In Ivo Andric's Nobel prize-winning novel about Bosnia, The Bridge on the Drina, a shopkeeper tells a tale of the devil, envious of the smooth, fertile land God had created, gouging its surface with his fingernails, creating the mountains and ravines that are such a feature of the Balkans. This craggy geography might well be regarded as the devil's work: for centuries it had a baleful effect on the region's history. Mountains divided it into isolated units, acting as barriers to economic, political or cultural cooperation. Conflicts, onslaughts, displacements and betrayals were a backdrop from the middle ages to the late 20th century.

Today, 20 years after the outbreak of one of the most vicious wars in the history of a region used to fighting – the 1992-95 Bosnian war – that rugged landscape is for once working in the area's favour. High peaks and plunging valleys, lakes, forests and wilderness make the region a tourist playground.

Drawn by the chance of seeing an exotic-sounding region a short flight away, my friend Kalpana and I joined one of Explore's newest tours, a Journey Through the Balkans, taking us from Croatia into Montenegro, Serbia and Bosnia-Herzegovina.

The Dubrovnik area was parched and touristy, but when we crossed into Montenegro suddenly all was green: wooded mountains, mysterious valleys and empty roads. The smallest country in the former Yugoslavia, Montenegro has more than its share of geography, including the largest lake and highest mountains on the peninsula, and the world's second-biggest gorge.

Ancient towns and wooded hillsides looked gorgeous reflected in the blue water, but we were beguiled just as much by the people. Friendly hotel staff plied us with supplies for picnics. A woman selling figs by the roadside refused to take any money. A gardener wanted to give us a pot of basil; we smilingly refused pleading air travel and he pressed dried sage on us instead.

Inland Montenegro is even more stunning, such as the sleepy town of Virpazar, with a tree-lined square overlooking the Moraca river just before it winds into vast Lake Skadar. We dined on a terrace cut into the riverbank at Konoba Badan restaurant – swallows skimming over clear water as the light faded from high green hills.

But Montenegro had more dramatic stuff in store. First the Tara Gorge – Europe's grand canyon – 78km long and 1,300m deep. Then, in the Durmitor national park, the Black Lake, Crno Jezero, so called because of the deep green of forested mountainsides reflected in water that fades to pale jade near the shore. We hiked around its perimeter, snacking on blueberries and tiny wild strawberries, bought by the cupful from another smiling local.

We were pleased to have done the hike because a highly calorific evening awaited us. Hotel MB, in the ski resort of Zabljak, is famed for its food. Bekendex and Hemendex (the latter means ham and eggs – work it out) had a Two Ronnies ring, but the speciality is Karadjordjeva šnicla. This is a vast pork escalope breaded and fried then, just to make sure it is really fattening, spread with clotted cream, kajmak, and rolled up. But the highlight was a side dish of tomatoes. The Serbian/Montenegrin word for tomato is paradajz, and in this part of the world they are heavenly – tomatoes as nature meant them to taste.

As we neared Serbia we saw our first reminder of the area's Islamic heritage, a minaret poking up from a roadside village. Over the border in the town of Prijepolje, a Muslim man beckoned us over the road to proudly show us a pretty white mosque built by Ibrahim Pasha in the 16th century.

Where Montenegro was all about natural glories, Serbia's attractions were human-based, including an open-air museum where you could stay the night. Sirogojno, on the slopes of Mount Zlatibor, is a reconstructed "ethno-village" of 19th-century wooden cottages. We got to snuggle down in shuttered Hansel and Gretel houses, with traditional textiles on floors and beds, and geraniums at the windows (though we were glad of non-folkloric electricity and plumbing).

Walks into the countryside took us past rivers, forests and farms where dome-shaped haystacks were being built by hand. Everywhere was so tranquil that it was hard to believe only 20 years ago savagery on a staggering scale happened here.

Over the Bosnian border was Višegrad, the setting for Andric's novel. It looked peaceful in the sunshine, the 11 arches of its Mehmed Pasa Sokolovic bridge spanning the blue-green Drina. But its history is violent, from the bridge's beginnings in 1571 under Ottoman rulers, with saboteurs put to death horribly right on this spot, through Austro-Hungarian takeover and two world wars. Andric's book came out in 1945, but the devil was set on visiting more horror on Višegrad. In May 1992, the town was subjected to "one of the most comprehensive and ruthless campaigns of ethnic cleansing in the Bosnian conflict", with some 3,000 (Muslim) Bosniaks killed, many on this bridge, their bodies dumped in the river. Though glossed over by our (Serbian) tour leaders, it was a sobering reminder that this trip was about more than pretty countryside.

This feeling grew as we drove on towards Sarajevo, passing derelict houses that must have held sad stories. Sarajevo would want none of our pity though. From April 1992 it endured the longest siege in modern history, the death of nearly 10,000 inhabitants and damage to nearly all its buildings. But today it is a lively atmospheric city, particularly at night, with the call to prayer rolling down the hillside from the illuminated minarets of its 200 mosques, young people thronging cafes and bars, the smell of grilling cevapcici and sweetcorn on street corners.

The story of the war can be traced in the Historical Museum, the Tunnel Museum and in cemeteries overpopulated with the young. But it's just as rewarding to walk streets of churches, synagogues and mosques, browse oriental-style shops, and see the bridge where Gavrilo Princip shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914.

Many places claim to be the city where east meets west, but here is the very corner where they meet. If you stand on the main pedestrian drag, Ferhadija, and look east, you could be in Istanbul or Cairo. Turn 180 degrees and the solid Austro-Hungarian buildings feel like Vienna or Trieste.

In Andric's tale, when Allah saw what the devil had done, he sent his angels down to spread their wings over the abysses so men could cross, and so people learned how to build bridges. In tradition, one of the greatest blessings is to build a bridge, and the greatest sin to interfere with one.

The next city we visited, Mostar, became world famous for its bridges. Under Tito it was a thriving multi-ethnic city. Its lovely Ottoman-built stone bridge became a familiar image the world over in 1993 when it was destroyed by Croat shelling.

Mostar feels older than Sarajevo, and sadder. Bombed buildings mar the centre, and the city is still divided – schools, hospitals, even bus stations – between Bosniaks and Croats. But with the cool green Neretva river flowing through it, and terraces and bars along both banks, it is a lovely place to wander around. We watched a moving video in the tourist office about the reopening of the bridge in 2004, then stepped outside to see a young man leap from its apex into the water.

Bosnia looks peaceful now, but the challenges are scary: rebuilding after the war; reforming a centrally planned economy; soothing tensions inflamed by the trial (starting next month) of Bosnian Serb military leader Ratko Mladic. In this heartbreakingly beautiful country, with its engaging and resourceful people, a little prosperity and the building of a few metaphorical bridges could lead to miracles. Perhaps if Allah's angels would once more glance this way …