Postcard from Bjelila

Here I am again — in Bjelila.

Hidden on the Luštica peninsula, in the area of Krtoli, between the village of Radovići and the coast facing the Tivat Bay, Bjelila is one of those places that time hasn’t quite managed to change — at least, not yet.

I’m not sure how objective I can be while writing about Bjelila, a place that holds so many beautiful memories for me. I have spent most of my childhood there with my grandparents — every single summer, without exception. Part of my family comes from there, some still live there. It is the place where I made several “friends for life,” learned to swim, fell in love for the first time, got married, and later, as a mother, passed my love for Bjelila on to my daughter.

I always return with the same excitement, as if I were coming for the first time. The moment I reach “Kod Rogača”, the crossroads where the road turns toward Bjelila, and the view over the bay suddenly opens up — takes my breath away, every single time.

Bjelila used to be a small fishing village, with a few stone houses whose lower floors were used as konobas — cellars where wine, fishing nets, and boat gear were stored. There were about twenty of them, clustered together on a tiny peninsula, forming one harmonious whole.

According to local legend, the name Bjelila comes from the word bijeliti — “to whiten.” It is said that long ago, women from Boka used to come here, to the Frutak spring, to wash and “whiten” their laundry. That spring still exists today. I heard this story from my grandmother, who was born here — so there’s no doubt, it’s a verified source.
Frutak is a spring of fresh water — ice-cold and crystal clear. Along with Frutak, there are three more springs and a small stream, all flowing into the sea and keeping it clean. Because of this, the sea around Bjelila is considered, according to the Institute of Marine Biology, the cleanest on the entire Montenegrin coast. I can’t guarantee the accuracy of that claim, but I like the thought of it.
Frutak was a mandatory stop on the way back from the beach — that’s where Čika Đuro always kept his sodas and beer chilled, and my friend and I would sometimes, like “true Bokeljke,” rinse the salt off our towels in its cold, fresh water.

We used to swim at the Mulo — that’s the name of the beach. Mulo is actually a pier for mooring boats but, for us, it was the perfect place for jumping into the sea, playing games, or volleyball. The best part, though, was climbing the rocky shores — the “seke” — on both sides of it. Rough and sharp, full of hidden crevices and tiny coves, they were our little world of adventure. Every step had to be careful — the rocks were slippery from salt and seaweed — but to us, it felt like being on a great, brave expedition.
Those rocks are gone now. In their place, concrete platforms have been made, flat and neat, where you can comfortably lie on a towel or a sunbed and enjoy the sun. That was never appealing to me — but of course, it’s a matter of personal taste. Some prefer comfort, others the old, natural charm.

From the Mulo, there’s a view of St. Michael’s Island (Miholjska Prevlaka – Island of Flowers), St. Mark’s Island, Our Lady of Mercy, and the entire Tivat Bay. It used to be a lively, yet peaceful scene — the sea was full of boards with colorful sails that “caught” the wind, sandolins, speedboats that towed skiers, boats were mostly rowed, and sometimes a submarine surfaced.

My grandfather often went out to sea to catch fish with his traps (vrša), and he would bring back fonge — a type of shellfish not widely known. We would then run to Baba Dara, whose house stood at the entrance to Bjelila, grab a knife and some bread, and eat them right there on the pier, fresh out of the sea. That reminds me of pen shells — symbols of the Mediterranean, once found everywhere and now an endangered species — and of starfish, which I can’t remember the last time I saw. Mussels were within easy reach…
At night, fishermen would go out to sea in their small boats, using the light of a feral (a lamp on the bow) to illuminate the seabed and find the best spot to cast their nets. In the early morning, they would return to the small harbor, sorting their catch — and often, while the nets were still dripping, tourists would buy fresh fish or squid straight off the boat.
It was a small, charming fishing village.

But time, slowly and quietly, began to change Bjelila too.
Years passed, people came and went, and the village changed — not suddenly, not overnight, but changed nonetheless.

Today, the picture looks quite different. The calm scene of sailboats and rowboats has been replaced by yachts, jet skis, and cruise ships. The sea has become much busier, sometimes even chaotic — and yes, you have to stay alert so you don’t get run over.

The “seke” have been gradually replaced by concrete platforms to make access to the sea easier and create more space. Part of the rocky shore has been taken over by a café. Another floor or two was added here and there for new apartments, and of course, a parking lot had to be built (still free, luckily) — and so, step by step, the number of “Bjelila lovers” has grown significantly.

Even though things have changed — a few new buildings, summer crowds, motorboats, yachts, and cruise ships instead of rowboats — Bjelila still somehow manage to keep their peace and authenticity.
There are no hotels, no mass tourism, no loud bars. You can still buy fish straight from the boat, if you get up early enough.
It’s that very simplicity that keeps Bjelila’s special charm alive.

To be completely honest — I often miss the old, quiet, simple place where everyone knew each other. But, even so, I still love going there — sitting on the restaurant terrace, ordering a coffee, and just enjoying the view before me. In that one picture, you have it all: the sea melting into the shore, the hills rising into mountains, and the endless blue sky above.

Perfect, not just for a postcard.