Outside, on the sun terrace, I saw what he meant. Looming over the eastern skyline, Mount Ucka is a 1,400m giant with its own nature park and astonishing views that extend as far as Venice on a clear day, or so Goran claimed. The mountain absorbs the icy blasts of the bura wind, enabling Opatija and the seaside settlements on either side to bask in a benign climate that’s all their own. Now I understood why the frostbitten Austro-Hungarians built their railway.

A century ago, Opatija in winter was as much a place to see and be seen as Klosters is today. Dreamy hotels and villas sprang up, and a 12km-long promenade, the Lungomare (those Italians again), was constructed along the rocky shoreline. It was a fabulous place for name-dropping and celebrity-spotting. Mahler, Puccini, Chekhov and James Joyce each at some point took tea on the hotel terraces or coffee and cake in the Viennese-style cafes.

The star attraction was Hotel Kvarner, built by the railway company just down the hill from the terminus, and although, like all of us, it’s lost a star or two with the passing years, the billowing drapes, teardrop lamps and 30-piece chandelier in the Crystal Ballroom hint at the excited buzz it once stirred. It’s slightly frayed around the edges now, and there’s talk of new ownership and refurbishment plans, but they should leave the old lady as she is, trapped in her elegant timewarp.

Through the gardens stands another late-19th-century relic with a lady’s name, Villa Amalia, used now as an annexe of the hotel. For several months, a large ground-floor room became Isadora Duncan’s love nest. She’s reputed to have entertained various callers here or in the gardens after dark, and on the pebbly beach, too – but it was an idle moment of nature study that would add a footnote to history.

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Lying on her bed one morning, the dancer was mesmerised by the swaying and rustling of the palm tree directly outside her window. She was inspired to imitate its movements in performance. Before her dissolute lifestyle took its toll, Duncan’s exciting improvisations – ‘that gentle tremble of shoulders, arms, fingers,’ she wrote later – swept away the formal, mechanical moves of the age, and the world of dance was never quite the same again.

The palm tree, considerably larger now, still stands in the gardens, fluttering to the rhythms of the breeze. Villa Amalia deserves a plaque or a monument to its famous femme fatale, but Opatija is intent on shaking off its past, and at the nearby Lord Byron nightclub that evening, a gyrating pole-dancer took centre stage. How times have changed.

From Opatija, the Lungomare walkway, adorned with cypress and oak trees, follows a sinuous route around the miniature bays of the Kvarner Riviera – north to Volosko, south to Lovran, with notches cut into the rock for seats and bathing platforms. It’s a rewarding walk in either direction, and refreshing, too – almost every cluster of buildings has its statutory bar or restaurant.

The village of Volosko is an old tuna port, with twisting, cobbled alleyways and whitewashed houses that could have been transported from Greece. I lunched on the waterfront at Plavi Podrum, resisting the temptation to delve too deeply into its formidable wine list, but succumbing to its signature dish of risotto with local scampi, porcini and champagne.

Next evening I reached Lovran, at the southern end of the Lungomare, an ancient, leafy village that every summer becomes a lively boutique resort without sacrificing its tranquil soul. Of the half-a-dozen restored 19th-century mansions now doing service as small hotels, Villa Astra was the one that caught my eye – but I wasn’t alone in that.

Some years ago, a Russian oligarch spotted the gorgeous yellow-washed villa as he sailed by in his yacht. He wanted it so badly that he made several offers to the owner, Vjeko Martinko, who gave him the same reply each time: ‘I’m sorry, but some things in life are priceless. Some things cannot be sold. This place is one of them.’

By then, Vjeko had transformed the century-old villa into an exquisite six-room hotel, with a gourmet restaurant, spa and an outdoor pool stunningly set amongst the fragrant laurels. The dishes are stylishly presented but reassuringly down-to-earth, made from locally harvested ingredients such as scampi, mussels, wild asparagus and nettles. In the spa, which lays claim to Croatia’s only flotation tank, the emphasis is on relaxation and healing, which is precisely what attracted the first tourists 150 years ago, and there are some who still come to Kvarner for the invigorating waters of its many thalassotherapy spas.

Next day, Vjeko took me inland to show off his other achievement, Casa Oraj, a once-dilapidated farmhouse in the hills that he’s transformed into a comfortable hideaway, ideal for writers and artists seeking beauty and solitude. It wouldn’t work for me, I told him. With that perfect climate, the mountain and the sea, the food, the wine and the ravishing surroundings, it would be quite impossible to get anything done.

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