“The Mediterranean as it once was.”
As tourism slogans go, this one has always held a special allure for me. Launched by the Croatian tourist board to invigorate its ailing vacation industry after the breakup of Yugoslavia, it’s a motto that has graced billboards and glossy magazine ads for a decade. And this morning, I’ve stepped off the ferry onto an island that embodies the claim better than any other.
Lying 30 miles off the Croatian mainland, Vis is the remotest of the populated Dalmatians, the archipelago of 1,185 islands that pepper the eastern Adriatic like seeds scattered by the sirocco wind. Like many of its neighbors, it has always boasted the raw materials necessary to become a quintessential Mediterranean bolt-hole: miles of pebbled beaches, grape-and-olive agriculture and seafood by the netful. But it was a unique quirk of history that set it on course to fulfill the slogan’s halcyon promise. On the Mediterranean authenticity scale, Vis strikes an exquisite old-school note, the perfect balance between amenity and low-key local charm.




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