After 13 miles (21 km), I arrived at a marvelous tourist-laden town of Ston. Because of its flourishing salt-bed business and oyster farming (you can see the oyster farming in the pic of the bay) the city needed protection from invaders. In 1461, a 1200-meter wall was commissioned that one can see on entering the twin towns of Ston and Little Ston (Mali Ston). I tried to capture a bit of the wall.
Buses by the dozen drop off their passengers who then flood the eateries and gift shops. By sunset, I expect a sleepy little town.
Early in my walk, I came on a roadside grave (similar to the one in the picture) with a middle-aged man and two young ladies weeping over the burning candles. All were dressed in black. As he waved at me across the road, I stopped and briefly prayed with them, then waved and continued on. In that short time, I felt their grief and deeply bonded with them—total strangers that they were. When they drove off, they waved to me, and I to them. How remarkable this brief encounter was and how it touched me—it made me recall the most difficult duty I had while in the service back in Omaha of bringing the sad news to families of the loss of someone dear to them as the locally appointed Army casualty assistance officer.
