Louella’s Journal

Newsletter 3

22/9/07

Our rescue by Nick and Sar Wakeley and our sojourn in Elbasan was a very welcome port in a storm. We stayed in a hotel built within the old walls of what used to be a pleasant and unspoiled Ottoman City. Sadly after the 2nd World War and then an intensive programme of industrial development under communism that is no longer the case. Enver Hoxha called the construction of a huge metallurgical complex on the outskirts of Elbasan “the 2nd national liberation of Albania” designed to refine ferro-chrome, nickel and ore. The chimneys are the tallest in the Balkans and belched vast quantities of pollutants, which killed the prosperous agricultural area in the valley, poisoned the river and caused illness in the population. Now the complex is largely closed down and Elbasan is beginning to recover. We spent our time here sorting ourselves out and worrying about whether to continue our ride on a horse with a saddle sore. All our instincts said “no”. Chris was tired and it would have been a struggle to urge her on.

Riding in Albania is far tougher than we thought, the terrain is very stony, the tracks and roads, such as they are, have to zig and zag to follow the contours of a country made of mountains, gorges, sheer cliffs and valleys. All Albanians wish to please so they only tell you what they think you want to hear. With us this is mostly lying about distance and time. Ask how far to so and so, and they’ll tell you four kilometers. How long on a horse and they’ll say one hour. Off we trot and twelve kilometers of sheer up and down, no track and no-one to ask; seven hours later and one furious husband, two tired horses and one resigned and button-lipped wife, we emerge in semi-dark, bruised and battered.

Our camp sites have also been quite testing. Water is crucial of course, and in the countryside we come across springs, mountain streams and rivers. We drink freely and with the hot days we have experienced since Kukes we are two thirsty quadrupeds and two thirsty riders. However, Albania is the only European country with virtually no water or sewerage processing plants, and with the quantities of rubbish thrown into the rivers, the factories and saw mills etc. it is not always advisable to drink the water in the villages. We sleep in tents with the horses pegged on stony ground nearby, and try to buy hay for them from local farmers. Ylli cooks us wonderful soups on a gas cylinder and we sit with our head torches on, writing our diaries, swiping at moths attracted to our lights and are soon asleep on the ground, dreaming of a tomorrow with no dramas.

To find me a new horse was our next pressing problem and to do this we appealed to the local horse vet Pirro. We found the most beautiful black horse called Bora (meaning ‘snow’ in Albanian!). Her owner has reluctantly, but very generously, lent her to us and she is the nicest horse ever. We got Semi and Bora new shoes and we were soon back on our journey.

We rode through this area of central Albania rejoicing in the pristine farmland, the plums, pomegranates and figs on the trees, the vines ripe for harvesting. The villages are often completely abandoned, some with a few people still there, mostly old people. The problem is the young people no longer wish to farm. They all go to the towns or abroad. Many go to Greece and Italy, and more go to America and the UK. It is amazing how many Albanians abroad are watching our website and emailing us. All of them love Albania and hope our journey will highlight it’s strengths and beauty and will bring people here to see it. Many Albanians go abroad to earn some money and come back to live here later on.

The problems of finding our way have not eased and on three days we have taken a local man on a mule or horse to guide us. This has been a huge relief but we have learnt each time that people from one village have barely travelled to the next and certainly need to ask shepherds and goatherds the way. Albanians have a very expressive and aggressive way of communicating with each other: fists clench, scowls, shrugs, shouting and turning away dismissively – then back to the fray, furious shaking of heads, and just when Robin and I think an all out fight is on the cards the shepherds stomp off, the guide beckons us on and we realize none of the fury meant a thing. As most rural people carry an axe our own dealings with them have been with much smiling, waving, handing them a flier written in Albanian (which may not be much use for the illiterate), and telling them ‘Un nuk di shqip’ (‘I don’t speak Albanian’).

We are certainly a spectacle and unlike anything they have ever seen before. We have had some lovely weather, punctuated by three terrific thunderstorms, which roll around the mountains like drums and drench us within seconds with huge hailstones and torrential rain. The storms have appeared from nowhere but once soaked and cold, the sun comes out to repair the damage. With the exception of the three days with a guide, I can honestly say we have been hopelessly lost every day, which has not been good for Robin’s self-fury as map reader and compass user. To be fair, the maps bear scant relation to the topography, and the mountains make routes hard to chart.

We are now almost at the end of our journey. We are between the two fortified towns of Tepelene and Girokaster, and riding the route Lord Byron took aged twenty two in October 1809 with his friend Hobhouse and his valet. We rode here through the beautiful Kelcyre Gorge beneath the eponymous castle at the entrance, where the Bey of Kelcyre in the late 19th century was shot whilst drinking coffee on his terrace from the opposite mountain by a disgruntled villager. The valley floor is coursed by the River Vjosa and we rode up into the hills above for what is essentially our last long day.

We camped by a perfect little Greek Orthodox church in Terbuq, and the locals came to watch us as we sheltered in a ruined house. They brought us hay and water for Semi and Bora, local caj mali (local tea) for us, and grapes from their vines.

We rode on the next day after four reporters from “KLAN” television had driven up to the village to film and interview us. After a picnic lunch under a 400 year old oak tree we rode on to Labove, where Bryon and Hobhouse stayed. We chose a magical ruin to camp by – the largest house we have seen in Albania. The Germans shot two men in the village in the 2nd World War and then burnt down the village. We lit a huge camp fire by an old Judas tree and Robin read extracts from Childe Harold. The next day, another village, another camp and we ended outside Girokaster. Today we took the horses an hour back through the valley to Tepelene to cross the old suspension bridge of Ali Pasha. Dramatic, frightening and very wobbley.