Here you slalom among them through tranquil lagoons and narrow channels. Notable are Levrnaka, with its sandy beach and excellent fish and seafood restaurant; Zut and its complex coastline; and Mana, for its dramatic cliff topped with ruins created for a 1959 film. I stopped at random and followed paths through the pines out to a ridge. The sea shimmered, the islands were dark discs in the glare. I dived into the still waters of a cove. You can almost persuade yourself that no one has ever set foot here before. It is spare, timeless, silent. Of these isles George Bernard Shaw, in an uncharacteristic outbreak of lyricism, wrote, ‘The gods wanted to crown their work and on the last day they created the Kornati islands out of tears, stars and breath.’ The archipelago’s history makes it both enticing and inhospitable. There are signs of habitation that date from the Neolithic era, but now, Elena explained, no one lives here full time. On the one hand, the water is beautiful, there are ample fish, some good pastureland and sheltered bays. On the other hand, the wind has always blown fiercely and good soil is scarce. And, of course, pirate attacks and the kidnapping of shepherds to turn them into galley slaves were once real issues. Remains of stone walls, harbours, olive orchards, forts and sea-salt refineries are vestiges of man’s on-again, off-again relationship with the Kornatis.
My journey through them ended in the small city of Sibenik, with its magnificent UNESCO-listed Cathedral of St James. I walked its labyrinthine alleyways but was soon hit by a downpour and took a taxi back to Zadar. In the morning I met Elena for her tour, which was funny and touching, particularly when we arrived at the ninth-century Church of St Donatus. It was constructed in imitation of Charlemagne’s court chapel, on a foundation of pillars left over from a Roman forum. After all the devastation visited on this town, the simple church is still intact and hosts concerts. We finished the jaunt in its bell tower.
Looking down on the city built on interconnecting islands and out to the sea beyond, Elena recalled her first glimpse of Zadar. ‘It was December. The light alone mesmerised me,’ she said. This place was totally flattened by Allied bombers late in World War II. Before that, everyone else seems to have been through it and taken a piece while leaving behind a little of their glory – the Huns, Venetians, Hungarians, French, Austrians, Germans, Italians. In the early 1990s, Serbs attacked from air, sea and land. The fact that the locals are hardworking and resourceful, not to mention stubborn, said Elena, is what spurred them to rebuild the home that they love so much. ‘And now I love it too,’ she adds. ‘The shades of orange tiles on the roofs, the a cappella singers who keep on singing, and the people’s capacity to survive.’