Biogradska Gora National Park, Montenegro

“No trees have been felled in the park since the 19th century. Some trees in this forest are five hundred years old,” said Radovan.

He was a local, and one of the many who had come to look inside our truck, The Beast, the evening we arrived.

Biogradska Gora is the smallest of Montenegro’s four national parks, but is one of only three remaining large virgin rainforests in Europe. Part of the reason it remained untouched for so long was through royal connections.

When they drove the Turks from Kolašin in 1878, local people gifted the forest to Nikola I Petrović-Njegoš, Montenegro’s last king.

Then, in 1952, the area became a national park.

Its habitats are so important that, in 1977, it was inscribed by UNESCO on the World Network of Biosphere Reserves.

Nevertheless, in our beautiful tranquil park up next to the glacial Biogradsko Lake, we awoke to someone hammering on the side of the truck at 7 a.m.

Bleary-eyed, Mark peered out of the window to see a burly park warden.

“You need to park up there,” he barked.

“We parked there yesterday and were told to move down here because that’s where the buses turn around.”

“No. You must park there. Today is holiday. We expect lots of visitors.”

We dragged ourselves out of bed, secured everything, and moved to the turning circle. Before we’d eaten breakfast, cars and coaches had The Beast completely blocked in. All around, loud music and barbeques fired up.

Montenegro’s Independence Day celebrations shattered the tranquillity.

While we didn’t wish to leave, it was certainly not an option. To avoid the mayhem, we decided to walk to camp Janketica, way up in the hills. The route, up an unpaved forest track, was easy to follow. Our Dutch friends, Pepjin and Maria, recommended we visit the spectacular Bendovac viewpoint, just above the camp.

The charming little black-and-tan stray we’d met the previous evening came to greet us, and stayed close. She’d already captured our hearts. Her mouth seemed to bend up into a slight smile, and she had an endearing habit of resting her paw on your arm when you petted her.

Mark tempted fate when he said, “If she comes on the walk, we’re taking her with us.”

Although it was five hours there and back, she followed us all the way.

En route, we discovered a few things about each other. The most striking was that she liked to chase cars.

A convoy of Land Rovers passed us and she saw them off. Thankfully, they were creeping tentatively on the unmade road, but we had to grab her and put on Kai’s collar and lead to make sure she stayed safe. She seemed happy with the collar, which was useful a second time, when we heard the strained revving of an engine behind us.

In a shower of flying gravel, a tiny car the size of a Fiat Uno skidded around a corner like a contender in the Paris-Dakar rally.

“Mark, stay out of the way!” I said as the guy gunned the little car at an impossible slope and slid backwards rather unnervingly. “Whatever you do, don’t get behind him to give him a push.”

The car was very low on its suspension and a little further up, we discovered why. Eventually thwarted by the steep slope, it ground to a halt. As we walked past, we looked on in surprise as it disgorged a large man, a heavily pregnant woman, and two not-so-tiny kids.

“He’s a local guy who insisted on bringing us up here,” the man explained as the car shot off.

I have no idea where the driver turned his car around, but we all melted back to the sides of the track as he raced downhill like a runaway train to collect his abandoned passengers.

Although the lake at the base sits at 1,094 m (3,590 ft), the temperature in full sun was too hot to walk. But in the shade of an ancient birch forest, it was perfect.

Camp Janketica offered overnight parking and Mark had suggested driving up to stay there. I liked the idea, but wanted to check out the road first.

I noted that in places, it was too narrow for The Beast and she wouldn’t have got around the tightest of the hairpin bends. At one point, we had to duck beneath a half-fallen tree, and Mark is only half the height of The Beast.  

Finally, Mark conceded he wouldn’t try to drive up!

Once we broke out of the forest, the mountain views were stupendous. Shimmering white limestone pinnacles rose out of forests and meadows that teemed with flowers and butterflies. As the gradient evened out, there was still no sign of the camp. Our little stray poppet was clearly exhausted. She was only a youngster, definitely less than a year old. She still had pearly white teeth and that sweet puppy smell. When Mark picked her up and carried her, she snoozed in his arms.

It seemed like a never-ending journey. As we slumped down on a boulder to catch our breath, a group of Germans passed by on their way down.

“There is a café up there, isn’t there?”

“It’s not far now,” they assured us, “and they have cold beer!”

That spurred us on.

Finally, a vast green plateau opened out before us, surrounded by bosomy peaks. A wooden chalet beckoned, amid an array of tiny cabins that looked like steeply gabled dog kennels. In the clouds, we enjoyed beers that had been cooled in the gin-clear mountain stream. It reminded me of childhood holidays in a remote Lake District cottage with no electricity. My job was to milk the goat and make use of the only refrigerator available – the icy beck that tinkled along a few feet from the back door.

We ordered trout and watched the chef collect our lunch from the stream. It was so fresh, and is one of the finest fish I’ve ever eaten.

Pepjin and Maria had said it was an hour from the restaurant to the viewpoint, but it looked more like fifteen minutes. As we ate, the stray pup snored away on Mark’s lap while the Fab Four mooched around in the stream.

The cabins were cute little sleeping pods. We chatted with the friendly owner, who told us,

“This place has been in my family for many years.”

She showed us inside one of the cabins. We asked if we could stay.

“Unfortunately, I can’t let dogs inside,” she said.

Otherwise, we would definitely have stayed. From that magnificent high point, we could have enjoyed many more walks in the hills.

Although the second beer always seems like a good idea, it was a mistake.

“I’m happy with the view here!” Mark said, somnolent after a fine lunch in the fresh mountain air.

“I am too, but we really should go to the viewpoint. We’ve walked for hours to get here. It would be a shame to miss it,” I said.

It was a masterful effort to push on to the top, but it was absolutely worth it.

We savoured the view. Thousands of feet below, the lake twinkled like a precious gem, cradled among majestic peaks and velvety woodland.

As we started our descent, way below us in the meadow, we spotted another convoy of cars passing through the camp.  

She’s knackered and they are miles away, we thought. She won’t go for those.

How wrong we were! The little pup streaked down the hill to chase the cars. If I thought I could have made it, I would have run down with her and hitched a ride back!

The signs claimed we were only one hour from the car park by the lake.

We were so tired we took a shortcut through the woods to cut out some of the more rambling hairpins on the track.

Google Maps just showed a blank screen, and I expressed my concern as the path petered out.

“There’s a footpath sign on the tree!” Mark pointed out cheerily.

“Yes, but is it the right footpath?”

I cited our conversation the previous evening with a couple from Castleton in the UK’s Peak District. They had warned us,

“The latest walking map of the area dates back to Yugoslav times. All the footpaths are well signed – but all with the same sign!”

We got back on the track eventually and stuck with it. I had no intention of backtracking or, worse still, climbing back uphill. We made it back but little stray sweetie wouldn’t come inside the truck, even for food. We gave her a slap-up dinner and she slept outside on a cushion of dry leaves.

The following morning, she came inside the truck for breakfast, but quickly wanted to be outside again. The Fab Four got along with her – even Kai, who has always been shy of other dogs, but was even more so after he was attacked in Albania. She joined us for a stroll around the lake, which was flat and easy for our aching joints and blistered feet. We had intended to leave, but were blocked once again. Mark carried the little stray into the truck and she settled down to sleep.

“You’ve done it now!” I said to him.

We brushed her and administered a spot-on parasite treatment, which didn’t trouble her at all. She looked healthy and had no fleas, but Mark removed two ticks. I set about finding out how we might bring a dog into the EU from an unlisted country like Montenegro. It would not be as easy as the Romanian stray we’d rescued in Transylvania.

We were not one hundred per cent sure that taking her was the right thing. When we asked the campsite wardens whether she would be okay in the winter, they told us,

“Of course! She will go down to the village and be fed!”

That was a very different situation from our Transylvanian street dog. There, the campsite owner told us that once the campsite closed and the water froze, he probably wouldn’t survive the winter.

“We can get her a rabies jab and other injections tomorrow. The difficulty is going to be the blood titer test,” I said to Mark.

To enter the EU from an unlisted country, dogs require a blood antibody test to prove their rabies vaccine is effective. Only an EU-approved lab can perform the test, which would mean sending the blood out of Montenegro. Plus, for import from an unlisted country, the testing process takes at least four months.

The blood for testing can only be taken a minimum of a month after the initial rabies jab. Then, even after a successful test, the dog can’t travel for three months. If the test fails, it’s another four-month process of vaccination, test, and waiting. We had some time to spare, but not that much. A second test would take us over The Beast’s MOT threshold, which, in turn, would invalidate our vehicle insurance.

Lisa, the German lady we met in Ohrid, got her adopted dog tested through an animal rescue charity in Shkodër, Albania. They sent the blood to an approved lab in Germany.

I set to work and contacted the charity in Shkodër, and an animal charity in the UK, who sent me contact details around the world for approved vets and labs. I emailed the top vet in Montenegro to find out if she could help, and a Montenegrin dog rescue charity.

The pup stayed with us all afternoon. When we took ours out for their last pee before bed, she came with us, then trotted straight up the steps into the truck.

“That’s it, Mark. She’s definitely coming with us!” I said.

She slept soundly on the sofa. When we got up in the night, her tail thumped and she rolled over to let us tickle her tummy.

We named her Kira.

The following morning, we got up early to leave first thing before we were blocked in yet again. I thought maybe it had been Kismet – Fate – allowing us more time to bond with Kira.

Kira came with us for a pee poo, but then became aloof as we packed up. She wouldn’t come to us and wouldn’t let us pick her up. Mark said to her,

“It’s for you to decide if you want to come with us,” and she walked away and lay down in the sun.

She came a few times for love, but backed away if we tried to pick her up – something she hadn’t done in the last two days.

Although we’d fallen in love with her, we still had doubts about taking her. She had chased another car that morning – a habit that could be fatal in a city. If she didn’t want to go in the truck, then was a life of travelling for her? Or would she be happier sniffing around the campsite?

The wardens had been as emphatic that she would be okay in the winter as Kira was emphatic about not wanting to come.

The delay put us on the wrong side of the wardens.

The belligerent one who told us to move on the first morning strode over and demanded €22.

“We couldn’t leave yesterday because we were blocked in, and this is not really part of the campsite.”

Although there were public toilets on site, the forest by the bus turning circle also served as an open air latrine. I could have shot hours of footage of people peeing – and worse – against the tree next to us.

“You are not fair!” he bellicosed. “You stayed the night. That’s 22 euros.”

“But we couldn’t leave. We were blocked in until late evening.”

“You could have left then!”

“But where would we go at that time?”

“I will call my boss and call the police.”

“Look. I will pay. I don’t want any trouble, but it’s not fair.”

“You no pay.”

“I will pay. It’s you who is not being fair. You got us out of bed to move us from where you told us to park back to where you told us not to park. Then we were blocked in all day and couldn’t leave until it was too late to go anywhere.”

He refused our payment.

Confrontation was not what we needed. I already felt raw.

Travelling is all about goodbyes, and this was a goodbye I hoped we wouldn’t have to say.

There is a saying:

“If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it’s yours. If not, it was never meant to be.”

Inside the truck, I could still smell Kira.

As we drove away, our last image was of her sitting Sphinx-like in a patch of sunlight, fully alert but seemingly contented, watching as we left.

I guess we just needed to be thankful that she chose to spend some of her time with us.

Getting her back into the EU would not have been simple, and might have involved a foster home, kennels, or worst case, re-homing her in Montenegro, depending on the feasibility and timescale for getting her the required tests.

Perhaps she chose best for the life that suited her. It was certainly easier for us. If we had taken her, getting the tests and paperwork would have dictated the rest of our trip.

Instead of heading to the vet in Mojkovac, we set course to the Tara River Canyon.

On the way, we stopped for breakfast at a memorial, where we found a puppy with a staring coat, jumping with fleas, scavenging among the garbage around a snack stall.

Maybe our efforts would be better spent there.

Certainly, we would soon have another humungous dog rescue project on our hands.

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Mark and Rosie on the Tara River, Montenegro