The Hound of the Baskervilles: Tara River Canyon, Montenegro

“Mark, have you got the truck’s electronic immobiliser key in your pocket?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to swim.”

From our campsite, Eko Oaza, we’d walked down to a little beach on the shore of the Tara River. Mark had taken it upon himself to stride out to a rocky island in the middle.

“Mark, the dogs are following you and there are rapids down the side of the island.”

“It’ll be okay.”

“Mark, Kai is swimming after you.

“Mark!

“Sh**!”

In flip-flops, I did a comedy run along the rough stones and pebbles that lined the riverbank, hoping I wouldn’t slip and break my ankle. I needed to catch Kai, who had been swept down the rapids.

Thankfully, Kai washed into an eddy, and I pulled him out of the water.

“Mark, you need to be conscious that the dogs will follow you!” I said as he laughed it off. My whitewater rafting head kicked in. “You need to listen to me. They are only small and could collide with rocks or be held underwater in recirculating stoppers. It’s really dangerous for them.”

As I headed back to the beach, I turned to see that Kai and Rosie had followed Mark again and were being carried away by the rapids.

Mark grabbed Kai, then launched himself headlong into the river to grab Rosie.

With The Fab Four safe on dry land, I demanded that Mark handed over the electronic immobiliser key he had in his pocket.

“I’ve put it in a plastic poo bag,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I saw you do it, but you did that after you dived into the river, which will keep it nice and wet. You can’t be trusted.”

As we wandered back, we met the local horned cow on her way to the river. Mercifully, she simply sidestepped resignedly as the dogs barked at her. We’d had enough excitement for one day.

It had been a last second decision to stop at the family-run Camp Eko Oaza, ‘The Tear of Europe’. We almost drove past, but were so glad we pulled in.

After our early start and ill-tempered eviction from Biogradska Gora, we had stopped for breakfast in a lay by next to a monument. Later, we discovered it was a tribute to a local man who did nice things for people. Although we were concerned about a puppy we found foraging among the garbage there, we learned he belonged to the people who ran the snack stop near the memorial.

When we chatted with fellow campsite guests, they all said things like, “We only meant to stay for one night, but it’s so lovely here, we stayed for a week…”

Soon, the campsite’s magic captivated us.

The family greeted us with a welcome drink of their own distilled plum raki and homemade fruit cordial to wash it down. Raw from having to leave behind Kira, the little stray we’d wanted to adopt, I spent the afternoon simply watching the light change on the stunning mountain peaks.

The location was unspeakably beautiful. A green oasis encircled by soaring limestone cliffs and pinnacles. At the end of the campsite, a footpath led down to the gold and aquamarine Tara River, which sparkled its way through a verdant tousle of vegetation at the base of the gorge.

The family ran a small restaurant on site, where we could have a delicious cooked breakfast with home made preserves and freshly baked bread, or pre-order an evening meal of pork, or fresh river trout, served with vegetables from their garden. Their son, Pavel, spoke excellent English. He said that if we wanted milk, it came from the black-and-white spotted cow we’d seen taking herself to the river for a drink.

We met Kirsty and Mike, two Brits on an extended European trip. We stopped by their motorhome one morning for a cuppa and ended up spending the whole day with them. It’s always wonderful to meet kindred spirits. Kirsty amazed us with tales of her time in the Navy, and made us jealous when she told us she’d trekked in the Torres del Paine national park in Chile, which is firmly on our bucket list. She’d also flown helicopters and was even selected to train for the UK’s Olympic bobsleigh team.

In the searing heat, dips in the river became addictive. Diving into the ice-cold water hurt, but it felt so good to emerge tingling and refreshed.

One day, we explored. A walk along the shaded riverbank led to the 16th century monastery of Svetog Ðorđa (St. George), which hosted the Tara Valley’s first school.

Our walk was lovely, but the monastery visit wasn’t a success. It was protected by vicious dogs, who chased us down the road, even when we turned around to leave!

On the way, we saw a water snake with two vibrant blue dots on the back of its head. We are wary of water snakes and kept the dogs away, but when I looked it up later, I confirmed it was not venomous. It was a European grass snake, Natrix natrix, also known as a ringed snake or water snake. The ring behind its head is actually yellow, but looked fluorescent blue under water. It is a relative of the British grass snake, Natrix helvetica. Apparently, Lithuanians and Latvians revered them, and often kept them as pets. They would feed them by hand and keep them by the hearth or beneath the marital bed. 

In the verge of a lane near the monastery, we also spied a beautiful copper coloured serpent. Although known as a Blavor, Sheltopusik, or Glass Snake, Pseudopus apodus is actually a legless lizard. It is harmless, like the grass snake, but can grow over a metre (three feet) long. If you want to see a Blavor, watch the film Raiders of the Lost Ark. There, you can spot them acting as stand-ins for asps!

Yet it wasn’t just the beauty and good company that bound us to the camp. The Fates soon conspired to keep us there.

A few times, we had heard soulful howling. It sounded like a wolf, but a fellow camper said they had seen a large black dog by the river.

We were with Kirsty and Mike when we finally saw the Hound of the Baskervilles.

Huge and muscular, with a docked tail and cropped ears, a stab of fear shot through my stomach when I spied the immense jet-black creature slinking into campsite. All that was missing from this vision of evil were smouldering red eyes.

“Be careful!” I shouted as Mark, the dog whisperer, approached him.

The Hound turned and shambled away.

Clearly, he was injured and scared, but I was glad he’d gone because I feared for our four little pups, who were permitted to roam free around the campground.

Later, as we continued our chat with Kirsty and Mike, I heard Rosie and Lani barking at something.

A sixth sense drew me away to check on things, and that was how I came face to face with the Hound.

He had sneaked back into the campsite via another entrance.

I knelt down, and he limped towards me with his head bowed.

At that moment, I knew he wasn’t aggressive. He was so emaciated, I could count all his ribs, and his hip bones protruded like door knobs. One foreleg had clearly been broken. He was covered in fleas and ticks and had a nasty growth on his neck.

Mark came over and petted the dog.

A young local kid pedalled by on his bike and warned, “We saw him on the street. Be careful he doesn’t bite you.”

But by then, we knew we were dealing with a gentle giant who was desperate for help – although we kept our four away from him. Just in case.

Sorting out the Hound became a true international effort.

Far from resenting the fact a huge, intimidating, flea-ridden behemoth had invaded their campsite, Pavel, the owner’s son, and his family did what they could to help.

Kirsty and Mike offered to drive him 25 km to the vet in their large motorhome. Then, Pavel and his dad said they’d take him in their car with Mark, although when they rang the vet, she said she could come out to him. We agreed to cover the €20 fee.

Although they’d only just arrived and we’d only met them a few minutes before, an Italian couple, Simona and Giovanni, shared the vet’s call out fee with us. Giovanni had trained as a vet, but did not practise, and had no medication with him. He explained the dog would need surgery to remove the tumour on his neck.

“He will need someone to care for him for at least ten days after the operation,” Giovanni said.

Mark and I looked at each other. We might need to stay longer than we had bargained for.

Giovanni christened the dog Nerone (‘Black’). Nerone just lay down quietly while Giovanni and Mark removed ticks, and administered three of our small-dog spot-on parasite treatments.

We had a food accident as Nerone tipped up our bucket of kibble and wolfed down a week’s worth of The Fab Four’s rations. He needed it, though. He looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

Pavel explained that Nerone may not be a hunting dog as we first thought.

“He is a Cane Corso. These dogs are common in the Balkans. People have them for status.”

The first time I came across the breed was in Pompeii, where I learned the Romans used them as war dogs. They are so fearless that the troops sent them into battle with containers of flaming oil strapped to their backs.

Understandably, the vet seemed a little scared of him, but she filled us in on his history.

“I know this dog. He belonged to an elderly man who died. I’ve seen him in the town. People were feeding him, but he has somehow got up here into the mountains, 25 km away.”

Mark and I knew we couldn’t take him with us. Besides the difficulties of bringing a dog into the EU from Montenegro, which we’d researched for the little stray Kira, at Biogradska Gora, the Cane Corso is a mastiff type, which is a banned breed.

Nevertheless, we set the wheels in motion.

We hoped to engineer a happy-ever-after for Nerone.

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Photo – Bridge eclipse from the Tara River, photo courtesy of Mike Daniels