Day one. The Drina is green in a way that photographs never quite capture — a cold, milky jade that seems lit from underneath. We put in at dawn with a borrowed raft and too little rope.
Day six. At Višegrad, the old bridge is full of tourists and the new bridge is full of lorries. Nobody looks at the river.
Day fourteen. A ferryman who has worked both banks for forty years tells me the border moved three times in his lifetime. The river, he says, stayed exactly where it was.
Downstream
Day twenty-one. The Drina meets the Sava, and the story, as rivers do, becomes someone else’s.