It began, as it always does, with a single roll of the dice.
1-3, I book a tame bank holiday in Bournemouth with overpriced fish and chips.
4-6? It’s Montenegro—a Balkan beauty full of rugged mountains, mysterious coastline, and rakija potent enough to melt your eyeballs.
The dice didn’t hesitate. Six.
And so, the Diceman touched down in Tivat, with nothing but a backpack, a dodgy SIM card, and a face full of misplaced confidence.
Day 1: Kotor or Chaos?
Montenegro in May is absurdly beautiful—the sun’s out, the air’s warm, and the tourists haven’t swarmed in full force yet. First roll of the trip:
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1-3 = walk the old town walls of Kotor like a civilised human.
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4-6 = rent a tiny boat and become a nautical menace.
Naturally, the dice gave me six.
Cut to me, shirt off, navigating a sketchy speedboat around the Bay of Kotor, dodging superyachts and shouting “Aye aye, captain!” to a confused local fisherman. Eventually anchored near Our Lady of the Rocks, popped open a warm beer, and toasted to whatever poor soul I’d drag into tonight’s mayhem.
Day 2: Burek for Breakfast, Brawls by Night
Woke up sunburnt, dehydrated, and with a faint memory of declaring myself “King of the Bay.” Needed sustenance. Rolled the dice:
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Odds = avocado toast in a scenic café.
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Evens = burek and a beer from a roadside bakery.
The gods delivered: greasy, glorious burek stuffed with meat and cheese, washed down with a can of Montenegro’s finest lager before 10 a.m. Respectable behaviour? Absolutely not.
Later, I roll into Budva, Montenegro’s answer to Ibiza if Ibiza was wilder and less regulated. The dice demand a bar crawl. By midnight, I’ve danced on a table, serenaded a waitress with a Montenegrin love song I absolutely made up, and got into a drunken arm-wrestling match with a bloke from Serbia who looked like he bench-presses ATVs.
Day 3: Into the Mountains – Or Off a Cliff
Time for redemption. The dice whisper:
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1-3 = lounge on the beach like a hungover tourist.
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4-6 = hire a 4x4 and drive into the bloody mountains.
You already know how this ends.
Next thing I know, I’m hurtling through Durmitor National Park, blasting Balkan beats with a grin on my face and zero clue what any of the road signs say. The views? Insane. Sheer cliffs, pine forests, and locals who stare at me like I’ve just escaped from a cartoon.
I stop at a remote restaurant for lunch. Roll the dice:
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1-3 = grilled trout and mineral water.
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4-6 = mystery meat, rakija shots, and a cigarette I didn’t ask for.
Six. I leave two hours later feeling like I’ve been adopted by a Montenegrin biker gang and slightly unsure if I still have my wallet.
Day 4: Yacht or Yikes?
Final day. I roll the dice for the grand send-off:
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1-3 = take it easy, get a massage, buy a postcard.
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4-6 = sneak onto a private yacht party in Porto Montenegro.
The dice demand chaos. So I throw on a linen shirt I haven’t washed since Kotor, borrow someone’s sunglasses, and bluff my way aboard a yacht loaded with champagne and electro-house music.
No one questions it. Within an hour, I’m dancing with a Ukrainian heiress, spraying prosecco, and telling people I’m “in international investments.”
At some point I jump off the top deck into the Adriatic. No regrets.
Reflections from the Adriatic
Montenegro, you sneaky, stunning, slightly unhinged wonder. You gave me mountains, mayhem, mysterious meat, and memories that may or may not be legally admissible.
The dice did what they do best—led me straight into disaster and dragged me back out smiling. My liver hates me, my brain’s still processing, and I’ve got a tattoo of a goat on my ankle that I swear wasn’t there when I landed.
Next destination? The dice are already rattling.
— The Diceman