The Opposite of Horrid? Ohrid

After Kosovo, my return to Macedonia was bittersweet. On one hand, I was excited to be back in Skopje, probably my favourite city of the trip so far, and even more excited to finally see Ohrid (the large lake in the south) but on the other hand I was tired. I was ready to get to Albania, to change the solo backpacking dynamic that had begun to frustrate me in Kosovo and I was ready to see Emma.    

Sheared in Skopje

I had come back to Skopje for two nights and the first thing to do was get a haircut. I love getting haircuts abroad, there’s always something odd or unexpected to contend with. In Kyrgyzstan my haircut cost me 80p, in Cambodia I sat on the pavement while the barber used hand-pumped clipper contraptions and in Taiwan, I had the loose hair nonchalantly vacuumed off my head. But in Macedonia, the experience was a little more fancy. Inside my chosen barber shop there were old school leather chairs and three very conspicuous male model portraits on the wall. The photos were certainly not taken recently and the men, frozen in their decade of photographic limelight, looked down on me and my modern thicket of unruly hair with what I assume was disdain or pity.

As my bearded barber was rummaging around for some scissors on a dirty countertop, without even the hint of one of those clear beakers of miscellaneous blue disinfecting liquid, it was clear to me that there was a very lax attitude towards hygiene (the standard for a haircut abroad). After finding some scissors, he cut my hair and beard and then whipped out the razor for my neck and face. Beckoning me out of my seat, he proceeded to wash my face, hair, neck and even my ears while I awkwardly bent over a sink (no reclining chairs and nice smelling towels here). At the end of cutting and washing, a coarse brush was rubbed over my face which was unpleasant and made me think that perhaps he had mistaken me for a horse. Then, antiseptic stuff was rubbed onto the inevitable wounds he had left with the razor. This stinging antiseptic turned out to be wildly ineffective against the bacteria that would cause spots to appear the next day… perhaps because he had first scratched microorganisms into my face with a bloody horse brush? At the end of these questionable procedures, he seemed to have finished so I prepared myself to get up. However, he stood sternly behind me, put his hands on my shoulders and said, ‘Relax’. Here’s a fun tip for people out there who by some crossing of destinies, an intertwining of fate’s threads, might have the delight of meeting me in the future: if you want me to relax don’t touch my shoulders, arms, neck, face, torso, upper leg or foot. Obviously, hands and shins are perfectly reasonable places for physical contact (how else would I fend you off other than a swift slap or a wild kick?). Other than anything within those parameters, respect my desire to socially distance myself from you forever. Nevertheless, I tried to follow his instructions to relax and so he proceeded with a quick massage. This evidently went in clear violation of my unspoken desire for a corporeal exclusion zone and gave me flashbacks to the funny, yet physically and mentally uncomfortable experience of my first massage in Bangkok. Feeling tenser than ever, the man proceeded to crack my neck, which was a little concerning. I mean, who teaches you that? How many dead bodies does this man have behind him? How many unfortunate test subjects were there between accidental vertebrae snaps and strangely satisfying neck cracking?

Matka

Other than my haircut, my only other plan for Skopje was to kayak through Matka canyon. I set off alone one morning, catching an early local bus. After about 40 minutes through the city and surrounding suburbs, we reached the small road where the bus turned around and I hopped off. Along with a few other tourists, I followed the small road which at first ran alongside a canoe slalom course and then up to and around a large dam. This was the start of the canyon and after a quick look at prices I found somewhere to hire myself a kayak. I was shoved into my green craft with no questions asked and no instruction given, but I did replace the buoyancy aid that had been thrown in my direction due to its holes and broken straps. I’m quite happy not being told what to do, in fact I actively encourage it, but c’mon, functional equipment would be nice. It was a matter of a couple of minutes before I was away and onto the water.  

The kayaking was relaxing, the only thing that stopped it verging into meditative was the regular back and forth of noisy tourist boats. Either way, I was happy kayaking along, gazing at the rising parallel spines of jagged rock and the forest that filled the gaps between them. It was an overcast day with patches of blue sky appearing when the shifting skies allowed it. My paddle strokes were steady and measured as I propelled myself on through the almost artificially azure water, glimpsing the rock faces continuing their journey downwards beyond the rippled plane. Shacks, that I suppose had once been houses, lined one side of the gorge, only accessible by boat, while on the other side was a winding path clinging onto the cliff face and occasionally burrowing through it. I was heading towards the most famous of the caves in Matka and it took me 40 minutes to reach the entrance. I pulled my kayak onto the jetty and went up the muddy track to the entrance. When I got there, a tour group were just leaving. The noisy generator at the cave’s entrance drowned out their chatter and I was happy at the prospect of having the cave to myself. I walked in and down a couple of staircases, following the small lights either side of the stairs. The cave was silent apart from steady dripping of water onto wet rock or into pools of still water, not even the generator noise seemed to penetrate this subterranean lair. Hang on, no no I heard the generator just a second ago… And that’s when I was plunged into complete darkness. I stood still for a moment, a disbelieving smile crossing my face. With a shake of my head that no one saw but the spiders, I realised they had turned the generator off when the tour group left, knowing full well that I had gone in there. Very rude. Still smiling, I whipped out my phone. However, it turns out that it’s only when you’re underground, blind in a strange Macedonian cave, that you understand the shocking inadequacy of an iPhone torch. Owing to my inability to see more than 15cm in front of my own feet, I thought any further cave exploration was probably off the cards at this point. So, I decided instead to try and get out, praying they hadn’t closed the gate in front of the cave too. A couple of flights of stairs and a few stumbles later and I was back in the light of day. After such an ordeal I’m still waiting for Netflix to contact me about the film adaptation. It shouldnt be long now…

In the light of day, I was determined to get back to the kayak hire place in record time so I could pay for an hour and a half instead of the whole 2 hours (yes, I’m that tight). It was quite a tough little challenge, and the headwind didn’t help me at all, but I managed it and saved an insignificant sum of money. Good times. On dry land, I realised I didn’t know when the next bus back would be, so I set off for the road. I passed tonnes of tourists heading towards the lake which meant a bus had recently arrived and I would probably be waiting a while. Despite waiting for over an hour for the bus’s arrival I was quite content perched on a gnarled tree root in the sunshine.    

Ohrid

After an impromptu night at a bar with people I didn’t really like, I was on my way to Ohrid. The alcohol in my system, combined with my propensity for sleep on public transport, had sent me into a pretty unbroken snooze. I’m certain I was snoring loudly, and I was unquestionably even more visually unappealing than normal, however, the sleep was wonderful and it revitalised my body and mind. So, I got into Ohrid, on the shores of Lake Ohrid, feeling fresh and with time to get acquainted with my surroundings. 

Lake Ohrid is one of the oldest lakes in the world and, in places, is over 280m deep (that’s over 3x deeper than the North Sea). Aside from its beauty, the lakeside has a long history as a religious centre in the region. In fact, the city of Ohrid is famous for once having 365 churches, one for every day of the year. Now, as many of you will know, places of worship garner in me a respectful awe that I don’t share for many things outside the realms of food and landscapes, however, I hadn’t come to Ohrid for sightseeing, it was, as the Gen Z youths would say it, “for the vibes.”  

From the outset Ohrid was breathtakingly beautiful. The unyielding historicity, humble affability and unhurried charm that seemed to permeate the Balkan peninsula was plain to see in the city. Old men hobbled past the peeling facades of crumbling houses, exuberant flowers found themselves even more brightly appealing in front of aged brickwork while entangled grapevines wove a blanket of shade above small patios. As I walked around the city streets, overtaken by bicycles trundling across uneven cobblestones, I was caught by the smell of wood fires cooking ajvar (a dip made from the roasted red peppers which hung from the earthy terracotta roofs of the houses). The embrace of that sweet and homely acridity of wood smoke sent my mind home back to my village. Across the roofs, laden by peppers, a gentle but cool breeze was blowing in from the lake, one that allowed that pristine jewel to shimmer in the unbroken afternoon light. The sapphire waters and their cooling gusts contrasting to the earthen tones, smells and tastes of the city, made for the perfect marriage of the senses. The steady hearth-fire of domesticity combining with the rare swaying languidity of nature’s hand.  

The best way to appreciate Lake Ohrid though is to walk along its shore. The city has made this possible through a network of small lanes, paths and boardwalks. In the sunny afternoons of late summer, small boats chugged past at the whim of their owners while others swung gently on their mooring lines at the whim of nothing other than the soft undulations of the lake’s surface. Cormorants used these moored boats as perches, and they could be seen stretching their wings and fishing at their leisure. Other boats lay listlessly on the rocky shore waiting for a new lick of paint, something to allow them to feel the lap of water on their hulls again. The gentle breeze that had graced the rooftops and reminded me of the imminence of winter, stirred the willows on the lake’s shore to life, their movements more exaggerated and theatrical than those of the boats. Tall pines stood more solidly though, their vertical profiles framing the scene, one of water, mountains and sky. An indomitable trio. In some areas, locals gathered to take in the beauty of their home. On one occasion, I was stalking about at a local swimming hole, trying to take a photo of a plainly dressed older man, staring out onto the water or perhaps to the hazy slopes beyond, when another man crossed the view. The new man hung up a wet pair of boxers on a handrail, which led down a few metres to the water’s edge, and then he sat beside my subject. They didn’t seem to chat much; they were quite happy in the low-slung sunshine and silence. 

At sunset, the lakeside scene shifted even more strongly to one of colour and tranquillity. As I came down a set of stairs from a small street to re-join the lakeside path, a man was fishing beneath Ohrid’s famous church of Saint John the Theologian. He was framed by the drooping leaves; his silhouette was bold and strong against the still water. As I got closer, I couldn’t resist asking if I could take a photo of him, because well, he was a disgruntled Macedonian Santa with a rod instead of reins. A glorious sight indeed.

Up a few stairs to the famous church, the nattering hordes were rampant. It was always busy around the church but curiously only right next to the building. So, I went down a few steps to the outer wall where I found a spot to watch the sun and atmosphere do their diurnal dance. The sun sank over the Albanian mountains to my right and the occasional boat noise couldn’t detract from the lapping water and the pink hues cast into the few puffy clouds at the tops of the highest peaks.

On another night, but one that coalesces into the same pink-hued experience, the lapping water muffled far-off conversations had across a tree-lined beach. I had been sitting there for two hours, wishing I had someone to swim with but also quite happy with my head in a book. Sat on knobbly rock, the final warmth of the sun stretched its gift across the lake to the trees around me, imbuing them not with the vitality of their rapidly fading chlorophyll but with a temporary golden warmth. The Midas touch of sunset is both a miracle and a curse, for every sunset must come to an end and each leaf must hope to see another tomorrow. Far out and towards the craggy rock base that held the church above the lake, a couple swam in the rose gold liquid of this magical time. Their heads were shining and bobbing clear out of the slowly darkening water, chatter and splashing drifting across the surface to me.

As I left both of these beautiful but lonely perches, I headed away from the main route back to town and instead opted for the longer circular through the pine forest. It was a sweet smelling yet dark place to watch the final embers of light drifting across Ohrid’s outskirts, and, turning my back to the sun, the place to hear a final goodnight chirp of a hidden bird. 

Beans and Wine

After the sun went down it was time for food. On most evenings, I stayed in the hostel, headphones in, cooking a massive helping of carbonara. Comfort food 101. On one of these occasions, there was a quiet guy at the hostel, who was playing music and singing. While usually I find public shows of talent in places like the living room of a hostel spine-tinglingly cringeworthy, this guy had serious talent. When he whipped his lute out and began singing (yes, you read that correctly, he had brought his massive unwieldy stringed instrument with him) I was amazed. I think he was singing in Turkish, and I was transported back to the desert, back to evenings at the fireside staring up at the stars. He played non-stop and I was so impressed by his talent that I dragged myself from my steady state of anti-sociability to tell him that he was amazing.  

On my final night in Ohrid, before my journey to Albania, I decided to go out and try the restaurant in town that seemed constantly busy. It wasn’t near the lake, with nice views or fancy tablecloths, it seemed fast, local and exceptionally popular. It was called Kebapcilnica Vkusno and as I occupied the last free table, I asked for a red wine. The waitress duly came back with a white. Perhaps I hadn’t been clear? So, I politely informed her of her mistake saying, ” I don’t really like white wine.” Her response? She silently opened the small bottle, placed it right in front of me and said, “It’s good,” and then left. I was perplexed but then I tasted the wine… she was right, it was great. I had discovered a white wine that I didn’t think tasted like vomit. A triumph indeed. The food came quickly. I had ordered Tavce Gravce (the Macedonian national dish of baked beans) and Ushtipci (flattened meatballs with cheese). They were both incredibly tasty however the baked beans blew me away. They were earthy, rich and in a thick sauce that was unctuous in a way that made it perfect for being scooped up with warm bread. The bread was soon supplied, and I had in front of me a faultless dish. I was in a bean-induced heaven.  

After a casual baklava outside the café opposite the restaurant, I walked back to the hostel, where I would either retire early or politely slip out of a conversation. Usually, these conversations were either started by the oppressively chatty guy from Dublin or the gross Australian who exuded the ‘I come from wealth and have no concept of how to be remotely interesting or humble’ look (and that was before he got talking). He began chatting constantly about how much money he makes betting on the tennis (because he’s played the sport to a semi-pro level and knows a lot of the blokes on the international tours obviously), how expensive his watches are and how great it is to go regularly to the F1. Lacking in even enough enthusiasm to nod in a way that could indicate that I care, I would find my way into my bed early and prepare myself for the early morning rise to get to Albania.  

Final Thoughts  

Ohrid was a beautiful end to my solo trip in the Balkans. It was a setting in which I found it impossible to be unhappy. A place I could still feel and understand what had weighed me down in Kosovo, but on the shores of Ohrid I had returned to some simple bliss. Something like I had felt in Bansko, a contentment with where I was and what I was doing. An undistracted serenity that had permeated into me from my setting…

…and from the dog happily trotting around wearing sunglasses. Quaint Balkan charm is great but a dog with sunglasses, that’s a view to remember.