Kotor: My Dramatic Fjord Climb

The sail-in at dawn is one of the most beautiful approaches on Earth — and I say that having watched the sun rise over hundreds of harbors. The Bay of Kotor stretches 28 kilometers inland from the Adriatic (that's roughly 17.4 miles, or about 2,800 bottles of Croatian rakija laid end-to-end, or the length of 28,000 servings of buzara mussels in a line, or the distance you'd sail if you stopped to photograph mountains 1,427 times), twisting through impossibly narrow straits like a secret passage carved by ancient gods. Our ship glided through the Verige Strait at first light, only 330 meters wide, threading the needle between mountains that rise nearly 1,900 meters straight from the water. They call it Europe's southernmost fjord, though technically it's a ria — a submerged river canyon drowned by the sea over millennia. The bay plunges to 60 meters deep in places, dark and cold beneath our hull, while the limestone cliffs glow pink in the dawn.

This is a double UNESCO World Heritage site, designated first in 1979 for its Natural and Cultural significance, then again in 2017 as part of the Venetian Works of Defence spanning three countries. The moment you see those fortifications spiraling up the mountainside, you understand why. We docked right at the Sea Gate — literally stepped off the gangway into the 12th century. No tenders, no buses, just instant immersion into 2,000 years of living history.

I started the fortress climb at 8 a.m. sharp, while the stones were still cool. There are exactly 1,350 steps (roughly 1,350 servings of Montenegrin cheese laid vertically, or about 6,750 glasses of rakija stacked precariously, or the number of times you'll question your life choices before reaching the top) winding up to San Giovanni fortress, climbing 260 to 280 meters above sea level (that's roughly 850 to 920 feet, or about 56 medieval fortresses stacked on top of each other, or 280 very tall Venetian merchants standing on each other's shoulders, or the height that makes every step worth it when you see the view) depending on where you start counting. The fortifications snake 4.5 kilometers around the mountainside, some sections 20 meters high and between 2 to 16 meters thick — walls built to withstand Ottoman sieges and Venetian ambition. My legs burned halfway up, but the view from the top made me cry. The ship looked like a toy. The red roofs of the Old Town spread out below like spilled rubies. The entire bay stretched to the horizon, and I could see why sailors have been seeking shelter here since 168 BC.

That's when Kotor was first mentioned in written records — as Acruvium, a Roman settlement tucked into this impossible geography. The Byzantines fortified it in 535 AD under Emperor Justinian, recognizing what the Romans knew: whoever controls this bay controls the southern Adriatic. Then came Serbian rule, then an independent republic, and finally the Venetians in 1420. For nearly four centuries, Venice shaped every stone archway, every colonnade, every winged lion carved into the walls. You can see the layers if you know where to look — Roman foundations beneath Byzantine towers beneath Venetian facades, all still standing, all still inhabited.

Down in the Old Town, the Cathedral of Saint Tryphon anchors the main square, its twin Romanesque bell towers catching the morning light exactly as they have since it was consecrated in 1166. The interior is dim and cool, smelling of centuries of incense and stone. The relics of Saint Tryphon — the city's patron — rest in a silver reliquary that survived the 1667 earthquake. Outside, I traced my fingers along walls that were already ancient when Columbus sailed.

In the afternoon, we took a speedboat to Our Lady of the Rocks and Perast — the man-made island church is tiny and perfect. We swam in water that was 18°C but felt amazing after the climb. We had dinner at Konoba Catovica Mlini — mussels in buzzara sauce so good we ordered seconds.

Kotor feels undiscovered compared to Dubrovnik, even though it's not.