Peace, seclusion, and privacy are becoming—and in some ways, have always been—the ultimate sought-after luxuries. Were the Northern Adriatic islands the place to find them?
Standing on the marina in Zadar, Croatia, I searched for the ferry that would take me to Zaglav, a port town on the island of Dugi Otok. It was a late-September morning, the air crisp to the skin, the deep blue water lapping gently against the concrete. Small ferries and boats lined the marina, some with laundry drying on the railing. Zadar was a port city, after all, and boating was a part of its everyday life and leisure.
With 1,244 formations—including islets and rocks—Croatia is the second largest archipelago in the Mediterranean, after Greece. Forty-nine of these formations are permanently inhabited islands, and of these, the most densely populated, Krk, is home to less than 18,000 people. This number dramatically drops for other, lesser-populated islands: Dugi Otok is home to less than 1,700 permanent residents, spread out across its 44 square miles of dry, limestone-heavy terrain.
As the editor of Fodor’s Essential Caribbean, I was no stranger to islands; but such sparsely populated ones, such as Dugi Otok and its 40 people per square mile, remained an uncharted territory.
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Dugi Otok
Dugi Otok, translated to “Long Island” for its shape, is an excellent starting point for island-hopping in Croatia’s northern coast. Its rocky terroir is populated with pines, oaks, and aromatic shrubs, but the olive trees are the true stars, dotting the hills in organized clusters. Olives and olive oils are the island’s main agricultural products and have been for hundreds of years; the tradition of olive cultivation itself dates back to Roman antiquity.
Žman, a hilly coastal village on Dugi Otok, has a permanent population of around 200 people. “Everyone knows each other here,” Frane, my driver from Zaglav to Žman, said. “Where people work, what they do, everything.” In late September, when I visited, the tourist season was coming to a close; the already sparse tourist crowd had thinned even further, so much so that our car quickly became the only vehicle tumbling across the gravelly road.
In the southern edge of Žman, the hills of olive groves cradle the magnificent stone façade of Villa Nai. Ostentatious opulence—gilded walls, heritage carpeting, dripping chandeliers—is not the name of the game here; instead, low ceilings, an abundance of limestone, and floor-to-ceiling glass doors create a feeling of comfortable and understated luxury. With just eight rooms on the property, the service is truly bespoke: It doesn’t take long for the staff to know my name, my breakfast coffee order, and my itinerary.
From my private outdoor terrace, I stepped onto the stone path that weaved through the olive trees to the edge of the hillside. The air carried the woodsy, herbal, and sun-soaked aroma of the rocky soil. From the edge of the hill, where an infinity pool stretched beneath the swaying olive trees, I could see the nearby island of Krknata, and the islands further to the mainland overlapping in undulating slopes.
Villa Nai is a good base for reaching the surrounding villages. From the property, the center of Žman is a vigorous 20-minute walk—or a hike, depending on how you feel on the gravelly, and occasionally, sloping path. A 10-minute drive takes you to Sali, a slightly bigger village with small restaurants, cafes, and shops lining the marina. A coffee or beer by the water is the height of afternoon activities in both Žman and Sali, but they are garnishes to the main attraction: The sea beckons with the possibilities of more thrilling adventures.
Kornati National Park
Croatia has eight national parks, stretching across forested mountains, islands, and lakes. One of them lies conveniently close to Dugi Otok: The Kornati National Park—composed of 89 islands, islets, and reefs scattered across the sea—is reachable by boat from the island’s southernmost shores.
My boat captain, Mr. Tomislav Čarić—Tome, for short—was a kind, suntanned man with pale hair and a weather-worn grip. We sailed southeast and by the time we entered the boundaries of the park, Tome suggested that I sit on the bow of his boat to observe the towering rocky cliffs: The wind and the waves of the Adriatic Sea had carved the limestone cliffs over millions of years to a transcendent, jagged effect.
None of the islands in the national park are permanently inhabited, and the naturally rocky terrain and lack of reliable freshwater make agriculture challenging. Still, many islands remain privately owned, with long stone walls demarcating the boundaries of each family’s land. Each October, the olive groves are harvested with great difficulty: Workers must sail to the islands, hike to the trees with their supplies, and manually pick the fruit. During the cooler months, goats and sheep are transported by boat to graze on the sparse vegetation. Such traditional agricultural practices are in decline now, pursued more out of respect for tradition and heritage than for financial gain. Whatever practices do remain are regulated by the government for the purposes of environmental preservation.
Such efforts are rewarded with breathtaking marine life, which makes snorkeling around the Kornati islands excellent: Many different types of fish, sea horses, moray eels, and even an occasional octopus make an appearance. Lobsters trickle in and out of the rocky seabed, though they are hard to spot for a surface-level snorkeler; deep dives, the right timing (usually towards late evening), and luck are all necessary ingredients.
Tome halted the engine to a gliding stop on Bay Lojena, on the island of Levrnaka. Two boats floated nearby, with their passengers lapping around the water. The turquoise water was clear enough to show fish darting in synchronized schools. Tome took out a bag of bread. “I always bring bread for my friends here,” he said, gesturing to the fish below the boat.
An afternoon out in the sea calls for a drink. The main island of Kornat has several bays with a number of no-frills konobas—equivalent to a simple tavern, or a bistro—perfect for a relaxing pit-stop. On Bay Vrulje, Tome and I stopped at Konoba Robinson, where he ordered a glass of ice-cold white wine. The seafood is simple but fresh here and across the bay at Konoba Ante Vrulje.
On our way back to Žman, I mused about the lack of phone service and its potential dangers out at sea. Tome smiled and said that he preferred it that way. A love for the disconnect that comes with sailing into the open sea is something that is shared among boat captains from the Caribbean to the Adriatic. For Tome, boating was a job and a passion: It wasn’t unusual for him and his friends to depart the islands’ shores at night and return in the early morning with the night’s bounty. Weather permitting, the skies over the Kornati islands are especially dark at night, with an abundance of glittering stars and the Milky Way in clear view. I am told that it is a life-changing experience for the uninitiated.
Lošinj
Riding a private speedboat offers an experience entirely different from the one on a larger boat or ferry; in short, it’s windy, bouncy, and fast.
As the boat glided towards the shore of Čikat Bay, its coastal villas appeared in startling, picturesque clarity. Shrouded by the deep greens of the Aleppo pines, the powder-pink facade of the historic Villa Carolina emerged into my view, then others, in varying shades of cream, red, and terra-cotta—the last of which housed Boutique Hotel Alhambra.
The hotel is devilishly handsome, with a striking Austro-Hungarian façade that sports an arched loggia. A portion of this loggia was allotted to my room as a balcony, which meant that, with my doors opened, I could see and hear the entire Čikat Bay undulating beyond the archways. Under the white sun, the seawater was blue-green and as clear as a swimming pool. The noise pollution was close to nonexistent, beyond the swaying of the trees and the ripples of the water.
Rest and convalescence are clear natural byproducts of this environment. During the rule of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the island of Lošinj was popular as a health tourism destination for the affluent upper classes. In the late 19th century, sanatoriums, spas, and seaside villas cropped up along the coast to take advantage of the island’s mild climate and clean sea air, which were believed to be beneficial for helping patients recover from respiratory illnesses and allergies. Now, high-end hotels and villas offer an assortment of spas and wellness programs that take advantage of the island’s abundance of pines (think forest bathing) and medicinal herbs.
Classic Mediterranean pleasures await on Čikat Bay and the nearby town of Mali Lošinj. It is entirely possible—and advisable—to while away a whole afternoon on Hotel Alhambra’s private beach, swimming, sunbathing, and dozing off in repeat. The post-swim hunger is best satisfied by the Croatian škampi: Not to be confused with shrimp, škampi is a lobster-like crustacean prized for its delicate, sweet flavor, and the ones caught in the Northern Adriatic are considered by some as the best in the Mediterranean. The closest place to sample them in their full glory is on the promenade at Konoba Cigale, where the tomato-based seafood buzara—which translates to stew, though a buzara is thicker—was cooked with plenty of mussels, linguini, and Croatian škampi.
A pleasant 15-minute walk through stone-walled, sun-soaked paths lined by residential houses took me to Mali Lošinj, where I surveyed a range of shops selling gelato—or sladoled, in Croatian. Afterwards, I strolled across the marina to visit the Museum of Apoxyomenos, which displayed a stunning Greek bronze statue recovered from the seabed near Lošinj in nearly perfect condition. Nearby, Art Shop Čarobnjak sells a range of handmade ceramics in eye-catching patterns, including mind-boggling sculptures of local marine life.
But for me, the height of all pleasures was the simplest: the sensorial delight of stepping off a rocky coast and swimming across a bay brimming with the warm, buoyant water of the Mediterranean. Over the two days I spent on Čikat Bay, I found myself returning to the sea over and over again, my nose upturned and my eyes closed, taking in the storied sea air.
The Northern Adriatic islands, as anywhere else in the world, are wrought with their own problems. Prices in Croatia have risen steadily over the past several years, particularly after COVID-19. Poslovni Dnevenik, a Croatian business newspaper, reported in September 2025 that food prices in Croatia will grow twice as fast as the projected rate across the Eurozone in 2026. The island residents, who already had higher costs of living than those in the mainland, face correspondingly heavier challenges.
Jobs, in general, are hard to come by for those without a specific trade, and it’s difficult for the islands to attract long-term talent across many industries.
“Many people are leaving for the mainland,” Mattel, my driver to Zagreb, told me. He was born and raised in Cres, an island located north of Lošinj. Family ties were important for job prospects. “If your family has a restaurant, then you stay and work.”
As Mattel and I boarded our car to a ferry and climbed the stairs to the deck, I saw the glint of the afternoon sun on the blue water. When I asked if he liked to venture out onto the mainland, he shook his head. “Why?” he asked. “Cres has everything I want.”
Sitting across from me with his arm draped across the back of the seat next to him, Mattel told me that he knew the best swimming spots where you could glide across the water virtually alone; and about the trips out to the sea, where you returned with the freshest fish you could imagine to cook at home with your friends and family. He didn’t like big crowds; he preferred peace. “Unless you like shopping,” he grinned. “Then you go to the mainland.”
As I munched on an overpriced salad at the busy Zagreb Airport, it occurred to me that Mattel might be on to something. Inconvenience was the price for community: add in clear waters, a bustling boating culture, and the luxury of silence, the Northern Adriatic islands had possibly reached the stratum closest to paradise. I considered it a gift that I was able to witness them.