Sleep. Sun. Swim. Eat. Repeat. If you're my roommate, you also sundial to get maximum rays. As a pale Scottish girl, I'll never win a tanning competition. But despite SPF 60, I still won most improved. I don't think either of us stopped smiling for four straight days.
The beach at Bol is a beautiful, natural, ever-changing peninsula. Its title as the third best beach in Europe would be surprising to many North Americans as it's all rocks, no sand. But something needs to be clarified - smooth rocks, all sharp edges worn down by the lapping waves. After three solid beach days without the sneaky surprise of sand in unwelcome places, I was sold. Every morning after coffee on the terrace of our lovely new room (which was half the price of the old with twice the charm), we made our way into town for breakfast. Then, we either strolled the smooth stone path or hopped a water taxi to our beach - the biggest decisions of the day being which side of the peninsula to relax on and which were the optimum beach chairs to rent.
The heat was tempered by regular dips in the water I still can't believe isn't dyed, and the end of summer crowds had thinned considerably.
We had daily aperitivos on our beautiful terrace while the sun set.
One day Wendy went diving and I splurged on a beach-front massage. On another, we took a day trip to Hvar and ate on point sea batt (aka sea bass) and pillowy gnocchi overlooking the harbour.
Our landlady was a gem, and a serious character to boot. Not only did she greet us with fresh figs, juice and coffee almost every time she saw us, she rescued us from a fate worse than death. Or more accurately, Wendy's laundry. Our second to last evening, some hand-washing was done and hung to dry before we headed into town to eat at Mr. Kebab, our new favourite hang-out.
A very strong wind started up on our walk back, and with a worried frown my roommate let me have first dibs on the bathroom so she could check on the entire contents of her backpack on the line outside our window. She ducked her head back in with a look of horror - everything was gone. Already in glasses and pajamas at this point, I agreed to hold the fort down while she sought help. Two minutes later, my subdued reading in bed was interrupted by the door bursting open. Our nightshirt-clad landlady, curlers wrapped tightly in her hair, leaped in, brandishing a rake. No, this was no Halloween movie but rather an honest attempt at collecting the clothing from the hillside. Eventually the two of them traipsed around the hillside to pass the laundry back inside through the window and all was rescued. After that chaos, Wendy was rewarded with the A/C on turbo setting all night long. Even if I had to wear pants and a hoody pulled over my head in order to stay warm. Wendy - I am still not your ice cube.
Leaving Bol on August 30th was a challenge, and not just because the catamaran left at 6:30am. We really loved our place there and just didn't want to leave our beloved Balkans in general.
Fortunately, there was a crowd of twelve teenagers on the dock, still drunk and passing around a twenty-sixer, who shrieked and slurred their way through Croatian folk songs as a send-off back to the mainland. Suddenly, leaving was preferable. Until next year.
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