The Krka is a river in the Dalmatian hinterland of Croatia that built the staircase it falls down. At Skradinski Buk it drops 46 metres over seventeen barriers, the largest cascade of its kind in Europe. The barriers are travertine: the Krka carries so much dissolved limestone that moss and algae pull it back out and cement it into new rock, ledge by ledge. A wooden boardwalk rings the whole fall, and you cross low bridges between the wooded islets where the river splits, close enough for the spray to settle on your arms and the roar to leave no room for talking. The far arm climbs the opposite bank, and once you are up there the entire seventeen-step fan opens, white barriers stepping down between green islets toward the mouth of the canyon. Swimming at the foot of the falls, allowed for decades, stopped in 2021, so the pools below the white water are out of bounds now.
All this force was put to work long ago. Beside the cascade stands a cluster of stone watermills, where the drop ground grain and fulled wool for the villages around. A century later the river was given a bigger job. The Jaruga plant just below the falls began generating in 1895, the second hydroelectric station in the world and the first in Europe, a day after Niagara's. Its line ran eleven kilometres to Šibenik, and the town lit its streets with that current before almost any other town on Earth. The park boats carry you on from the foot of the falls, up a green, cliff-walled canyon to Visovac, a small island filled almost entirely by a Franciscan monastery founded in 1445. The friars still keep a church, a library and a museum there, and the only way to them is across the water. Further upstream is Roški Slap, a 22-metre fall fronted by a spread of small cascades that people here call the necklaces. Back at the mills, the stones still turn on the push of the river, grinding nothing at all.