Croatians say tourism has not been the same in Opatija since the war. They mean the various conflicts in the former Yugoslavia, which are still rumbling on, hundreds of miles away, in another country. But they might as well mean the Great War.

On the east coast of the Istrian peninsula, at the head of the Adriatic, Opatija is next door to Italy and Slovenia and far from Kosovo. Yet its heart still seems to belong to the Austro-Hungarian empire, and to the different and more genteel world swept away at Versailles.

There are still tourists, but not the Euro-youth and big-spending Americans seen elsewhere on the Continent. Instead, there are Italians who have motored over from Trieste in their Hispano-Suizas (well, OK, Alfa Romeos), and Habsburgs arriving by train to trade the icy Viennese winter for the milder Istrian spring.

What they see, behind the formal tulip gardens, blossoming camellias and pale blue wisteria, is much the same as their great-grandparents would have seen. Sepia postcards show a century-old Opatija almost exactly as it is now.

Along the promenade stand stately villa-hotels, a modest half-dozen or so storeys high, many in pale reds and yellows and often baroquely decorated. Shutters and deep balconies keep the summer sun at bay while making the most of the sea breezes.

Our hotel, the Austrian-owned Mozart, employed a doorman in white peruke and knee breeches, who looked freshly plucked from his harpsichord but turned out to be a moonlighting student.

The buildings climb back for a few blocks behind the seafront, then peter out on wooded hillsides. We saw few signs of half a century of communism. One shoebox hotel remains from an attempt at mass tourism in the 1970s while a bathing establishment of the Secessionist era on the waterfront, destroyed by storms in 1979, was replaced by a concrete lido winding round pools and headlands - not bad for northern Croatia, where the usual choice of beach is gravel, pebble or rock.

Otherwise, things are much as they were when Chekhov, Mahler and the Kaiser came to stay and the Grand Duke of Luxembourg strolled along the promenade smoking the one cigarette a day his doctor allowed him. (He had them made 3ft long.)

We peeked into buildings in search of history. The very first guesthouse, the Villa Angiolina, is still there, though under restoration. Opatija was a fishing village before the guesthouse went up in 1844, the summer home of a merchant from Rijeka along the coast who invited the rich and famous to stay.

Nearby is the Hotel Kvarner, built and financed by the railways in 1884 as a sanatorium, and still in use; its grand ballroom now hosts Miss Croatia and Eurovision song contests.

In its annexe, the Villa Amalia, Isadora Duncan stayed and was so inspired by the shimmering of palm trees outside her windows that she based arm movements on them, of which Opatijans are very proud. None of the rooms looks as if it has been redecorated much since then.

Opatija isn't dead - streets are jammed with cars bringing visitors from not too far away - but it is quiet, and will probably remain so. Seaside stalls offer shells; old women spread lace out on hedges to sell. You can treat yourself to thalassotherapy, but you cannot build sandcastles, and for modern holidaymakers that may be a problem.

We visited some towns whose expiry dates really do seem to be at hand. Beli, on the island of Cres, appears in good shape: stone buildings that could have been hewn out of the rocky landscape, roofs of the red tiles traditionally made to fit a man's thigh. But its population numbers in the 40s, farming is unrewarding, and the only other local attraction is a sanctuary for rare griffon vultures.

Inland, there's Hum. One reason for going there is to see examples of Glagolitic inscriptions, an alphabet invented by ninth century monks to teach the gospels (one of them was Cyril, and Cyrillic script is a sort of descendant) but superseded by the Roman alphabet.

The other is to see the self-proclaimed smallest village in the world. Hum has 23 inhabitants, according to its guidebook; down to 17 now, according to one of them. A quick head-count in the town's little restaurant revealed that tourists outnumbered them exactly two to one.

So it was a relief, after these near-death experiences, to emerge on Istria's west coast at Rovinj. Pronounce it the Italian way, Rovigno: it is an Italianate town, and Italian has recently been made an official language. Beyond a yacht-lined waterfront that could be Portofino or St-Tropez lies an old town tightly packed, full of bars, craft shops and gelaterias, and above all lively.

Croatian tourist literature specialises in photos of villages like this, red roofs radiating out from white church towers, photographed from above for maximum picturesqueness. You can get the view by climbing, carefully, up inside the tower of St Euphemia's Church, at Rovinj's highest point.

Alley-like streets meander down on three sides to the sea; the water glistens around pine-clad islands just offshore.

There are beaches (trans-parent water but still no sand) on these islands, which also have hotels with pools and frequent ferry services.

Families come to stay and seem to have a good time. Revellers sing by the harbour at night, raucous but not threatening. The air is so clear that the horizon looks as if it has been drawn in Indian ink.

Top tip for twilight: sit on the rocks outside Valentino's bar, near the harbour, and sip a cocktail as the sun sets. Eat at any of the restaurants along the seafront; fish is a speciality at most, or you can always find a good pizza.

You might like to skip the firewater that passes for brandy, but finish your meal with some kruskovac: it smells like nail polish remover but turns out to be a deliciously smooth pear liqueur. Then bob back by launch, under the stars, to your island hotel. What Habsburg could have had more fun?

Copyright: The Financial Times Limited