There’s a sound that defines Easter in Dubrovnik—not the uplifting chorus of church bells, nor the joyful peal of children unwrapping chocolate eggs on the sun-drenched Stradun.

No, it’s the unmistakable, high-pitched screech of the grass strimmer, echoing around like a swarm of steroidal mosquitoes. Dubrovnik’s version of spring cleaning is a two-pronged assault: one aimed at errant blades of grass, the other at your eardrums.

And if that doesn’t quite set the mood for you, throw in the shrill promises of a dozen political candidates, all waving their banners and clichés as the local elections loom.

Yes, Easter this year came bundled with all the expected signs of the start of the tourist season: clear skies, cruise ship horns, tourists walking up Široka Street as if they’re storming Normandy, and now, black bunting and sorrowful bells to mark the passing of Pope Francis.

With Easter now firmly behind us, the 2025 season has begun in earnest.

The cobbled streets of Dubrovnik are already a teeming international buffet of sunburnt shoulders, selfie sticks, and overpriced gelato. The walking tours have resumed their slow-motion parade, blocking traffic and time alike.

But while the city centre bubbles with energy, my wife and I have had an entirely different sort of revelation—we’ve got new neighbours.

A young family has moved in upstairs. A real rarity. Young. Croatian. In Dubrovnik. I was half-expecting Attenborough to pop out from behind the hibiscus with whispered commentary: “Here we see a young breeding pair of Homo Croaticus Urbanus, cautiously re-entering their natural habitat…”

Which immediately prompted the obvious question: how on Earth did they afford it?

Because, you see, unless they’re heirs to a seafood empire or won Eurojackpot, I’m baffled. I mean, you can’t buy a grave or a garage in Dubrovnik for less than a kidney and your soul.

And this is where my wife and I’s guilty pleasure comes in.

We’re both addicted to those UK property shows—you know the ones. A slightly confused couple from Derby, who have never left the East Midlands, suddenly want to move to Spain. Or Portugal. Or the Caribbean. Always the Caribbean. They sit down with a real estate agent and say, “We’ve got a budget of £100,000 and we want a pool, two bathrooms, sea views, and walking distance to the beach.”

And the agent finds them five options. Five. We stare at each other in mute disbelief.

Here in Dubrovnik, for that price, you’re lucky if you get a basement with a sloping ceiling and a view of someone else’s laundry.

The truth is, real estate prices in the south of Croatia haven’t just gone up—they’ve been launched into orbit. Over the last decade, Dubrovnik has transformed into a boutique theme park for rich visitors, and that “easy” Airbnb money has turned housing into a blood sport.

Every flat, every attic, every shoebox has been converted into a short-term rental. The words “long-term lease” are now only whispered in dark alleys by desperate locals.

And so the young don’t buy.

They don’t rent.

They leave. Germany. Ireland. New Zealand. Pick a country. There’s a Dubrovčanin already there, pouring beer or building scaffolding, while dreaming of home.

And let’s not pretend this is unique to Dubrovnik. Barcelona, Lisbon, Venice—they’re all buckling under the pressure of overtourism. But at least some cities are doing something about it.

Barcelona, bless them, had the radical idea of banning short-term rentals Other destinations have stated that if an apartment building has only one main entrance, then it can’t be used as tourist accommodation. Imagine that.

Can you picture the outrage if such a law were passed here? There’d be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Headlines would scream, “WAR ON TOURISM” while hosts mourn the loss of their second income. But honestly, maybe it’s time for something that radical. Because we are running out of options—and out of neighbours. Maybe that means radical policy shifts. Maybe it means restricting Airbnb licenses.

Maybe it means building public housing. Maybe, just maybe, it means actually listening to the people who live here. Or we can just keep trimming the same old patch of grass and wondering where everyone’s gone.

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