. The joy of not understanding the Croatian language is that we’ll never know one way or the other. It’s remarkably freeing to lose yourself in foreignness.
The Mexican/Greek/MBA classroom parable about the billionaire and the fisherman sprang to mind:
A billionaire is on holiday in a small coastal village. He sees a fisherman sitting by his boat, relaxing in the sun after bringing in his morning catch. The billionaire asks, “Why aren’t you out fishing for more?” The fisherman replies, “Because I’ve caught enough fish for my family for today. Now I’m going to enjoy the rest of the day — play with my kids, take a nap, and spend the evening with my friends.”
The billionaire says, “But if you fished more, you could sell the extra catch, save up, buy a bigger boat, hire crew, and eventually own a whole fleet. Then you could open a fish-processing plant, export worldwide, and make millions!” The fisherman asks, “And then what?” The billionaire replies, “Then you could retire, move to a small village by the sea, relax, fish a little, spend time with your family, and enjoy life!”
The fisherman smiles, “Isn’t that exactly what I’m doing now?”
Err… yup. Wallowing in such romanticism, a fisherman’s life in Croatia suddenly seemed very appealing.
So, who else is around not long after sunrise?
Coffee-drinking while people-studying also picks up on what appears to be the ‘dad shift’: fathers with babies strapped to their chests on a gentle stroll, presumably giving night-duty mums a chance to sleep. And before the heat kicks in.
Runners run by taking advantage of the cooler air to keep their bodies beach-body-fit. (I wasn’t yet awake enough to feel guilty that I should be doing the same.)
Wandering around the village, I came across the church of St. John the Baptist, a 16th-century building that sits beside the ruins of an early Christian basilica (sixth century). Another slash cut from the old with the new(ish). Sitting on picnic benches in the shade of the courtyard trees, a Saturday morning five-person prayer group quietly chanted their devotions.
Cutting down a tiny lane to a pebbly beach, a handful of early-bird swimmers broke the clear, dappled waters with their breaststroke. One man waded into the gentle lapping with his dog in his arms. The dog was less keen on the idea and swam straight back to the beach, but his master stayed submerged in the cool aquamarine water.
A white sculpture, ‘Woman looking out to sea’, had the company of a lone fisherman. In contrast to the wholesomeness of the setting, his messy fisherman’s kit and cigarette hanging from his lip were at odds with my pre-idealised, Insta-ready photo plans. But I couldn’t leave a fishing village without a fisherman photo, could I?
Ready for breakfast-on-the-go, the baker’s door revealed not dissimilar goodies to the ones familiar in France. Veering away from the croissant route, I went for a burek, a Balkan favourite made of flaky pastry, filled with spinach and cheese. I wondered if my digestion of this weighty snack was aided or hindered by the baker’s fluent English versus my one-word Croatian vocabulary.
Hvala—thank you—seemed a good place to begin shy attempts at speaking the local language.
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