Ante picked us up in the morning, and we headed up the hill to check out the Venetian fort/dragon. We were slightly off-season, or maybe it was because it wasn’t midday but morning – but there were very few people there. Us, and a couple of hikers. The fort is even more impressive up close. WALLS of impenetrable stone. There are these huge plants that look like aloe plants on steroids: the skin is so thick that people have carved their initials into it. This is the agave plant, and Ante ripped off one of the hard string-like threads that make up the interior of the leaves (once you tear a bit of it off). He told us how they make lace from this plant, these strings, and there was a convent just over there – he pointed vaguely at the town below – where the Benedictine nuns sit and make the lace from agave leaves.
Speaking of “the town below”: it really gives a sense of the serial-killer-in-the-watch-tower POV of that fort. You’re staring straight down into Hvar below, the steeples, the boats, you can clearly see people. It’s incredibly awe-inspiring – plus out into the bay and the little string of islands beyond. The Venetians manning this fort were NOT MESSING AROUND.
You can’t go into the fort but you can wander around the periphery. There is no guardrail to keep you from plummeting down the nearly vertical hill. We hung out up there for a while, walking around, or just sitting on one of the benches perched on the cliff, looking out at the view, and it was a hell of a view.
That’s Rachel and Ante. We loved Ante.
Speaking of loving Ante: after we got our fill hanging out at the fort, he said, “I can take you to a spot even higher. One of the highest spots on the island. You have to know how to get there.” Because of our by this point well-known height-issues, we were like, “Higher than this??” But what are we gonna do? Say no to ANTE? Hell no! Besides, this is why we went with these guys. They know the good places, and they are not beholden to 1. a schedule and 2. the size of a tour bus. A tour bus for SURE could not go where we ended up going. Ante careened up a back road, one of the old roads of Hvar. Even narrower than the normal Croatian roads. Granted, the cars are smaller there, no honking SUVs, but still … there were places where you definitely had to pull over to let someone else go by. But THIS road? It was basically a one-way road. There were moments where we zoomed around the side of a hill, with a precipitous drop down to the sea, and there was no guardrail. My God, what have we gotten ourselves into.
At a small plateau-type area, with a small shrine, Ante pulled over. We got out. This was NOT our final destination but he wanted to show us something. The shrine was put up there in 1937, put up by a Croatian man who returned from America. It’s dedicated to Saint Dominic. People leave little gifts, and make little towering rock piles around it. But what Ante wanted to show us was the remnants of “Napoleon’s Road.” Again, with the Napoleon love … Napoleon who made the trains run on time. Napoleon only occupied this coastline for a brief period, but his impact can still be felt. He built a road, up and over the mountainous Hvar landscape, connecting two of the main towns (if I recall correctly). His whole thing was increasing the possibility of communication. It was pretty incredible to see.
Living history.
Rick Steves was an ongoing running joke. I never heard of the guy. Rachel and Ante (and Davor, later) were well-versed and shocked at my ignorance. Ante was pissed because the first edition of Steves’ book on Croatia put that famous bridge in MOSTAR on the cover. Which is in BOSNIA, NOT Croatia Later, one of Steves’ writers ended up taking a tour with Ante, and Ante said, “You know that that book on Croatia has a picture of Bosnia on the cover.” The next edition? It was fixed. Go, Ante. (Ante pulled up on his phone the two different covers.) The fact that I didn’t know about Rick Steves seemed suddenly like a faux pas of the highest order. How on earth had I MISSED him? Ante said, “It’s like not knowing what McDonalds is” and I gave him a look and he burst out laughing. Rachel and Ante so ganged up on me. It’s too late now for me learn about Rick Steves. (What kind of name is that, by the way?) There are only so many hours in the day.
After our brief pitstop, we got back in the car and continued our climb, up and up and up. Finally, we reached the top. We saw no one on our way up. No other cars approaching us, no cars behind us. We DID see one of our bikers whiz by, but besides him, emptiness. At the top, there was a little family-owned restaurant and a woman behind a little stand, selling the products she and her husband grow together. Ante took us over to talk to her. (I had told him I had wanted to buy some lavender products grown on the island.) She sold lavendar, rosemary, olive oil, essential oils all made from herbs on the island, all grown/prepared by her and her husband. She was very nice and was talking with me and Rachel about all of the things her oils were good for. (Rachel murmured to me after, “Is there anything lavendar CAN’T do?”) Ante – this big huge guy, manly and unembarrassed about it (“Do you cook Ante?” “No. But I grill. You know. Man stuff.” I love you, Ante.) was is standing there with us, listening. The woman says, “Rosemary oil is good for headaches, for this, for that, it cures this, it cures that … it is also good for woman problems, for menstrual cramps … or you can put some of the oil on your tampon —” Ante turned and walked away. He did it silently, with no fuss, did not make a big deal about it, he just basically dissolved into thin air. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing – and the woman – who had been pitching us HARD on her products (and you can bet I bought some) – also started laughing – a little womanly moment like, “Oh, the fragility of men …” we kept it fairly quiet, because nobody wants to make fun of Ante, but it was so funny imagining Ante’s thought process: “This is nice, hearing all the nice things this oil does, this local oil, this is so nice, oh my God, tampon, goodbye.” Poof.
Then we had an incredible lunch in this empty restaurant with an outdoor terrace, shaded by little slatted roof. We drank wine. Lots of it. Well, three glasses for me is a lot. Ante did not drink, it should go without saying. Rachel and I were like, “Wow. We’re kind of buzzed. And this wine is awesome. And what time is it again? And oh my God this food is so good. We have matching hats. We love you, Ante. More wine.”
It was my favorite trip thus far, on that winding back road up the mountain, past a road Napoleon built two centuries ago.
