Day 71 - July 20th: The Modanna
Pisak to Zaostrog: 33 miles / 1,993 total
The first of four big push days ended yesterday at 5:30 PM, but with the transfer chaos, it felt like day two of a push—and my legs had nothing. Today started with that same kind of fatigue. Thankfully, no blisters, no acute issues—just the kind of deep tired that doesn’t shake easily.
Doug and Bob—it really hits home when we’re the foreigners. I can’t imagine being profiled and then picked up by masked agents and whisked away. One of he main reasons tourism in the United States is declining.
We stayed in the cliffside village of Mimice, and went with the closest dining option: Restaurant Jurčević. It turned out to be a gem. Christina and I ate on a small veranda perched over the Adriatic, with dog Jax lying beside us, staring down 300 feet at the water. The owner, Steepa, ran the front while his wife cooked. He told us they were lucky their place wasn’t destroyed in the wildfire that tore through the area just 25 days ago.
It reminded me of the Caldor Fire back in California during my U.S. run. I had to reroute to Interstate 80 to avoid it. Another brush with disaster narrowly avoided.
The village we stayed in was in the middle of the charred area
Today was day two of the four-day push to Dubrovnik—another long haul following the jagged coastal spine. With temps climbing into the 90s, I knew hydration and calories would make or break the day.
The early morning gave me a moment of beauty—just past a cliffside bend, I spotted a Madonna statue, arms raised high over a bright blue lagoon, the coastline and mountains stretching out behind her. Since I didn’t have the energy to run, I walked and took it all in. It was a deep moment—nature connecting with the long thread of Christianity and I was alone in the grandness of it all.
At 10K, I stopped at a café on a hilltop for coffee. The girl behind the counter was, again, the daughter of the family who owned the place. That’s been a theme: Croatia’s coastal restaurant culture is deeply familial—many of these places are run by multiple generations.
Around 9 AM, above the town of Promajna, I heard church bells echo across the valley. The regularity of bells—on the hour and half—is maybe the only constant across every country I’ve run through in Europe.
By 15K, I finally loosened up and hit a groove. I started picking off villages, refueling at markets, and staying ahead of the heat.
Earlier in the day before 7 AM, a fit woman passed me on the empty coastal curves—one of the only runners I’ve seen. About 20 minutes later, she passed again in the opposite direction, smiling and waving. Tribe. Later that morning, I came up behind a woman and daughter heading to a beach. The woman looked at me and said, “You were running this morning! Did you run here?” She was Croatian, a trail runner on vacation. What are the odds? I had to stop and chat.
I’ve grown especially fond of the towns south of Split—they feel more lived-in and authentic. Each one greets visitors with marketing boards at the town entrances, vying for attention from passing drivers. I think they all watched Madmen at some point!
High above Drašnice, I noticed ruins on a point below the road. After some digging, I learned they’re the remains of an Austro-Hungarian coastal battery from the late 19th to early 20th century—part of a defensive network designed to guard against naval incursions along the Adriatic. Some locals also claim older foundations may exist beneath, possibly Roman or medieval, though this isn’t confirmed archaeologically.
By 35K, the heat was oppressive. No cover. My pace dropped. Then a twinge hit my upper left quad. I kept Christina’s number ready. But at the top of a climb, like a gift, I rounded a corner and found Restoran Borovik in Živogošće.
Inside was a handsome Croatian man eating in an apron seated —Leo. I asked if he could make a cheese omelette. “Absolutely,” he said. Ten minutes later, I was eating a perfect omelette, fresh tomatoes, and warm bread with soft cheese.
Leo’s family has owned the restaurant for three generations. His grandmother immigrated from Hvar—the island across the water—and started it 60 years ago. I asked about all these family-run places and he said it’s tradition. He enjoys the work. I asked about the weather—he said winters used to hit -5°C and bring snow to the mountains, but not anymore. The Adriatic is warming. Finally, we got on the subject of languages. He laughed as he told me that the Slavic languages are mostly similar—except when they’re dangerously not: “In Czech, if someone orders kurlátz, they mean chicken. In Croatian, it means dick!”
Leo sent me off with coconut candies, water, and a full heart. It gave me a second wind.
Later, Monica FaceTimed me with Anna, Tina’s daughter, and her boyfriend Fabrizio, who were visiting her in Porto. Anna asked what beaches she should visit. I realized the answer is simple: just follow the coast. Every town has its charm. Every beach has something to offer. You can’t go wrong and by the looks of every full parking area and turnout, others agree.
The final 8K of the day were magical—off Route 8, onto a seaside trail that led through three different towns via promenades and hidden paths.
I ended in Zaostrog, at a rustic beachfront “camp.” Our only option, but it worked. We sat outside, eating from the buffet—salad, stuffed peppers, soup, watermelon—with the sea right in front of us.
Early to bed. Tomorrow’s another big one. One day at a time.
Thanks for following and for the support.
Cheers,
David.
