Sweaty Steven

With the rain gods splashing water around like it’s going out of fashion, and the beaches closed due to huge waves, there hasn’t been a whole lot to do around Budva, Montenegro. So I toodled up to the bus station, told the little bloke behind the counter that I wanted to go somewhere fun, and I wanted to go there now, and he cheerfully told me to head to a place called Sveti Stefan. I thought he said Sweaty Steven, and was ready to punch his lights out for sending me to an obese homosexual prostitute, but the misunderstanding was quickly resolved when his very large friend stepped in and politely suggested that I not fucking do that.

Turns out Sveti Stefan is a tiny fortified village about 8km south of Budva, and it really is quite scenic. It was built in the 1400s and soon became a haven for pirates, before becoming a bustling village a few hundred years later. At some point the villagers were forced out by the government, who transformed the island into an exclusive resort for the rich and famous.

And Kirk Douglas.

Of course, when I got there it was pouring rain and there was a wind strong enough to sit me on my arse, but I still copped a great view of the little place. The parts of the village that sit on the mainland are pleasant to walk through, and the beach at the bottom would be lovely in the right weather. Actually, that might not be true. When I walked down to the sand, an angry Montenegroan rushed over and started yelling and gesturing at me, and it wasn’t hard to work out that I wasn’t allowed on the beach. Hmmmm.

I wasn’t there for the beach, anyway, so I started swaggering across the narrow walkway that joins Sveti Stefan to the coast. When I was halfway across, I heard the idiot yelling his head off again, and turned around to see him racing after me again. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, so I just kept walking, until I felt a tug on the back of my shirt.
“You no go, is hotel!” he yodelled, and I decided not to walk any further, lest he throw me in the ocean or try to kiss me or something.

So, you can’t explore the ancient island of Sveti Stefan unless you’re willing to cough up a couple of grand a night (I’m paying $50 a night for my studio and that’s breaking the bank, so it’s a bit out of my price range). I reckon that’s bullshit. It’s like if some rich prick came along and bought Mount Druitt, and wouldn’t let anyone explore it. What a fucking shame that would be!

It wasn’t a complete bust, though. I ended the day with a thoroughly enjoyable ride in a cutting-edge aircraft. And, just between you and me, I even joined the two-metre-high club when I was in there! By myself, yeah, but it still counts.