Ahoy sailors! Hope you all had a blissful bank holiday. No doubt you’ll have heard that it’s been quite stormy in the Med recently. Mercifully, we were spared any tornados during our time in Montenegro, but there’s been plenty of precipitation, plus thunder and lightening to keep us on our toes. Obviously, being the indoorsy kind of gal I am, I thoroughly enjoyed battening down the hatches for a couple of days - retreating into the galley with a book and a bowl of pasta. But others have been less fortunate: the news of the tragedy off the coast of Palermo has really rocked us - and serves as a poignant reminder of the often unpredictable power of the sea. 

In much happier megayacht-related news, we’ve been rubbing sterns with some seriously snazzy boats these past few weeks. Montenegro is a millionaires’ playground and no place more so than the newly-built waterfront of Tivat - a small town in the Bay of Kotor brimming with gin palaces, designer shops (like there is literally a Balenciaga) and swanky restaurants. Still, Chazzle and I plumped for dinner from a backstreet takeaway joint that does burek (like a pasty but with more pastry: heaven) for €2 a pop, which we ate while sitting on a wall, like a pair of paupers - gawping at all the glamorous people strutting up and down the promenade. 

But! I’m getting ahead of myself! First, a bit of context. It might be smaller than Wales and younger than YouTube (literally it only became a country in 2006) - but Montenegro punches well above its weight in terms of posh marinas, mountains and many other things besides. Culturally, it feels like a blend of Croatia and Italy (by which I mean we’ve been eating a lot of seafood pasta). And while the coastline is relatively short (a mere 240km to Greece’s 13,000), what it lacks in mileage, it makes up for in clear blue water, pretty towns and quiet bays. Quite the shift from Albania, let me tell you. 

We’ve spent much of our time in the Bay of Kotor - an enormous inlet that imo feels like Lake Como, with blue water, bustling boat traffic, and idyllic little towns lining the shore. Perast is particularly pretty - with its narrow streets, Baroque architecture and domed churches. Still, we had little time for sightseeing, as there was precious cargo to pick up: Charlie’s brother Tom, his boyfriend George and our friend Ophelia were all stood on the dock waiting to be rescued (at 35C it really was too hot to be hanging about).

So, we set sail for Kotor - a medieval town deep in the belly of the bay - hidden from view by ancient walls. After a batch of sunset banana coladas (Chazzle’s new speciality) and the obligatory first-day-of-holiday family row (something about loo roll - will spare you the deets), we pootled into town. Unfortunately, several ships’-worth of people had the same idea (the Bay of Kotor is a popular spot for cruise liners), so the sweet little pasta restaurant we had pinpointed had a queue out the door. Remaining resolute, we settled in an equally charming-looking establishment in a nice little square - only realising we’d fallen for a classic tourist trap when the slow-cooked ragu we ordered tasted EXACTLY like tinned spaghetti hoops. 

Undeterred, we returned to the town the following morning to tackle the Ladder of Kotor - a winding path up a crumbling mountain, with a fortress at the top. Here, for a mere €15 entrance fee, hikers are rewarded with spectacular views over the bay. Unfortunately, Charlie would rather eat his own arm than part with €15, so he insisted we take the alternative route, which involved clambering up a wall and through a window. By this point, we were all actually dying of thirst, so were delighted to discover a “cafe” at the top of the hill, where a local man with no teeth and a donkey was flogging pomegranate juice, plus a variety of slightly dubious-looking cheeses. Hungry though we were, we resisted - instead opting for breakfast in a little cafe in town once we got back down. It was at this point - over a stack of American-style pancakes - that George proceeded to turn a distinct grey-green colour. 

Just as we feared: the spaghetti hoops had given him food poisoning. In fact, George was so unwell that, when we reached Tivat a few hours later, Tom tendered him to shore and booked him into a hotel - where he promptly proceeded to projectile in the lobby loo. Back on board, with one man down, we all anxiously awaited our destiny - biding our time by playing the all-new non-contact sport Paddleboard Wars, which we are quite convinced should appear in the 2028 Olympics, along with safety diving and squidding.

Miraculously, we seemed to have been spared the aggressive virus then coursing through George’s digestive system, so headed onto land for a celebratory bowl of seafood spaghetti. If you ever visit Montenegro (seriously, you should!) you MUST go to the restaurant on the waterside which I think is called Divino and you MUST order the zucchini prawn pasta. Do you hear me? It’s amazing. Ok, a bottle of house white will set you back €45 (Toto, we are not in Albania anymore) but the views across the water are divine. Also, while you’re in town, do pop to the gelateria along the promenade and order no fewer than three scoops (not to be too dictatorial about things but I’d go for pistachio, hazelnut and tiramisu if I were you). 

Bellies brimming, we headed back to the Turtle and each fell into a food coma - returning to land the following morning to collect George, who had mercifully made a full recovery. After an iced latte and a bit of fantasy megayacht shopping, we were off to Bigova - a small village centred around an idyllic little bay. George - a talented artist - was so taken by it that he whipped out his easel and spent the afternoon painting while the rest of us drank banana coladas and played Monopoly Deal. Come dinnertime, we were all extremely excited to visit Grispolis - a sweet looking taverna-style restaurant overlooking the bay. Unfortunately it was cash only, and after a quick whip-round we realised that we only had €100 between five of us. Still, being the scrimpers that we are, we managed to order five bowls of prawn pasta (vvvvvvg) and a bottle of house white - me literally counting out the pennies in order to pay the bill while the waiter looked on bemused.

The following morning involved a lengthy debate about whether or not we should brave Budva (Montenegro’s famous party town). Charlie - who lives in fear of loud music and jet-skis - was firmly opposed. But in the end I persuaded him by pointing out that we really should visit a cash machine. After anchoring in the bay, we zoomed to shore in the tender and went for a stroll around the old town, which was lovely - with vg ancient walls and pretty streets (marred only slightly by the very persistent shop owners flogging fridge-magnets and cushions with pictures of cats on them).

Still, concerned that we might spontaneously combust in the heat, we returned to the Turtle for a swim. But after encountering several parasailers with worryingly little spatial awareness, decided to press on to the fishing village of Sveti Stefan, situated on a tiny island, connected to the mainland by a pretty walkway. When we arrived, however, we were devastated to discover that the entire village is now a private luxury resort, closed off to the riff-raff. So, George resorted to standing on deck with his easel and painting it from afar. The night was saved - as so many nights are - by a big batch of feta pasta, followed by the UPF-riddled pre-prepared trileche that Chazzle and I had picked up for emergencies in an Albanian supermarket - plus the new Twisters film, which I almost entirely slept through. 

I was grateful for the extra shuteye when, at around 4AM, we were all suddenly awoken by a series of enormous waves. After a few hours of being violently rocked about in our beds, we decided to cut our losses and sail back up to Bigova, where we enjoyed a delightful day of swimming and playing bananagrams and singing quite a lot of Will Young. In the evening - having picked up some cash in Budva - we returned to Grispolis for dinner, determined to order starters AND desserts - resulting in what was quite literally the best meal of the entire trip: calamari (but like really good crispy calamari), proper home-cooked chips, prawn spaghetti AND chocolate soufflé (which had a candle in it because Tom told the waiter it was my birthday - resulting in the whole restaurant singing to me) (which obviously I was delighted by). And - as if that wasn’t enough - we played the card game The Mind - and got to LEVEL FOUR which is actually unheard of.

The next morning, feeling jubilant, I was about to go for a swim when I heard a splattering sound coming from a nearby boat: the French family next door had a blockage in their tanks - resulting in sewage spurting from the overflow into the clear blue waters of the bay. But George distracted us from the horror of it all by presenting us with his wonderful painting as a parting gift. The trio were set to fly home that day, so Chazzle dropped them to shore, where they hopped in a taxi and proceeded to get stuck in traffic for several hours.

No sooner had they sprinted through the airport and on to their plane, black clouds began to roll in - and it proceeded to piss it down for two days. I was, as mentioned, delighted by this - and insisted we sit downstairs playing bananagrams, eating pasta and watching films exclusively starring Paul Rudd (seriously have you seen I Love You Man? It really is a modern classic).

Once the storm had passed, Charlie fished out his snorkel and headed out for a swim - returning with a bucketful of mussels he’d foraged from some nearby ropes. We boiled them up in white wine and garlic and devoured them for lunch - so in raptures that for a while we completely forgot about those pesky Frenchies and their recent transgressions. But really, what’s a bit of sewage contamination in the grand scheme of things?