The sand here holds the morning cool longer than you'd expect, still pleasant underfoot when you arrive at ten and spread your towel beneath a tamarisk that drops thin shade like lace. Water the color of weak mint tea slopes so gently that your knees stay dry twenty paces out, the seafloor a tapestry of fine sand and rounded pebbles no larger than lentils. Small fish dart in nervous schools around your ankles, silver flickers against the pale bottom.
“On an island famous for techno marathons, Babe remains defiantly, deliciously dull—and locals intend to keep it that way.”
Aqua water against a rocky shore
A single konoba operates from a whitewashed hut at the beach's southern edge, grilling squid and sardines that fill the air with char and lemon by noon. You'll see the same Croatian families return day after day, grandmothers stationed under umbrellas with thermoses of coffee, fathers teaching stroke mechanics in the shallows. No jet skis carve the bay; no sound systems thump. The unwritten rule holds: Babe is for those who've had enough of bass drops.
By mid-afternoon the tamarisks cast longer shadows and a faint breeze rises, carrying the scent of wild rosemary from the scrub slopes behind the beach. You can hear laughter from a hidden cove to the north, but it never spills over the rocks. When you leave, feet rinsed in the beach shower, you'll carry sand in your bag and the sense that you've borrowed someone's family ritual for a day.
