Kotor

The alarm went off at five-thirty and I cursed it for exactly the time it took to remember where I was. Kotor. The walls. I pulled on my shoes in the dark and walked out into an old town that felt like the set of a film where the crew had gone home — cobblestones still wet from overnight rain, a cat watching me from a windowsill without particular concern, the smell of stone and salt water and something baking somewhere already. The entrance to the wall climb is just inside the city gate, up a stone staircase that begins politely before becoming something else entirely. One thousand three hundred steps to the fortress of San Giovanni. I counted some of them. I stopped counting somewhere around the point where the bay began to appear below me through gaps in the crenellations, flat and silver, the mountains on the opposite shore dissolving into morning mist.

Kotor is famous for its cats. This is not mere tourist mythology — the animals are genuinely everywhere, lounging on Roman foundations, accepting fish scraps from restaurant terraces, occupying the center of the Piazza delle Armi as if by feudal right. There is a small cat museum tucked inside the old town, which tells you something about the relationship between city and feline. The Venetians brought the cats to control the rats on the ships; the cats stayed and made the place their own. A sensible decision. The old town itself wears its Venetian heritage with straightforward pride: the Church of Saint Tryphon, Kotor’s patron, anchors the main square with its asymmetrical bell towers — one finished a century after the other, and the mismatch has become, like many things in Kotor, a point of local distinction.

In the afternoon, I found a restaurant with four tables where the owner brought out a plate of sardines I hadn’t ordered, explained with hand gestures that this was simply what was happening right now, and was right. The sardines were fresh from the bay that morning — grilled over charcoal, split open, scattered with rough salt and a wedge of lemon. The bread came from somewhere nearby and was still warm. The carafe of white wine was local and cold. This is the version of Kotor that exists before the cruise ships dock and after they leave. The trick is to be awake for the right hours.

When to go: May and September are ideal. In July and August, the old town’s narrow lanes become genuinely impassable — the crowds, the heat, the diesel smell from the harbor. September still has warm sea water and gives you the city back. April is cool and quiet, with the walls entirely to yourself.