Empty fishermen's boats lie quiet and still on transparent shallows, revealing life below the shoreline: a miasma of rocks and algae and fledgling sea creatures. Shoals of young fish skitter by undisturbed, as of yet, by mid summer's motor boats and noisy tourists.
Peace, quiet and stillness reign supreme and Boka's dress of jewels are flaunted for its real admirers.
After the summer, when the crowds of tourists have finally returned home, the bay slowly and determinedly reverts into its autumn character. The motor boats have left, the extraneous clatter of unwelcome fun seekers has faded, and now the beauty of Boka reveals itself in a different mood and tone: glassy still waters reflect soulful, sweet, magenta sunsets; and, the last golden hours, just before, caress the bows of fishermen's drifting boats. Time for long walks and thoughts and the opportunity to immerse oneself in an empty watery space of tonal pastel colours, divinely calm and empty of people.
On the hottest autumnal days, the clouds and sun conspire to set the sky ablaze with thrilling sunsets: magenta hues colliding with brilliant golds and fiery oranges stopping casual walkers in their tracks. Nature's sky born fireworks amazing even the most jaded viewer.
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As winter approaches and daylight hours diminish, the bay retracts and sleeps. Tranquility takes hold. The first coat of snow clothes the jagged peaks of Lovcen's sloping shoulders and pallid pink winter sunsets caress its crest. And, whereas in summer, Lovcen's lofty peaks could hardly compete with Boka's brilliant sea colours, it now takes center stage towering defiantly over its watery playmate, otherworldly and mysterious.
All images and words © 2014-2018 Flavia Brilli.
Human Seasons
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
By John Keats
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