A Southern Sojourn

With my foodie birthday in Shkoder over, we had a day of travel ahead of us. We were leaving the stunning north of Albania and heading south to the coastal town of Himarë. Throughout my trip in the Balkans, I had heard endlessly positive things about this seaside town, and I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.  

First, we took a bus to Tirana and then after grabbing Emma a much-needed coffee, we hopped on another bus to Himarë. South of Tirana the driving was monotonous until we joined the bypass near Vlore. From the vertiginous road, a large ragged-edged tear in the otherwise unbroken blanket of cloud appeared high above. Its edges were a string of embroidered silver threads and at its centre rays poured through the grey cloud and into the realm below. It was the small town of Orikum that enjoyed a momentary minute in the sun, benefitting from the unknown forces that had conspired to tear the open the sky above it. But, around this halo of glimmering sunshine, the sea remained unelevated by light and the wind tore at its pliant surface. Beyond Orikum’s bay, a dark peninsula lay muted and unmoving, a smooth edge to the ragged sea. Extending southward from the peninsula were mountains of a surprising size, enormous prisms of rock sheltering behind one another, their tops obscured by cloud. This unexpected hulking mass separated us from open water for miles, it was an obstacle to be conquered before we could glimpse the Ionian Sea in all its glory. 

We came to a sparsely populated and immensely green valley where our minibus would begin its climb into the mountains. But first, we stopped in at a small farm where an old farm lady, fat, wrinkled and traditionally dressed, was expecting the bus. Our driver’s helper hopped out and greeted her. He grabbed a few bags of vegetables from the lady, not forgetting to get a couple of apples for the journey too. We left them to their bucolic existence not long after and all I could think about was how tasty those apples must’ve been.

Emerging on the other side of the long misty climb through the forest, we were descending the bare rocky slopes towards the clear and shining Ionian Sea far below. Along the way we passed countless distinctive round bunkers, a reminder of the paranoia fostered by Enver Hoxha’s regime. They were a physical symbol of the constant fear of a people’s war, where the 750,000 bunkers around the country would be manned by anyone and everyone to defend their land against Greece or Yugoslavia. On the final leg of the journey, we passed through the picturesque villages of Dhermi and Vuno which were beautiful despite the rain that had begun to choke the open sky.  

Himarë

As we came into Himarë, we felt that we couldn’t be much further from the idyllic and rustic charm of those coastal villages. We were standing beside the main road and the colour grey seemed to reign supreme. Rain fell relentlessly from the featureless mass above. It was the sort of rain that neglected its ability to shine, that refused to glint even a speck of light from its thousands of drops. Instead, it fell in dull and tarnished monotony onto the tarmac and concrete around us. We followed our map to the address for our accommodation, but we saw no signs, no doors to lit lobbies, no buzzers to call up to a reception. We walked around the building, but we soon decided to ask for help in a supermarket. A random man overheard us and offered us a lift in his tiny old red car. Once we had contorted ourselves and our bags into the cardboard box on wheels, he realised we weren’t heading where he thought we were so apologised, and we got back out into the rain. Getting desperate as it got dark, I went into a carpet shop and tried the chunky greying man sat among the rolls of carpet, wearing a stern expression. Despite his uncompromising demeanour he rose to his feet and set about asking everyone where our apartment could be. No one knew, so he rang their number. The lady who ran the apartments answered and said she had been trying to contact us on Whatsapp for ages but to no avail. This, of course, is because I don’t buy Sim cards and instead prefer to rely on myself, to figure things out, to ask to locals and waste a lot of time being confused and frustrated. It wouldn’t be fun if it was easy. The lady on the phone directed us back to the seemingly empty building we had circled beforehand. We entered a mysterious unlit hallway, climbed a set of stairs which housed a dead sparrow and turning left we found a single door with a tiny sign beside it. We had made it.  

Despite our latent frustration beginning to effervesce, our hunger was more pressing. We ate at a rubbish tourist restaurant and bought cereal before heading back. Peeling off my shoes it was clear that the integrity of my soles had been compromised. As such, my feet had been marinating in road water for hours. They stank to an alarming degree and my shoes were banished to the balcony while my socks were taken into the shower for another round of ‘The Traveller Special’.  

1. Take your dirty clothing into the shower  

2. Rub it with hand soap or, for that sweet forbidden lather, use someone else’s shampoo that they’ve carelessly left in the communal hostel showers.  

3. Stamp on your clothing collection  

4. Wring each item out until your hands are red raw  

5. Bob’s your uncle, you’ve got a clean(ish) set of clothes 

Beaches

Filikuri Beach

In the morning we ate our Cornflakes and Cheerios from the room’s teacups with a shared spoon, made a sniffing enquiry into how diabolical my shoes were smelling after they had had time to mature and got ready for a day at the beach (it’s a tried and tested daily routine popular with the all the Hollywood stars).  

After a walk through the boring touristy town, we headed up and over the headland to the turquoise waters of Filikuri beach. The scramble down the crumbling rock was helped by a rope and, when finally on the pebbles, Emma spread out her towel and claimed a section of land for Scotland (and England if I was lucky). The next few hours were a blur of sights and sounds. Cries of exalted German excitement at the waves and the cold water. Glimpses of the strange cave boy, who nestled in the darkness of a narrow one-man rocky cleft. Europeans in their speedos and their eagerly played games of bat and ball. The crashing surf and the sonorous rattle of stones being dragged out to meet the next falling crest of foam, spray and seaweed. 

Aquarium Beach 

The next day we had more of an adventure in store. We had decided to walk along the coastline to Gjipes beach from Himarë. We set off, aware we had a decent walk to complete and some swimming holes to try out on the way. After following gravel tracks and narrow paths, on which we ducked under bushes and followed a rogue dog to make our way further along the coast, we arrived at the first spot, Aquarium Beach. It was a perfect lobe of almost luminous turquoise water protected by the spiky walls of the inlet on either side. After swimming around for five minutes and trying to shove off the sadness at my lack of a snorkel and mask, I reverted to type and searched around for a way to endanger my life. After testing the depth of the water and trying out places to get up onto the rocks, I pulled myself out and hobbled barefoot higher and higher up the jagged spines of rock. I found the highest place I could and thus the jumping began. This kept me happy as Larry for a while and in the meantime, Emma soaked up the sun and took photos. Soon though, we thought it was time to move on and I had decided to swim around to the next bay instead of walking. This undertaking was strangely out of character for me because while I enjoy a little adventure, my runway-worthy long legs make me sink like a lead weight. Nevertheless, I was buoyed with enthusiasm and set off steadily, riding the light swells that rolled silently over the boulders below the surface. The sea floor below me was visible through the softly swaying glassy plane. The projected images of that other world rode the swells with me. With every stroke, I was cutting through the looking glass, deforming the boundary between one world and another, leaving disturbance in my wake. I made it to the beach, tired but happy that I had managed to swim as far as your average nine-year-old.

Jalë

The next large beach and town was at Jalë. It was nice but much like Himarë it was a ghost town by the first week of October, an empty shell of its buzzing summer height mere weeks before. Straw parasols lay discarded and beach bars were stripped of equipment and personnel. As for the tourists, they had long since packed up their backpacks and gone home, the only ones remaining were the campervans belonging to retired Germans, Dutch and French couples who dotted the beach with their deep leathery tans and their belief in the sanctity of public nudity. The water in the long sandy bay was continuously calm and inviting but the beach front was not. With everything shut, we walked for a while, watching men move back and forth from unfinished building sites with wheelbarrows, before we found somewhere to get a drink. A shaded beach bar near the far end of town was one of the only places that was open and the old man who ran it greeted us with a nod. He only spoke Albanian and Italian, but the wearied look of thirst is a universal language, one that any good barman comes to recognise quickly. Nevertheless, he seemed like a lovely man and he didn’t seem at all bothered about being paid for the coffee that Emma had ordered. We put the money into his begrudgingly accepting hand and got on our way.

Vuno

At the end of the bay there was a chain across the path and a man told us in no uncertain terms that the way to Gjipes beach was closed, there was no way along the coast and we would have to turn around. This riled me because this man could clearly see in my eyes that there was no way we were turning around. Walking back the same way, seeing the same things, is not only boring but cowardly. Retreat is never an option. So, Emma and I decided on a different path. We set off on a walk up the long, hot winding road to Vuno, one of the beautiful villages we had driven through on our way to Himarë.

It took a while but once we were there we could breathe. We could leave the hot tarmac and let the concentrated energy required for monotonous uphill road walking seep out of us, to be replaced by the slow and simple energy of an ancient rural village. Vuno is served only by the main road which, on entry into the village, changes from tarmac to stone and slows all cars to a walking pace. Off the main road, the hillside village is a mosaic of sprawling greens, oranges, mottled whites and stonework accessed only by a web of steep uneven alleys. These cobblestone alleyways run between grapevine covered terraces, old, shuttered windows and stone walls. Friendly local ladies were sat on the curb side or could be seen walking along in the shade of the fruit trees. As we continued to climb up through the village, the light breeze carried conversations from walled gardens but other than the whispering wind, the village remained content in its sleepy stupor. Looking from the top end of the village, the dusty green of the olive groves led the way to the glimmering Ionian Sea which spanned the gap between us and the dark Greek island of Corfu on the horizon.  

Back down at the quiet main road, we knew that the chances of a bus coming by any time soon was slim, so we attempted to hitchhike. We were sat in the weakening sunshine that shone over the sea and through the flowerbeds at our backs. The sunshine brought gusts of wind with it, each gust roused the dust that had nestled into the grooves and crevices of the cobblestone and brought each particle crashing against the white houses like a rising wave against a sea wall. Donkeys came with the wind too, poking their heads out into the sunlight before receding to raid the bins around the corner. After an hour of laughing, joking and managing to get Emma to put her thumb out and hitchhike for real, we got picked up by a lovely German couple and taken to town.   

Gjirokaster

After a hot and tiring morning of bus travel punctuated with a confusing hour spent on the fringes of a roundabout on the edge of Sarandë, we eventually made it to the ancient city of Gjirokaster. Our hostel was up the long, steep cobblestone streets and once we had summited, doused in sweat, we wanted nothing but a relaxed food-filled day.  

So, we spent the day ambling around, paying no money to see any attractions, reading very little about the city’s history and instead we enjoyed our ignorant but engaged inspection of the place around us. One of the most visually striking aspects of Gjirokaster was the style of the rooftops. A dark bluey grey jumble of slates lay across the uneven roofs of ancient homes. These roofs didn’t meet the external stone walls of the tall houses though, instead they extended out as an overhang that curved at the corners and were held aloft by wooden buttresses protruding from the upper walls. From these rooftops, black cables ran between houses in unplanned tangles; from below it was clear that they were never meant to be there, traversing and obstructing the walker’s narrow view of the sky beyond. Our leisurely inspection of Gjirokaster’s character could of course only happen away from the awful clamour of the tiny tourist area, where colourful vaguely Albanian tat adorned every corner. Not far away, beyond the castle, we managed to find shaded cobblestone streets where the only inhabitants seemed to be cats. Closed stone churches covered in vines and neglected doors with peeling paint, the unrestored character around us was a breath of fresh air; the “museum town” status of the city hadn’t quite reached these sunken alleys yet and we were all for it staying that way. 

That evening we found a family run taverna where we ate incredible home-cooked food under the strange glare of multi-coloured lights and then retired to a bar near our hostel for some red wine and freshly roasted chestnuts.   

Berat

Berat is another small and ancient city in Albania. It sits along the Osum river and is surrounded by the mountains that seem to spring exuberantly from Albania’s soil. While the endless guesthouses and restaurants showed the popularity of Berat, its tourist centre felt a little less tacky than Gjirokaster. The city is known as ‘The Town of a Thousand Windows’ and looking through one of the rare windows that didn’t lead to a guesthouse, I found an almost symbolic sight of Berat’s historic centre clinging to its history. An old man working under the yellow light of a single lamp, glasses at the end of his nose, focussed intently on the antique, off-white sewing machine in front of him. Behind him the simple shop was dim. The shrewd and concentrated look on the workman’s face conflicted with the ease with which his hands moved over the table’s reliable but imperfect top. Each superficial scar, a sign of one’s service to the other. 

However, we couldn’t watch an elderly man tinker for the whole evening, so we decided to go and explore the large citadel that overlooks the city. Up until a couple of hundred years ago, a big rocky hill overlooking a fertile river valley was considered prime real estate for your average castle developer and so Berat has had a castle up there for over two millennia. It was burned and rebuilt a few times by various empires and in its current form it has been mostly unchanged since the 13^th century. When we first got up there, we were astounded by the views over the new part of the city that stretched to the foothills of the Tomorr mountains. Then as we reached a new viewpoint we caught sight of the old city which seemed to nestle between the river’s banks and the steep mountain slopes below us. The meandering river cut through it all, emphasising the majestic sweep of the mountainous vista and reflecting the hues of the salmon pink sky. Walking around the citadel, we soon lost sight of the views and instead found ourselves walking down alleyways that were over 700 years old, exploring Byzantine churches and peering into enormous cisterns. As the sun began to set, we walked back down, leaving our rocky mound in the sky and beginning the hunt for food.  

Wine Tasting  

In recent years, Berat has become something of a wine tasting hub in Albania and there was no way we were missing out on some of that go-faster grape juice. We took a taxi up to the Alpeta winery on a clear and sunny evening, deciphering the driver’s conversation about the history of Albania the best we could. Once we got there, we found ourselves in the mountains, on the outskirts of the small village of Roshnik and being shown into a converted stone barn where the wine tasting would happen later. After a cursory look around, I was intrigued by the man stoking the fires behind some wooden screens. He was wearing a beige jumper over a light shirt and was backlit by the dancing flicker of fire. As he turned, his dark eyes shone like marbles in his narrow face and he beckoned us closer to see the raki distillation process. The stone fireplaces contained the licking flames that heated the copper containers above, which in turn fed copper tubing into wooden barrels. The smell that filled the barn was a spiced, figgy, mulled wine scent, mixed with the aromatic smell of the dry wood burning in the hearth. It was winter encapsulated in a single smell. With Emma having to pull me away from living out the rest of my existence wading in the thick aromas of the raki distillery, we went and sat on the balcony from which grapevines extended from the floor like a leafy carpet, with large bunches of blue/purple grapes hanging below. 

On the wine tour, we were guided around the vineyard, where they talked about their family’s history on the land, their different grape varieties and perhaps most interestingly we were shown the traditional practice of planting fig trees along the borders to keep birds and insects occupied with the sweeter figs. Not long after, in the light of a gibbous moon shining through the last pink breath of sunlight, we headed back to get some of the much talked about wine inside us. We were treated to a huge platter of fruits, nuts and cheeses shared across the table of older and substantially richer guests. At first, Emma and I were silently demolishing our side of the platter, but when the wine came, tongues got looser, and we got chatting to a lovely German man and, more importantly, to the absolute icons that were Peter and Caroline. They were a middle-aged English couple who were obviously filthy rich and were in Albania for a good time. Peter happily mispronounced every foreign place and name while enthusiastically declaring himself captain of the table (the captain would have to drink a shot of raki if someone didn’t drink theirs after a toast), Caroline on the other hand was confidently demonstrating her questionable German language ability and aggressively questioning couples on how they met, when they fell in love and getting us to pose for pictures. After they eagerly espoused the benefits of house-swapping your large multi-bed and multi-bathroom house with some other rich person elsewhere in the world, Emma and I had had a few large glasses of various very tasty wines, a couple of shots of raki and Peter was up dancing with the owner of the winery.  

It was approaching the end of the wine tasting and we were about to ask them to call our taxi driver to pick us up, but then it was revealed that there was a wedding in the village. The owner explained that it is tradition to invite the whole village to the celebrations and since we were in the village we could come along too. We couldn’t pass up that opportunity, could we? So, we set off with the owners and followed them down the dark lanes to a square that was absolutely buzzing with energy. We spent the rest of the evening watching everyone dance in big circles, they moved in perfect unison doing exactly the same steps to slightly different tunes (played by a man on the clarinet). It was quite mesmerising watching the circles go around and around and then spotting Peter appear in the middle of the circle, cutting the maddest shapes you’ve ever seen. Part of me wanted to cringe at the drunk Brit making himself the centre of attention but the old Albanian men seemed to take him under their wing. He sat with them, danced with them and drank with them, until him and Caroline made the surprisingly sensible choice and retired for the evening. Keep living your best life, you bloody animals.  

Final Thoughts 

Albania has a bit of a bad rap. You know, with the whole fact that the Albanian mafia is one of the most powerful criminal organisations in the world, the fact that Liam Neeson’s daughter was trafficked by some Albanian men in the film ‘Taken’ and then the legacy of being a closed communist state until the 90s still looming large in hearts and minds, people are still scared to travel there. But forget all that, think of the mountains, the Albanian riviera and the dangerously cheap white wine. Go on, turn a blind eye to injustice and corruption, if you can do it with with the British government you can do it with the Albanian one.