Here we are, basking in the warm embrace of Dubrovnik’s so-called "Indian Summer," a term we Brits have romanticized to mean, “sunshine that’s arrived fashionably late.”

The thermometer still flirts with the twenties, and as of today, the Adriatic Sea tempts at a balmy 21 degrees Celsius. Yes, the same sea temperature that ushers in swarms of holidaymakers each May and June, yet now—at peak November—those sandy stretches are practically deserted.

My wife swims every day, enjoying the blissful solitude.

And all the while, the city is slipping quietly into hibernation as though the sun hadn’t noticed. It’s as if Dubrovnik itself has decided to roll up its shutters for winter, just as Mother Nature serves up a final, glorious encore.

So, why the English call it an "Indian Summer" remains one of our finer linguistic mysteries, doesn’t it? Some say it’s borrowed from the Native American practice of late-season hunting, others attribute it to English colonists encountering unexpected heat while abroad. Either way, “Indian Summer” brings with it images of a gentle, glowing warmth—just like the one Dubrovnik now flaunts, completely out of season.

All around, there’s a sleepy quiet, with hotels and restaurants locked up as if following some cosmic law, despite the beaming sunshine. Yes, Dubrovnik in November is like showing up to a wedding after everyone else has gone home, only to find that the caterers forgot to pack up the cake.

Meanwhile, this splendid stretch of “Indian Summer” sunshine hangs over the city, a lingering gift that seems almost misplaced.

“The Earth has music for those who listen,” wrote Shakespeare, and Dubrovnik seems to be performing one final symphony for those willing to pause and soak it in. Here, among the empty beaches and whispering waves, it’s hard to ignore the beauty of this unexpected warmth—even if it's a sign of climate's unsettling shifts.

And yet, despite the weather, Dubrovnik’s Old City looks poised for a Christmas photo shoot.

Lights and decorations have been strung along the Stradun and I have expected to stumble upon a nativity scene sweating it out in the Mediterranean heat.

The juxtaposition of mistletoe and sunscreen is a surreal one, even for those accustomed to Dubrovnik’s idiosyncrasies. And it raises a curious thought: has the weather changed, or are we simply in denial? Here we are, beach towels over one shoulder, ready to dip in the sea, while the city scurries into “winter mode” as though it were a Siberian outpost and not a stone’s throw from the equator.

Perhaps this paradox can be traced back to some seasonal rite of passage for tourist towns. Like migratory birds, Dubrovnik’s hospitality industry follows its own internal calendar, one that has nothing to do with what the thermometer says. October 31 hits, and, poof, the restaurants vanish, the bars evaporate, and even the tour boats suddenly stop rocking in the harbor. It’s like watching a magic trick you didn’t ask for.

All that’s left are a few brave souls, relishing the empty beaches and laughing quietly at the irony of it all.

And don’t get me started on the hotel closures. Some are shuttered with the same gravitas reserved for bank vaults, as though any rogue guest who might turn up could threaten the city’s delicate off-season ecosystem.

Dubrovnik’s Indian Summer has become a stage for a rather ironic little show, one that only a city on the edge of both history and climate reality could pull off.

In this bizarre seasonal limbo, “To everything there is a season,” as Ecclesiastes might remind us.

Dubrovnik’s off-season, however, doesn’t seem to know what that is anymore. Global warming has turned it into something stranger and harder to predict—a never-ending twilight of beach days and Christmas lights. In truth, it’s a climate change fairytale. Tourists might have gone, but the temperatures haven’t. My wife’s ritual dip in the Adriatic each morning is proof of this stubborn climate anomaly.

Her pool? The vast, turquoise sea, under the watchful gaze of an empty lifeguard chair.

She has a swimmer’s grin that only a deserted beach in 21-degree water can provide, while I, ever the British commentator, marvel at our private paradise. And there’s a strange comfort in knowing that, while the beach bars may be closed, nature hasn’t let us down. In our unplanned Indian Summer, we find ourselves “catching the sun,” to borrow a line from J.M. Barrie, almost like children.

Read more Englishman in Dubrovnik…well, if you really want to

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About the author

Mark Thomas (aka Englez u Dubrovniku) is the editor of The Dubrovnik Times. He was born and educated in the UK and moved to live in Dubrovnik in 1998. He works across a whole range of media, from a daily radio show to TV and in print. Thomas is fluent in Croatian and this column is available in Croatia on the website – Dubrovnik Vjesnik