Tucked deep in Montenegro's hills lies one of the country's most quietly extraordinary places: Rijeka Crnojevića, a river and the small settlement that shares its name. For centuries, their beauty has drawn artists here, seeking something the coast alone can't offer.
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The narrow, sheer road winds on endlessly. Up. Down. Despite the sharp turns, you find yourself stopping — captivated by the emerald water of the Crnojević River as it flows into Lake Skadar, framing the pyramid-shaped island peaks that rise toward the sky and stretch away toward the horizon.
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Many centuries ago, when Montenegro still bore the name Zeta, its lands were ruled by a wise and courageous lord — Ivan Crnojević. He was not only a statesman but a passionate hunter. It was said that his horse was swifter than the wind, and his eye sharper than an eagle's.
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The Monastery of the Holy Archangel Michael is a truly extraordinary place, drenched in flowers, surrounded by the waters of the Bay of Tivat, with views of the Luštica peninsula on one side and Tivat on the other. Here you simply want to be — to be, and to be still — and Father Benedict, the monastery's abbot, a man of remarkable beauty of spirit, seems to radiate calm, goodness, and light.
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Praskvica Monastery remains one of Montenegro's most cherished places. The monastery, home to the Church of Saint Nicholas (whose icon was consecrated in Jerusalem), sits on a mountain slope, offering a breathtaking panoramic view over the entire Budva Riviera — from the island of Sveti Stefan, Montenegro's postcard image (extraordinarily picturesque and famous for the celebrities who once lived there), to the old town of Budva and the island of Saint Nicholas (known locally as "Hawaii").
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My foot sinks slowly into the warm, caressing sand. A ticklish thrill spreads through my whole body at the touch of its shifting, granular give. I slow my pace to savor it, to feel every grain, the way one might parse an orchestra's score in an effort to hear each instrument's separate voice. I'm on Velika Plaža — "Great Beach" — the ocean-wide, endless, sandy shore of Ulcinj, the ancient Montenegrin town where Don Quixote once seduced his Dulcinea.
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There is a rhythm in a Vedic village that has nothing to do with the clock. I learned to eat by it, sleep by it, and eventually, think by it — and I brought as much of it home with me as a person reasonably can.
The fishing boats go out before anyone at the guesthouse is awake. I've started waking early just to watch it — the quietest, least performative part of the whole coast.