Monte Mosor

“From Sebenico a little railroad, recently constructed, takes one on to Spalato. The distance is about forty miles, to which one gives five hours in the train! The track first winds through small inlaid valleys planted with vines, whose autumn russets contrast with the dull green of olives. Soon we mount into more arid regions. All is sad and bleak and barren - not a tree, not a shrub. Dry river-courses run down the gorges - raging torrents they are at times, after heavy rains. Now and then loose stones piled up frame a sheep-fold or form low walls to hedge in patches of earth. […]. A few weak vineyards, built at the cost of how much toil, descend into the depths of marshy valleys - lakes in winter, stone-dry in summer. Not a house in sight; no sign of life but a shepherd wrapped in his mantle, still as bronze, and farther on a goose-girl down in a shaded hollow. Ever higher we go and higher, till suddenly the top of the pass is reached and a new world opens to our eager eyes.

We are on the crest of the Mosor. From its dizzy height the eye drops unhindered down to where fold on fold of mountain sweeps to lower levels, luxuriant with vines and olives - the land of promise after the wilderness. Headlands like dark tongues shoot out to lick the shimmering sea, radiant in the silver light of noonday. Man has taken possession of this land of milk and honey, for down along the water’s edge villages are seen and castles; houses dot the hill-slopes, and high upon a commanding peak a pilgrim church gives thanks unto the heavens. This is the Riviera of the Seven Castles, and at its far end lies Spalato” (pp. 76-77).