Exploring cultures and communities – the slow way

The tinkers are long gone but the pedestrianised centre of the city of Niš still oozes character. The cafés are busy. Meat and cigarettes count for a lot here. Laurence Mitchell, a long-standing contributor to hidden europe, returns to Niš to tease out the appeal of this southern Serbian city.

article summary —

While it is sometimes debated whether it is Serbia’s second or third largest city — the consensus seems to be that Novi Sad is a shade larger — the south-eastern city of Niš lies well-off most travellers’ radar. While the capital Belgrade has the lure of bright city lights and Novi Sad has style and undeniable baroque charm, Niš (Ниш) has always been something of a poor relation. Having a reputation that is often associated with industrial decline has certainly not helped matters.

Despite its modern veneer, the city is undoubtedly very old. Originally a Celtic settlement, the city that came to be known as Naissus went on to become one of the largest Roman centres in the Balkan region. This was always a city with connections; the Roman emperor Constantine the Great was born here. A millennium or so later Niš would emerge as an important centre of Ottoman power. The city’s historically important location, in a natural corridor en route to what was formerly Byzantium and later Constantinople, remains strategically important even today. Head towards Istanbul from anywhere in central or Western Europe and the most direct route will invariably lead you through Niš.

For the first-time visitor there are sights that should not be missed. The Turkish fortress and the ruins of Constantine’s villa at Mediana on the road to Niška Banja are obvious draws. There is also the gruesome ‘skull tower’ or Ćele kule — which commemorates an Ottoman victory over Serbs — and the ironically named ‘Red Cross’ concentration camp just outside the city. Atop a hill south of the city is the Bubanj Memorial Park, which marks the location of the place where mass executions took place during World War II that resulted in the death of at least 10,000 Serbs, Roma and Jews. These last three sites are all rather grisly in one way or another. Stark reminders of the horrors of war and the suffering it brings, they are memento mori in concrete and stone that reinforce the image of a city with a troubled history.

Parks and piazzas

The beauty of returning to somewhere that is reasonably familiar is the liberation that comes with not feeling obliged to have to tick off a list of requisite sights.

This is just an excerpt. If you are a subscriber to hidden europe magazine, you can log in to read the full text online. Of course you can also read the full article in the print edition of hidden europe 69.


Laurence Mitchell became a travel writer almost by default having squandered his youth travelling in North Africa and India. Following a stint teaching in Sudan, he went on to train as a geography teacher, which he pursued for a decade or so.

These days he concentrates on writing and photography and, while still drawn to transition zones and cultural frontiers like Central Asia, the Balkans and the Caucasus region, is increasingly more content to explore closer to home. He loves ancient tracks, moss-covered ruins, graveyards and allotment gardens, and believes it is possible to find the extraordinary in even the most quotidian surroundings.

Despite a slight distrust of guidebooks, he has contributed several of his own to the world's literary stockpile – Bradt travel guides to Serbia and Kyrgyzstan, ‘slow’ guides to Norfolk and Suffolk (also Bradt), and walking guides to Norfolk and Suffolk for Cicerone. His travel memoir Westering, which describes a coast to coast walk across England and Wales that connects landscape, memory and spirit of place, will be published by Saraband in April 2021. Visit Laurence's blog.

This article was published in hidden europe 69.