Disclaimer: Strap in – this was a difficult, lengthy post to write as I wanted to do justice to the intricacy and other-worldly beauty of Plitvice. Please excuse my rambling descriptions, inclusion of utterly unpronounceable names and repetitive variations of “blue”, “green” and “clear”…

Wednesday 5 July

After researching Plitvice Lakes, we’d initially decided that 40€ each was too much to pay to visit a National Park. However, I’d seen some photos and the seed had been planted, which meant (as it always does) that I’d inevitably reverse that decision. I decided to treat us to the trip on the conditions that Ryan a) get up early, and b) drive us there without damaging the rental car.

The journey

We were on our way by 6am. The 1h40 journey was traffic-free, which was just what Ryan needed to get used to driving on the “wrong” side of the road. We joined the tunnel-ridden E71 motorway shortly after leaving still, peaceful Starigrad, nestled between the Paklenica mountains and an inlet of the Adriatic sea, and entered Lika-Senj County to the north, which was – to our mild surprise – shrouded in early morning fog.

We arrived at Plitvice at 7:30am, parked very carefully at Entrance 1 and made our way to the chalet-style ticket office. There was already a long-ish queue and I was concerned that having made the journey without booking, we’d come across some issue that would prevent our visit. My foreboding was not unwarranted as the card machine didn’t like my bank card, but luckily a different card worked and we received tickets after an anxious few minutes.

We passed through the entrance and went straight to the information boards showing seven waymarked hiking routes, which I’d already researched online. We naturally picked the longest, an 18km trail that circumnavigates nearly all the lakes and cuts out the land trains and electric boats (bar one) that shortcut around the park. Having photographed the board, we wandered over to the start of the trail and were instantly blown away by the landscape.

Lower Lakes:  Veliki Slap waterfall to Milanovac

If we’d have been in a cartoon, our jaws would have hit the floor. A vast limestone valley opened up below us, pale rock walls rising from large pools that were bluer than blue and so clear that we could see the bottom from our high vantage point. These pools were set at different levels, and fell into each other via multitudinous cascades that tumbled as vertical columns of pure white water so bright that they seemed to emit light. A forest of the lushest, most brilliant green covered every inch of land that wasn’t rock or water, almost glowing, and across the valley the highest waterfall, Veliki Slap, dropped out of the trees at eye-level and disappeared behind a vegetation-covered, natural limestone dam, which held the torrent back from a series of small, tiered, turquoise pools set low in the basin. A distant mountain ridge stretched hazily across the horizon, just visible above the forested valley side, beneath clouds of white and lilac-grey interspersed by occasional blue patches. It was as if the sky, in deference, reflected the land.

We followed the handrailed, switchback walkway down the side of the valley, feeling as though we were dropping into a real life Avatar set. It was already getting busy so we were keen to see Veliki Slap, “Big Waterfall”, before the crowds descended. The lakes grew in size and clarity as we approached from above and looked impossibly, almost unnaturally blue. We reached a rustic (but solid) boardwalk across the water between Novakovića brod lake, which was level with us, and the Korana river, which was set low in the valley and fed by an abundance of falls bursting improbably from invisible sources concealed by leafy vegetation. We wandered along this boardwalk marvelling at everything: the lakes, the falls and the incredible variety of water grasses and leafy plants on either side of us. It was impossibly beautiful.

The boardwalk snaked around a sheer limestone face to Veliki Slap, a 78-metre high column of water surrounded by tens of narrower, only slightly shorter falls. It was utterly magnificent: I wondered how there was enough water on Earth to feed this powerful, constant giant, which erupted from the clifftop treeline high above. Once we’d gazed in sufficient awe we snapped a couple of photos and returned to the boardwalk, aiming to break away from the growing number of tourists collecting at the base of the unimaginatively but accurately named Big Waterfall.

We followed the boardwalk along the western side of Kaluđerovac lake, still awestruck by the water, and crossed a low limestone barrier between tiered pools to a path along the eastern side. The shallows were gin clear, melting to translucent turquoise and almost opaque blue-green in the middle as the lakes deepened. Fish basked nonchalantly in the open water, and the perfectly flat surface reflected pale rock walls and green forest across the valley.

The path bordered Gavanovac and Milanovac lakes under a leafy canopy and we walked past several tantalising, dark caves set into pale limestone walls on either side of the valley. The number of visitors had dwindled, as we’d predicted, and after a kilometre we crossed another low dam via a boardwalk over shallows brimming with vegetation. Wide, multi-columned Slapovi Milke Trnine and Milanovači Slap waterfalls rushed out of these shallows below us, connecting great Kozjack lake to its smaller sister Milanovac about six metres below, and I was in awe at how the rock held these vast waters back from each other.

Upper Lakes: Kozjak to forest trail

We followed the edge of enormous, irregularly shaped Kozjak to a large visitor area containing dozens of picnic tables, wooden food kiosks, a gift shop, toilet block and the first boat station, where tens of people queued to cross the lake. Happy not to join this rush, we continued along the western edge for a couple of kilometres, snaking round the lake’s undulating border through the fringe of a rich beech forest. We drank in the quiet serenity of the flat water and almost overwhelming brightness of the blues and greens, feeling utterly content now that there was nobody else around, save for the occasional pair of other visitors looking to experience the place in solitude.

The path climbed a short way into the trees, affording stunning views over Kozjak, which – now that the sun had emerged – was a perfect mirror of the verdant forest on the opposite bank. I was amazed by the biodiversity of the woodland, where all kinds of low plants, shrubs and fungi covered the floor beneath a glowing canopy. We had a good view of thickly forested Štefanijin otok, the park’s sole small island, before finding another waterfall about eight metres in height and width tucked away – somehow subtly – in a leafy corner.

We climbed a set of stone steps up into the forest, then walked down a bank and found the ferry dock, where most visitors disembarked having caught the boat across Kozjak. We had a minor disagreement over which way to go – I was keen to continue on Route K but Ryan was concerned that we’d miss out on the waterfalls, so wanted to go with the throng along the low path by Burgeti lake. I conceded at first but after about a hundred metres became stressed by the influx of slow-walking people constantly stopping for photos, so – to Ryan’s initial chagrin, but eventual approval – we turned back, climbed the wooded bank above the busy path and continued on a quiet, sun-dappled trail beneath towering, impossibly green trees.

Upper Lakes: Forest trail to Okrugljak

After a short way we came to a clearing and looked down across the glassy blue water of lagoon-like Gradinsko lake to Veliki Prštavac, the second highest fall in the park, which formed a wide series of white pillars erupting from the forest above. To call it a fairytale scene wouldn’t do it justice. The path then continued for a few kilometres under a high beech canopy that covered a steep bank overlooking a multitude of smaller lakes, which formed a watery patchwork that filled the valley floor, separated by snaking, leafy rock barriers. I was looking out enthusiastically for grizzly bears, featured in the National Park’s logo, but (to my disappointment) was only successful in spotting some large bracket fungi and some pretty nine-spotted moths:

Any remaining sourness from our disagreement dissipated the minute we emerged at another clearing, where the path turned sharply left before descending to the popular trails. We gazed over the blue glass of lake Ciginovac, surrounded by rising green forests, and above it, the vast, hanging lake of Prošćansko – almost as big as Kozjak, and just as irregularly shaped – whose mirrored surface shone into the sky, the unimaginable weight of water impossibly suspended by a steadfast limestone dam. It was as if the rock stoically kept the lakes in check, permitting water to move between levels via numerous regulated falls, but had no control over the vegetation, which spread on all but its most vertical surfaces and encroached in the shallows as if showing off its leafy mastery of the landscape.* I pointed out to Ryan, blissfully aware of my capacity to irritate, that we’d never have seen Prošćansko on the popular trails. I think he forgave me.

*This later made sense, on learning about the formation of tufa barriers – no spoilers here, you’ll have to read on

We wandered down the hill through more forest, paused at a viewpoint over three of the little patchwork lakes to admire more falls bursting from various treelines, took a couple of switchback turns and emerged back onto the tourist route by the edge of Okrugljak lake, where we rejoined the steady flow of visitors.

Upper Lakes: Okrugljak to Galovac

Another curving, handrailed boardwalk granted passage across the green strip of vegetation between small, bright blue Veliko jezero and Batinovac lakes, and I was delighted to see a two-foot long brown snake zipping effortlessly through the clear shallows in a graceful S-shape between roots and reeds.

Having crossed the water, a path took us slightly away from the azure lakes into a rainforest-like area of woodland, then north along the eastern side of Galovac, where an information board taught us how the limestone dams between water levels are actually called “tufas”. They are formed by a gradual build-up of calcium carbonate deposits from moss, invertebrates, bacteria and the blue-green algae that give the water its bright blue colour. These barriers are estimated to be 6,000-7,000 years old and grow at an average rate of 13.5mm per year. It was as if the science behind the landscape was necessarily explained to convince visitors of its reality.

Water tumbled in tens of narrow pillars down the tufa at the head of Galovac, its vertical course replicated by green columns of grass and moss that hung over the side of the dam. Yellow, pink and purple wildflowers climbed the tall, grassy bank below the forest edge, and fallen trees below the water’s surface accentuated its blue clarity, the long forms of their majestic trunks fully visible as they stretched far from the bank. We skirted along the edge of the lake, passing a photogenic trio of goosanders (it was strange to see a UK-dwelling bird in this exotic place), and stopped for our customary holiday lunch of highly processed ham and cheese sandwiches on a fallen tree trunk just off the path, overlooking an irresistible little lagoon.

Veliki Prštavac waterfall and Upper Lakes: Galovac to Kozjak

We didn’t hang around for too long, noting the presence of several large ants, before continuing past the gin clear shallows at the northern end of Galovac. The path took us through a wooded area between lakes, past another high, grassy waterfall and down a steep bank onto a busy, snaking boardwalk between Galovac and Gradinsko, where completely colourless water flowed steadily beneath our feet. We ambled along at the slow pace of the single-file line, approaching the base of 28-metre high Veliki Prštavac, which we’d seen earlier from high in the forest. It had looked quite tranquil from a distance, but proximity betrayed its intensity as white water rushed urgently in a wide, multi-columned wall into the pool below, its fine spray relieving us of the hot sun. Again, vegetation was everywhere: trees grew above the falls, grasses hung low over the edge of the barrier, mosses concealed every inch of rock and rhubarb-leaved water plants (I’m a poor botanist) crammed the edges of clear pools.

We passed a small crowd taking photos of the waterfall and continued on the boardwalk, which twisted tightly between several small, clear pools lined by reeds and slim, pale-trunked trees. Numerous falls poured from forest-topped tufas thick with hanging, trickling grasses and opportunistic shrubs, bursting from every nook and cranny that would take a root, and every inch of ground was covered by what seemed like a hundred different plant species. It was fascinating, and I wished desperately (despite the in-fittingly rustic boardwalk) that I could have seen the park before the age of tourism and slipped into its cool, clear, blue-green waters.

We wandered through this surreal, intensely detailed, prehistoric oasis until the boardwalk straightened along the edge of Gradinsko. A path took us through verdant pine and beech forest to the boat station at the southern end of Kozjak, and after a short wait we boarded and sat at the front of the electric boat as it carved smoothly across a narrow section of the lake past Štefanijin otok island to the eastern bank.

Return from Kozjak

After a quick loo break at a chalet-style café, we set off north on the quiet, shady path back to the park entrance. This trail hugged the eastern edge of the lake, and on clambering onto an overhanging tree for a terribly touristy photo, I – to Ryan’s great amusement – very nearly overbalanced and fell in. I dismounted quickly, muttering something about how a rucksack affects balance, and we continued on the final 4km stretch. Highlights of this last section include a dice snake slithering through the water a couple of feet away from us, more fallen trees emphasising the clarity of the lake, which shelved steeply on this side, and stunning views of waterfall-backed, dazzling blue depths as we climbed into the leafy forest above Milanovac, Gavanovac and Kaluđerovac on a high path parallel to the lakeside route we’d taken that morning.

We reached a viewpoint overlooking the curving boardwalk that crosses the pale turquoise water to Veliki Slap, which was now suffused with a long, moving string of ant-like people. This vantage point gave us a new perspective over the tiered series of green-and-white-dammed lakes stretching up the valley, and it seemed impossible that the high, pale limestone walls on the opposite bank could hold the weight of the immense leafy forest that climbed towards the sky like a long, green afro. Returning to the entrance above that first-described view of Veliki Slap was like being struck by déjà vu, or suddenly remembering a striking dream. I thought that if, even I’d looked over that verdant, rocky, watery basin a thousand times, I’d never not be awestruck.

We tore ourselves away from the view and after a quick peruse of the gift shop, we returned to the car. I expressed my disproportionate fury at paying for seven hours’ parking despite being just a couple of minutes over six, and we started the drive back to Starigrad at 1:30pm.

Journey back to Starigrad

On the return journey, we were astonished by the beautiful countryside that had been concealed by the morning’s fog. For some reason I’d thought the landscape would have been quite arid, but the lush fields, swathes of forest and abundance of shrubs and wildflowers revealed my naivety. Rolling hills and yellow-green meadows all around us were backed by the undulating, forest-covered Velebit mountains, which stretched in a wide panorama across the horizon ahead. Remote farm buildings were scattered thinly across the countryside and we drove past lots of quaint little roadside stalls selling homemade cheese and honey.

We passed through a couple of peaceful-looking villages containing stone churches, several hotels and large buildings painted pastel orange and yellow, guessing nervously at the uncertain speed limit. At the risk of sounding like a naïve British tourist (again), I thought it looked very “European”, not dissimilar to parts of France or Switzerland. We joined the motorway and cruised back to Starigrad, enjoying mountain views the whole way, Ryan’s driving confidence having soared to the point he was willing to overtake the occasional car and sing merrily (if poorly) as the road snaked into the now-familiar little town.

We picked up a couple of supplies from the supermarket and returned to the apartment, where we relaxed for a couple of hours, making the most of the air con. We had our customary dinner of cheap, tasty slop, this time a rudimentary paella with rice, fake sausage and tomato sauce, then headed into town for a swim.

Evening: sea swim and surprise street party

We walked all the way along the pretty seafront, past the market by the main quay, and stopped on a concrete block jutting into the water between small, stony beaches backed by a leafy walkway and a little seafront campsite. I swam around while Ryan watched a snorkeler collect clams and stash them on the beach under (presumably) his mother’s straw hat. The sun dropped into the sea at the foot of the dark, jagged Velebit ridge that stretched behind the town, casting a soft orange glow between the deep, textured blue of the water and the smooth pastel sky. It was indescribably tranquil.

When the sun disappeared, we walked up a quiet street past rustic stone and whitewashed houses, then headed back to the town centre via the main road. It was a very homely place: washing hung in colourful lines from the verandas of terracotta-rooved houses, small, cosy restaurants served pizza and seafood, children of all ages played football in a small, fenced sports court and people congregated in little groups on the pavement, laughing and smoking.

Back at the main quay, which we’d only seen quiet and still under a hot sun, we stumbled into what felt like a random, Wednesday night street festival. It was 9pm but the seafront was alive with lit-up stalls selling all kinds of peculiar little gifts and edible treats. Open-fronted restaurants served food and drink to tables that had popped up across the walkway and people milled around everywhere. We bought a curly fried potato on a stick, which was spicy, salty and greasy but in a delicious way, and listened to an excellent live band that had popped up on a small seafront stage. Children and adults danced to the music and people wandered around left, right and centre with ice creams, pushchairs and dogs on leads. We finally felt like we understood the culture, and it was so charming.

We’d have liked to stay all night, but had ambitious designs on the towering vertical face of Anića Kuk in Paklenica National Park the following day. It would be our first “big wall” climb and we knew that it’d require a good night’s sleep, so we left the party after half an hour. We returned to the apartment, packed our rucksacks and went to bed feeling a strange mix of extreme contentment after our wonderful day, and intense anticipation for what we knew was to follow – “an epic”.