Dalmation Coast
43°N | 17 °E
Journey along the Dalmation Coast, Croatia and Bosnia Herzegovina
Love and art are born of nostalgia, of the yearning for fullness, solidity, and meaningfulness in life along our paths to eternal forgetting and indifference. Love and art are born of the desire and will for the experienced, bygone, and foreseen to be reincarnated and shared with others in the eternity of the present moment. Nostalgia is thus the core and the charm of every genuine love and every genuine artistic impulse.
— Sasha SkenderijaThe Quest
There is a saying in Hvar that 2+2=5 which speaks to the improbable magic of life on this tiny island. I didn’t go to Hvar looking for magic, but I found a fair share of it during my travels along the Dalmation Coast, beginning in Bosnia-Herzegovina.
Leading up to this journey, I had spent over a year in search of my next featured botanical. Working with the rainforest conservation organization, Camino Verde, for Moena 12|69 had shown me how nature-derived products can replenish ecosystems and strengthen local communities, instead of depleting and exploiting them, so I knew what was possible. But I was looking for more than just a sustainable high-quality product for my next perfume. It had to compel me at least as much as Moena had. I wanted something truly exceptional—a scent with spellbinding and provocative characteristics. The bar was high.
I received samples of natural essences from all over the world—Hawaiian vetiver that was grown so sustainably the farmers couldn’t supply enough to keep me operating at even the slowest level of production, ginger from a small community-run regenerative farm in Madagascar that struggled to find enough timber to run their microdistillery, and palmarosa from a female-owned and operated agroforestry cooperative in Nepal that was impossible to travel to, to name a few. For a while, I began to lose hope of finding a collaborator that followed sustainable practices, offered a feasible means of working together, and produced a product worthy of featuring in a fine fragrance.
Then one day I received a sample of Helichrysum italicum essential oil from a small family-owned and run farm called Vitaroma in Bosnia-Herzegovina. There was something remarkably intoxicating about it that stood out above the rest. Its scent was buoyant and joyful, recalling the pleasures of floating in the ocean beneath the summer sun, of licking fresh wildflower honey straight from the honeycomb, and walking through golden fields at twilight, when the heat of the day releases aromas dry and vegetal into the evening.
A friend of mine, an herbalist well-versed in plant magick, believed my decision to work with Endlicheria krukovii (Moena Alcanfor) was subconsciously influenced by a calling to be in spiritual relationship with it. I wasn’t aware of that concept when I chose Moena, but it deeply resonated with me as she explained the role of plant teachers. Why else would I have dropped everything at the time to see a plant grow in the middle of the Peruvian Amazon? As I inhaled the heady aroma of Helichrysum italicum, I found myself called by a botanical once again.
The Immortelle Fields of Bosnia-Herzegovina
The initial plan was to spend a few days on the farm observing the harvest and distillation and then embark on a two-week-long (much-belated) honeymoon with my husband, David, along the Dalmation Coast. For a month leading up to the trip, I had been in weekly contact with Domagoj Majić, the son of the farmer who owns Vitaroma. Domagoj was concerned about the unusual amount of rain they had been receiving all spring. Typically, Helichrysum plants are harvested and distilled in the first week of June, but by the last week of May, the buds had barely begun to open. It was too late at that point to push back my trip, so we pushed forward with our plans. At the very least, I would get to speak with Domagoj’s father about his organic farming practices and see the fields about to bloom. It was disappointing but I was sure I could make the best of it.
The three-hour drive from the airport in Split, Croatia to the tiny town of Vitina, Bosnia-Herzegovina revealed the first glimpse of the Dalmation Coast’s stunning landscape. As we drove away from the coastline, the arid Mediterranean scenery gave way to rolling hills and lush valleys of farmland with a throbbing green hue I’ve only seen before in Scotland. Unlike the coast, the Bosnian air felt heavy from the recent rains. Along the way, we drove by vast fields swaying with yellow, fuchsia, violet, and crimson wildflowers. Their sweetness commingled with the scent of manure and ripening grapevines.
When we pulled up to the farm, Domagoj’s parents, Mile and Mila, were waiting for us on the farmhouse porch. They attended to us with such heartwarming fussiness it reminded me of visiting my own parents. Along with Mile and Mila, we were joined by Bernarda and Jere, a young Croatian couple I had been fortunate to find online to take photos and videos. Domagoj’s best friend, Martin, was also there for his fluency with English which would help to ease conversation. But before we could get to work, lunch was a necessity. A picnic table was quickly set and overflowing with dishes of traditional deep-fried flatbread, local cheeses and cured meats, olives, and carafes of homemade wine—my first taste of exquisite Bosnian hospitality.
After lunch, Mile took me on a tour of the farm. His family had farmed the property for centuries until the Bosnian War in the mid-1990s when he fled to Croatia. But now in the peaceful years of his retirement, he decided to take up growing and distilling Helichrysum plants. The flowers delighted him with their sunny fragrance and the essential oil fetched a good price on the market, though the farm produces only a small quantity each season.
As I walked through the neat rows of plants, each one bursting with tight yellow buds, I was astounded by the diversity of insects flitting from stem to stem. Bees, butterflies, and dragonflies flew circles around me, filling the air with the faint and constant sound of buzzing. They seemed expectant of the blossoming, which was likely only a few more weeks away. I could only imagine how this landscape would be transformed after I left.
Before saying goodbye, Mile pressed a stem into my hand—he had managed to find some Helichrysum flowers in bloom. I inhaled their fragrance, beautiful beyond description, and left Vitaroma that evening with a sense of both wonder and sadness for all I’d be missing.
Serendipity on Hvar
Only a week later, it felt as though a lifetime had passed since my stay in the farmlands of Bosnia-Herzegovina. David and I embarked on a whirlwind trip through Mostar, Montenegro, and Dubrovnik before settling into our new home on the sleepy island of Hvar off the coast of Croatia. We looked forward to exploring the rugged terrain, sampling from the many vineyards, and enjoying the tranquility of the Adriatic Sea.
One morning, we rented a boat and sailed out to the Pakleni Islands. We spent the day swimming in Laganini cove, lunching beside a picturesque olive grove at Konoba Dionis, and marveling at the rugged natural beauty of the island landscapes. By the late afternoon, we were sun-drunk and exhausted. We headed back to Hvar as the sun began to set.
As we pulled into the harbor, I noticed a bright flyer pinned to a community announcement board. Even from a distance, I could recognize the yellow flowers decorating the sign—it was Immortelle. The sign was advertising a workshop to learn about Helichrysum plants, known locally in Hrvatski as smilje, and to attend a harvest. I couldn’t believe my luck—Immortelle was somewhere on Hvar and I had to find it. There was only one issue—the workshop had already happened. I wrote down the number on the flyer and called it as soon as we returned to our rental home.
The man who answered the phone was named John Cooper and he had an American accent. John was originally from Oregon but had settled on Hvar years ago to establish Hvarcienda, a sustainable farm and villa located atop the highest peak of the island. John invited us to see Hvarcienda the following day where, he assured me, his Immortelle plants were still in bloom.
I could hardly contain my excitement the next day. As we drove higher and higher up Saint Nicholas peak, I could smell the air sweetening with the scent of Spanish broom and lavender. But as we approached the villa, there was something else, a honeyed note that grew stronger by the minute. By the time we arrived at Hvarcienda, the scent was strong enough to make one swoon. It was potent, inebriating. I felt like Dorothy in the poppy fields and was overcome with the urge to lie down, surrounded by fields of maize-colored smilje on every side. “Welcome to Hvarcienda!” said John, who was holding two glasses of cold Croatian rosé.
• • •
About Helichrysum italicum
Helichrysum (from the Greek “helios” for sun and “krysos” for gold) is known by many names. Most famously as “Immortelle” in French, but also “Perpetuino” and “Sempre Vivo” in Italian, “Everlasting” in English, “Sewejaartjie” in Afrikaans, and “Siempre Viva” in Spanish. In any language, the name recalls one of the most unique properties of the plant—the impressive longevity of scent and color of its dried flowers. Due to this property, vivid wreaths of dried Helichrysum flowers were used by ancient Romans and Greeks to adorn statues of gods, and poultices of Helichrysum flowers and honey were used by herbalists to treat burns and wounds as early as the 3rd century BCE. According to legend, the perfume of flowering Helichrysum is so strong that as Napoleon came upon the island of Corsica, he remarked that he could “smell the island before he could see it.”
The genus Helichrysum belongs to the family Asteraceae, a daisy and dandelion relative, and consists of an estimated 600 different species. Helichrysum italicum is native to Corsica but has been cultivated throughout the Mediterranean for hundreds of years. In the wild, the plants thrive in bright sunshine and in arid, poor, sandy, stony soils from sea level to more than 6,500 feet and require very little moisture. One ton (2,000 lbs.) of hand-harvested Helichrysum flowers yields about 35 ounces of steam distilled essential oil.
The harvest and distillation of Croatian “smilje”
We spent the afternoon with John, aka “Coops,” drinking wine at his grand villa overlooking the brilliant blue Adriatic Sea. Coops was charming, good-natured, and obviously passionate about Croatian culture. He seemed to know everything about Hvar and everyone there and was generous with his information. After telling him my sad story about missing the harvest and distillation in Bosnia, he insisted that I meet with a friend of his named Grgo Lučić, who was the island’s infamous grandfather of essential oils. Coops quickly made all of the arrangements for us to meet Grgo the following day. It was a delicious plan: we would be picked up early in the morning by his friend, Belli, who would first drive us around the island for some sightseeing, then head to Grgo’s distillery to observe whatever he was up to that day, and then try to squeeze in a few vineyards before heading back to Hvar Town for dinner.
I could barely contain my excitement the next day as we waited for Belli. I didn’t know what we would find at Grgo’s, but I had a kind of magical feeling. We spent the morning learning about Hvar’s rich history while slowly traversing the scenic Napoleon route between Hvar Town and Stari Grad. Though I was interested in Belli’s lesson, I was also impatient to see the distillery. I had only witnessed essential oil distillation once before during my trip to Camino Verde and it had sparked an enduring fascination with the alchemy of transforming botanicals to scented materials.
By the afternoon, our tour had taken us along endless winding roads through the countryside—it seemed we were traveling further and further away from civilization. We passed by countless olive groves and blossoming lavender fields that filled the car with the most beautiful dusty floral fragrance. But then, through the open windows, I caught the now familiar scent of honeyed sweetness once again.“We’re almost there!” said Belli.
When our car stopped beside a small open-air three-walled building along a dirt road, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. First, was an ruggedly handsome and towering man who could have easily passed as Arnold Schwarzenegger, second was a shirtless leathery-skinned man with a no-nonsense demeanor running around hurriedly, and third was piles upon heaping piles of cut Helichrysum flowers, sweating under the high sun, which the shirtless man was clearly none too pleased about. In between hauling great sacks of flowers from the back of a pickup truck into the distillery, and sifting through stems at a maddening pace into what appeared like two piles—keepers and duds—the shirtless man shouted orders to two teenagers who hustled to stay in step with their boss.
Belli greeted Grgo and made introductions. Though it was obvious that the distillery was in the midst of some very serious work, Grgo welcomed David and I with the warmest smile. He explained that while the distillery was his, farmers from all over Hvar used it for their own distillations. Today, the distillery was in use by Nina Carić. I had so many questions. As Grgo explained everything to me about Helichrysum farming and distillation from why it needs to be distilled at such a furious pace (precious aromatics are lost every minute between cutting and distillation) to how much oil the plants yielded (not much–the giant heaps around me would likely only produce one kilo of oil), Nina’s curiosity about my presence and interest in his work began to grow. A tourist is a nuisance, a customer is a blessing.
“What do you want to know about my plants?” he asked while throwing burlap sacks of flowers from one side of the room to the other. “Well, I’d love to know more about your farming practices. For instance, are your plants cultivated sustainably?” Nina looked at Grgo like, “Who is this chick?” and I felt my face redden. Grgo explained that agriculture on Hvar had been sustainably cultivated since the beginning of agriculture itself—intensive farming practices are not only unnecessary, they’re unheard of. “Ok, well, what kind of irrigation systems do you have in place?” I asked. Nina laughed. “The rain! Immortelle only needs sun, it doesn’t need water.” I had never heard such an answer before. “So no synthetic fertilizers then?” Again, he looked at me incredulously. Grgo shook his head. “How do you harvest all of these plants? Are you using machinery?” I asked, considering possible damage to the delicate soil ecosystems. “With my hands!” he said, shaking them in front of me. The teenagers laughed. “Look, you come by later today when the sun is setting to see the second harvest of the day. In the meantime, go visit my friend Paulo. He has the best wine on Hvar.” (And he did.)
We lingered a little longer to watch the distillation. Nina packed the steel drum with flowers (but not too tightly or it will damage the aramatics, explained Grgo) while Grgo knelt beside the redhot furnace and held a glass bottle below the spout. A saffron-colored elixr dripped slowly into the vessel, filling the air with perfume. “This is the best quality in all of Croatia,” said Grgo. He decanted some of it into two small bottles, which I paid for in cash to Nina’s assistant. “We’ll see you later then,” said Nina with a nod and returned to dropping armloads of flowers into the drum.
A few hours later, stuffed with olives and cheese and tipsy from Paulo’s excellent wine, we arrived at Nina’s pin drop. On one side, the cobalt expanse of the Adriatic Sea glittered into the horizon. On the other side, a steep cliff blanketed in tight rows of golden Helichrysum plants extended high into the setting sun. I had to squint to see where it could possibly end. Near the top, I could make out figures bending over plants. “Guess we’re going on a hike,” said David, giving me a boost up the first craggy footstep.
At the top of the hill, Nina and his farmhands were working just as intensely to harvest the plants as they had to distill them. But he hadn’t been kidding about using his hands. The farmhands worked in pairs—one to hold the stems in a bunch while the other cut them in one snip using giant shears. The work was tedious, everyone was sweating.
One man referred to me as “Shakira” to his partner. Shakira wants to see the harvest. Can you imagine? They thought it was absurd but humored me anyway. I didn’t care if it was absurd. I was grateful for the opportunity to see Nina’s farm and to fully absorb the staggering amount of work and resources that goes into producing just a kilo of essential oil. All this, for something that will end up in a perfume or maybe a facial serum. It was humbling.
The sun was beginning to set, providing some much-needed relief from the searing Meditterean heat. As soon as the harvest was finished here, Nina would head back to Grgo’s for another distillation. The team had been working at this breakneck pace since dawn and they still had at least another week to go until the fields were cleared.
Before hiking back down the hill, I thanked Nina again for allowing me to spend time with him and his team and for selling me a few bottles of his precious oil. I now had everything I needed to start crafting Immortelle 43|17 .
“Love and art are born of nostalgia…”
My journey to the Dalmation Coast was the last important one I took before the pandemic hit. Reflecting on it now, from the vantage point of my newly abbreviated world, my apartment in San Francisco where I’ve remained since March, I feel a deep longing for those unfettered days spent enjoying a glass of wine with newfound friends and exploring all the delights of an unknown destination. It feels like a lifetime ago.
It takes me a year to create a new perfume; I’m admittedly exceedingly slow at teasing out the unique qualities to elevate within my featured ingredient and crafting a narrative around them. In this long process of unraveling and inspired reconstruction, the fragrance begins to speak the language of memory, releasing its anchor to the past and shifting course across waves of nostalgia.
Carta is a conversation of scent and place and a conversation takes at least two actors. I hear the Dalmation Coast in Immortelle 43|17— its marine notes reflect the Adriatic Sea, its radiance conjures blooming fields of sunkissed Helichrysum, and its deep richness evokes the fertile earth of the Bosnian hillsides. But I also hear my voice in it, more loudly than I had originally intended to. I hear my husband’s carefree laughter, tipsy from too much Plavac Mali, my joy in embracing Mile and Mila, and so many moments of awe from scaling the ancient city walls of Dubrovnik to watching the moon rise over Mostar’s elegant Stari Most bridge. And I also hear my longing for those simpler times of pleasure along with my sincere hope that on the other side of this global disaster, there is so much more joy and beauty to behold.
May the flowers that I watered
with my tears
bring fragrance to you.
— Vesna Parun
Images and video by Bernarda Murn & Jere Seselja
