Bosnia Journey 2026 — Day 4

Bismillahir-Rahmanir-Rahim

We took our breakfast at the hotel restaurant at our leisure and in peace, but mingled in our souls a shade of hesitation and confusion: should we fast on the Day of Arafah, hoping for its immense virtue and ample reward, or should we take the dispensation Allah has granted His travelling servants and break the fast — He, glory be to Him, who said in His clear revelation: "Allah intends for you ease and does not intend for you hardship"?

We felt that the Shariah, in its tolerance and mercy, had only made provision for breaking the obligatory fast to lift hardship and lighten the soul's burden; so how could we not take that provision with the voluntary fast, when we are on a journey that does not let us settle, moving from one city to another, traversing long roads, magnificent scenery, and activities that consume of our effort what they consume?

This conversation went around us in the calm of the morning, mixed with the scent of coffee and the cool mountain breeze, and with that pleasant feeling that comes over the traveller when he is between rest and movement, between reflection and enjoyment. In the end, we settled on breaking the fast — not out of indifference to its reward, but out of taking Allah's facility, trusting that religion did not come to burden souls with what they cannot bear, but came as mercy, guidance, and peace.

We left the hotel at nine-thirty in the morning, heading for the city of Mostar, sometimes driving along the Neretva river and sometimes crossing small villages and towns. Nature had spread before us in its finest forms: mountains rising as if they were the earth's guardians, sparkling rivers gleaming under the sun's light, houses scattered on the slopes like pieces of old stories. The further we went, the more we felt this country had been given a generous share of natural beauty: trees swaying gently, valleys extending in solemn stillness, clouds swimming above the peaks like white phantoms guarding this silent beauty.

The road to Mostar had a special magic; it was not just a movement from one place to another, but a journey into the heart of nature, delighting the eye and awakening in the soul a deep reflection, so that one might think that time had paused a little, that the world had cast off its clamour, and left the traveller a space of serenity that one finds only on such distant roads.

When we passed Konjic a little, we came to a place among the most beautiful and captivating in Bosnia, where water meets mountain, stillness meets grandeur, and the Neretva river appears as if it had emerged from hidden gardens untrodden by human feet. The place was near Jablanica, surrounded by mountains on every side, threaded by valleys and springs, with strange karst rocks carved by nature slowly over centuries, until they became as if they were the work of an old artist who never tires of creating.

The water of the Neretva was so clear that you could almost see the stones in its depths as you might see something in the palm of your hand, and from its purity you might take it for a piece of liquid crystal. This river had been known for ages for its cold waters and its sweet fish, especially trout, and for the captivating mountain environment that surrounds it, combining harshness and beauty in one. We gazed at that nature in a kind of silent wonder, for the soul sometimes fails to express itself when beauty surprises it unawares.

This river was not only a place of beauty, but also a witness to history and its pains: in these parts the famous Battle of the Neretva took place in 1943 during the Second World War, when the partisans of Yugoslavia clashed with the Axis forces in fierce fighting between mountains and valleys. In Jablanica there still stands a broken iron bridge over the river like a sorrowful trace of war, reminding the visitor that this gentle nature witnessed one of those harsh days of human history.

We then prepared ourselves for the experience of river rafting — one of the most enjoyable things to do in those lands — where one rides a small inflatable boat, and with companions pushes it with light oars over the river's strong current. The boat rocks one moment, surges the next, and at times seems to fly above the water, until the rider feels as if he has become a part of this wild current.

We were nearly eighty men, so we hired many boats and scattered as groups on the water, with a mix of excitement and anticipation in our souls. The moment the boats surged into the river's course, everything changed: voices rose with laughter and calls, drops of cold water scattered on faces and clothes, and the boats descended with the current and then rose, as if they were small leaves being played with by nature's hand in gentle mirth.

The water was so cold it almost stung the body, and we heard from some of the locals that the Neretva is one of the coldest rivers in Europe, which did not surprise us — every time we dipped our hands in it we felt a shiver run through our limbs. Yet that coldness itself was a source of strange pleasure, sharpening the soul and bringing it clarity. We were not content to stay in the boats, but some of us went down into the water, where its cold waves washed over us, and we laughed like children surprised by unannounced joy.

We stayed rafting for more than two hours, not feeling the time pass, as nature had taken us over completely: those silent mountains, that sparkling water, those trees leaning over the riverbanks all created around us a world of rare serenity, so that one might think that civilisation with its noise and worries had become very far away.

The river water was so clear that we drank from it directly, and found in it only cool sweetness and pure clarity, as if it had emerged from the heart of the mountain at that very moment. When the trip ended, we felt a touch of gentle sorrow, for some beautiful moments do not last long, but leave in the soul a quiet trace that resembles longing, accompanying a person whenever he remembers the place, the water, and the companions.

We left the river, having received our share of fatigue's sweetness, and left in our souls a strange clarity. At three in the afternoon we headed to the "Lamb House Jablanica" restaurant, which has become famous among travellers in Bosnia, becoming a stop that almost no one on the road between Sarajevo and Mostar passes without pausing there for an hour of rest with food and nature together.

The road to the restaurant ran along the Neretva river — that river that never tires the traveller of looking at it: it flows between the mountains in solemn stillness, like a green thread of emerald cutting the valley in two. The mountains surrounded the place on every side, tall and silent, while the Jablanica lake extended in strange stillness, formed behind the Jablanica dam, appearing as a wide mirror reflecting sky and clouds and mountains in an image the imagination can hardly reach.

People did not come to this restaurant for the food alone, but for that natural scene that gives the one who sits in it a feeling of peace and openness: the traveller there eats with his eyes fixed on the flowing water, the settled mountains, the cool breeze that rises from the valley and thins the day's heat.

When we reached the restaurant we found it full of visitors from many countries, sitting on the terraces overlooking the river, talking in quiet, enjoying that rare mixture of natural beauty and simplicity of life. The most famous dish served there was slow-roasted whole lamb — a tradition Jablanica has been famous for since long ago: the lamb is slaughtered whole, then cleaned and prepared carefully, before being hung over the fire to rotate slowly for hours, until the meat cooks completely, and its scent mixes with the wood-smoke in a fragrance that stirs the appetite and awakens the senses.

We watched with our own eyes the method of preparing the lamb, and we saw the lambs lined up before the fire, rotating slowly over the glowing embers, the fat dripping from them in small drops making a soft sizzling sound each time it touched the fire, while the smoke rose in the air mixed with the delicious smell of roasting. There was something in this scene of old rural simplicity, reminding one of village and mountain life, when food was prepared slowly and eaten in peace, far from the rush and noise of cities.

We sat at our tables overlooking the valley, hunger having taken hold of us after rafting and the long road, and we turned to the food in joy and comfort. The meat was tender, well-flavoured, soaked in the taste of the fire and the scent of the wood, so that one might think he was not only eating food, but sharing with the place something of its spirit and history.

Before us the Neretva was flowing in its beautiful silence, indifferent to the travellers and the conversations, as if it had been on its eternal journey for thousands of years. We would look at it from time to time, feeling that the beauty of nature adds to the meal a pleasure, and that some tables are not remembered for the food alone, but for the scene, the company, and the serenity of the soul that surrounds them.

We left Jablanica at seven in the evening, as the sun began to lean towards setting, casting on the mountains and the lake colours of gold and crimson, so that nature seemed to be bidding farewell to the day in a quiet, solemn celebration. The road to Mostar was quiet at that hour, only the sound of the car cutting through the silence to be heard, while we recalled in our conversations the scenes of the long day: the clarity of the Neretva, the coldness of its waters, the laughter of the companions on the boats, to that delicious lunch on the banks of the valley between mountains and water.

We arrived at the city of Mostar around eight in the evening, and the city appeared to us quiet under the lights of the evening, gathering in its features the trace of the East and the spirit of the West, between the scent of history and the traces of war that have not quite left the memory. We then settled into a respectable hotel where comfortable rooms had been prepared for us; some of us chose rest after the day's exertion, while others stood at the windows contemplating the city's lights scattered in the silence.

Mostar is a city with a complex history, in which the traces of division are still clearly visible between the Muslim and Catholic Christian populations, and the old war left in the souls something of caution and tension, even though the guns have been silent for years. The city appears to the onlooker calm and reassuring, but beneath that calm lies a long history of pain and heavy memories.

The night had drawn its curtain when we finally reached our rooms, exhaustion having taken its share of us, but in the soul a deep rest that only travel gives, when the beauty of nature is mixed with the goodness of company, and when a person feels he has lived a full day full of scenes and experiences that remain in memory for a long time.

But our journey with Mostar had not yet begun; for tomorrow, after the Eid prayer, God willing, we will go out to wander in the city, stand at its landmarks and old bridges, and see what this city holds of beauty, history, and stories.

Translation note: This article was translated by AI. View the original Telegram post.