The pebbles at Rova click and shift underfoot as you walk to the water's edge, a mix of limestone fragments and darker basalt worn down by winter storms. Behind you, wild rosemary and sage push through cracks in the low stone walls that mark old property lines. The beach arcs gently, protected from north winds by a wooded headland where cicadas maintain their afternoon chorus.
“Rova gives you the space and peace of a lesser-known beach while remaining substantial enough to offer a full day's experience.”
Tropical island lagoon from above
You'll wade in past patches of seagrass that sway in the current, the water cooling your ankles before deepening to swimming depth. Families stake out territories in mid-morning—grandparents under rented umbrellas, children constructing pebble towers at the waterline, parents floating on inflatable loungers just beyond the shallows. A small concrete platform offers a place to dry off between swims, its surface marked by decades of salt and sun.
The scene at Rova unfolds without urgency. A fisherman casts from the rocks at the eastern end, his line arcing over water that shifts from turquoise to navy as the seafloor drops. A woman treads water while talking on her phone, her voice carrying across the bay. By evening, the beach empties except for a few stragglers watching the light fade over Cres island, the pebbles still warm beneath bare feet.
