We weren’t sure why, but we really wanted to go to Albania. In fact, the detour to Albania had determined our whole cycling route. Before going we must admit we didn’t know that much about the country, but what little we did know had been gleaned from a variety of sources.
From a travel book Neil knew it was mountainous and had had a king called Zog who’d spent much of WWII in the Ritz on Picadilly. From cycle blogs we’d learnt the roads were bad, but the people hospitable despite being some of the poorest in Europe. And from John Motson’s enlightening commentary during Albania-England football matches we of course knew that every Albanian loved Norman Wisdom.
Cycling into Albania we were surprised at how expensive all the cars looked – every Albanian and his dog seemed to be the proud owner of a Mercedes-Benz. Was this place going to be totally different to what we expected?
Reassuringly, and to Neil’s delight, at our first service station stop there were King Zog badges for sale – at least some of the things we’d heard were true.
After most of the first day dodging Mercs on a good road we turned into the mountains and headed for the town of Klos, 80 kms away. It soon became apparent that the cyclists hadn’t been wrong, as for 2 days we battled a road so bad that we were the only traffic on it. The irony of the name wasn’t lost on us. Klos just didn’t seem to get any kloser.
The first of these days we struggled 7 hours for only 40 kms, pushing much of the way. Without any passing 4x4s or even army trucks we were often left wondering whether we were on the right road. As darkness fell, we happened upon an army cafe, and despite not being able to understand a word the owner was saying, we understood enough to know we were being offered a very welcome free bed in the communist-era army hut next door. In the morning we were thrilled, though not suprised, to find our hut came complete with pill-box in the garden (pictured above). These concrete bunkers are ubiquitous throughout Albania and the fact that Enver Hoxha and his commie chums must for years have spent half the country’s GDP on contructing them is surely one of the main reasons for its relative poverty today.
The day we left our army hut was a depressing one . We wasted the morning backtracking after taking a wrong turn, and then it rained so much that our ‘road’ became a test in puddle avoidance. When the puddles spanned the width of the road we just rode through them, until Haz, out in front, sank and promptly fell off in one which became unexpectedly deep. Later, our brake pads wore out and Haz was reduced to walking her bike on the descents. But at least we made it to Klos.
Travelling through the interior of the country where tourists are a rarity had been fascinating yet frustrating as we’d often been unable to communicate at all with the people in the mountain villages. Our Albanian (or Shqiperi to the locals) was limited to the word for ‘water’, and most of the people we met spoke not a word of English, German, Turkish, Russian or anything else we tried. Shqiperi seemed to be a language unlike any other.
Which is why we were so surprised in Klos when a young man approached us as we were in a shop employing our best sign-language, and casually greeted us in a Cockney accent with an “Alright guys, do you need any ‘elp? You don’t look like you’re from round ‘ere. I live in Cowley. Innit.” We left half an hour later, Gante from Klos/Cowley having paid for our groceries and bought us a couple of beers to enjoy in our damp tent.
The next day as we were lunching in a layby, a car pulled up and Flamur from Eastbourne got out, showered us with fresh fruit and nuts before jumping back in his car to catch an evening flight back to sunny Sussex.
Things reached the height of bizareness in Burrel, a small town in central Albania, where every car was a Landrover Discover sporting GB plates. We thought we’d stumbled across a not-so-secret meeting of the Countryside Alliance. For once the Mercs with their double-headed eagle Albanian plates were in the minority.
“The Mercs are the only cars we’ve found that can survive the roads” explained Eddie, an Albanian from Southampton who kindly invited us to stay on our last night in Albania. After being treated to some more great hospitality – his mama cooked us up a feast – we remembered to ask about something that was still bugging us. We’d travelled a week without seeing a Norman Wisdom video, poster or even t-shirt. Surely John Motson hadn’t been lying to us?
After thinking a while and conferring with mama, Eddie had our answer. “I think most of us prefer Mr. Bean nowadays.”