Montenegro and Albania: Balking at the Balkans

MONTENEGRO

Reading the Lonely Planet summary, you'd be forgiven for thinking that Montenegro was a romantic, unspoiled earthly paradise, with incredible landscapes and beautiful towns set amidst lushly forested dark hills. Whilst the landscapes are, indeed, pretty spectacular, what Lonely Planet entirely fails to mention is that the towns and cities in the country are covered in piles of trash, seedy as hell, and on the whole, completely and utterly shit. 

Bloody hell, Podgorica

There is so much trash in this country that it has actually become part of the soil, with gaudy bits of plastic mixed in with the pebbles and humus. Only Albania was dirtier, but you know, you kind of expect it in Albania. Poor show, Montenegro.

Scrubby Croatian coastal country, heading towards the border

Border selfie! (We were quite sternly told off by the officer on duty for this)

After the border, towards Herceg Novi

We entered Montenegro via the congested and run-down border town of Herceg Novi, continuing into the Unesco World Heritage-listed - and utterly spectacular - bay of Kotor. The bay, kind of shaped like a jellyfish on the map, is framed by steep, jagged mountains dusted by patches of the thick, dark forest Montenegro is known for. After sitting out some dismal rain behind a cheesy municipal beach blasting out full-volume pop to precisely no-one until 2am, we continued to the town of Kotor itself, listed by every guidebook in existence as Montenegro's top attraction. And guess what, it's another walled medieval old town. Sadly, we arrived just as an enormous cruise ship about three times larger than the town itself dumped its load of American pensioners all over everything, turning the  potentially charming town into a sea of khaki shorts, pale gouty legs, and "oh my gawsh, Wade, it's so quaint!". We left after 20 minutes.

Small beach town, Bay of Kotor

Swimming in the bay

Kotor

"Can I park my enormous, ugly floating hotel right in the middle of your picturesque little bay?" "Sure!" 

The rest of the day was spent climbing one of the oldest roads in Montenegro, an enormous narrow serpentine winding up the sheer side of the bay to the ancient valley of Njegusi way above. The views were incredible, and we climbed so high that even the other mountains framing the bay had receded into a distant blue dimness by the time we completed our ascent.

Looking down over the bay of Kotor

Even higher up

Some well-deserved beer, sausages and chips at the very top

A beer with a view

On our way, we picked up a companion, a friendly, mangy dog that woke up from a nap in the shade and inexplicably decided to follow us all the way up the mountain, despite us refusing to touch or feed it ("Montenegro is HIGH RISK for rabies!" a text from my Dad had warned). We found a good wild camping spot near the town of Njegusi, and the dog promptly lay down between us and fell into a fitful sleep. It was then we realised that the dog was covered in weeping wounds and was panting and foaming at the mouth in a potentially alarming way. In retrospect, I'm sure he was harmless, but it was a muscular pitbull cross sort of a dog, and nightmare scenarios kept running through my head of the pooch turning rabid in the night and ripping our tent - and ourselves - to shreds. We decided we had best be rid of him, and a farcical chase followed as we pedalled furiously across the sun-dappled valley floor, desperately trying to lose the dog, which was sprinting down the road and trying to keep up with us. Some miles later we found a ruined cottage to hide behind and found we had blessedly lost him. I feel sorry for the bugger - he had a collar but was clearly abandoned, and despite his friendly demeanour is more likely to occasion fear rather than sympathy due to his huge jaws and powerful muscles. He's probably doomed to die alone and friendless. It's best not to think about it too much. Moving swiftly on.

"Faster! He's catching up!"

Next, after a cycle amongst spectacular hills and struggling through abandoned roads buried by rubble, was Montenegro's capital, Podgorica.

Woke to find a beetle bathing in my wine

Looking over the valley of Njegusi from our camping spot

Setting off on the road to Podgorica

The upland roads past Njegusi were almost traffic-free, and we enjoyed some magnificent cycling

Magnificent, I say

They've replaced the old road we were cycling on with a new one 100ft above. We soon discovered why

Typical Montenegrin hillside hamlet

A Soviet war memorial near Lake Skadar

Podgorica is optimistically described by Lonely Planet as "relaxed and unpretentious", which I assume are the only two compliments they could find about the place that weren't outright lies. It is perhaps the worst place I have ever been. Spread out over a vast plain like a dun spatter of urban vomit, it manages to be both over- and under-developed, with cramped Soviet-style tower blocks bunched together amidst inexplicably empty fields of rubble and trash. The "old town" is genuine in the same way that a slum is genuine, a cluster of rude dwellings and unpaved roads with more trash and rubble piled up in the streets. The empty foundations of long-unfinished houses act as crude landfills for the residents, as dirty children scrabble in heaps of refuse (presumably Podgorica's answer to play areas). It reminded me of the awful towns I used to make in Sim City on the PC before I had mastered the basics like zoning, running water and law enforcement.

The plus side to all this is that accommodation is cheap as chips, and we managed to get a fully-furnished apartment for 20 euros for the night. As we settled down to sleep at 11pm, the apartment exploded with garish noise - our stay had unfortunately coincided with a classic Wednesday night drug-fuelled party thrown by the residents below, which went on until the wee hours. Just as you imagine you might be somewhere else, Podgorica reasserts itself. That's the charm of the place.

The next day, after picking up supplies, we cycled out of Podgorica just as fast as our little legs could carry us. Unfortunately, that turned out not to be very far. Shortly after passing the 'you are leaving Podgorica' sign - past which we  celebrated madly - I realised I had left Trackimo  (the tiny tracking device I carry to assuage my mother's frantic worry) back at the apartment! We had no choice but to turn and cycle all the way back, where the confused host let us in to grab it. We left the city again, for good this time - or so we thought. The camping spot we had spied in a scrubby forest outside the city turned out to be patrolled by a large pack of wild dogs. Aggressive strays are the scourge of the southern Balkans and they all hate cycle tourists - we have been chased a number of times by livid, snapping little shites, most of whom turn miraculously cowardly the moment you step off the bike and square yourself up to them. We couldn't take the chance of an attack, and it was getting dark, so back we went to bloody Podgorica to sleep in a shabby hostel in the old town, our sleep interrupted again by a man coming in at midnight and sobbing drunkenly down the phone for three hours.

The next day, we finally managed to leave the town, sleep deprived and with our tempers frayed. It was time to cycle through the thorny wilderness, towards lake Skadar, and Albania.

I realise that what I've written about Podgorica is unremittingly negative, so Sarah has suggested putting in a few things we liked about the town too. Here goes:

- The hosts for our accommodation were friendly and helpful; 

- The women in Podgorica are all immaculately groomed; 

- We caught a bit of a Balkan folk festival outside the Mall of Montenegro, which had a jovial atmosphere and lots of people in peasant costume.

And that's about it.

Basically. the very north-western corner of Montenegro - what locals refer to as "old Montenegro" - encompasses the Bay of Kotor and Valley of Njegusi, and is very much worth a visit. Past that, in our view, you may as well turn back. 

ALBANIA

Albania is often described as the "final frontier" of Europe, and indeed you couldn't imagine a more different place from the placid, pristine, Lego-set environs of our starting country, Holland. Let me preface this section with a disclaimer: we only spent 48 hours in the flat far north of Albania, so our impressions are based on a tiny slice of what is a very varied country. Nevertheless, here they are.

The border crossing from Montenegro to Albania gave us a strong impression of what was to come. A herd of wild goats wandered in and out of the half-derelict checkpoint building, in which a solitary worker was stabbing away at a power outlet with a screwdriver. Disheveled men ambled about aimlessly as an unidentified foul-smelling yellow liquid oozed down the road next to us, mixing with the piles of asbestos and rubbish blowing about.  After a long time having our passports scrutinised by the border officer on duty, we were waved through without comment, and the officer checking the trucks gave us a wave and grin as we cycled past a wandering pig and into Albania proper.

Can you spot the goats?

Like Montenegro, Albania is supposed to have incredible natural beauty, but sadly we seemed to have come into the one part of the country that lacks it. Northern Albania around Lake Shkoder is flat as a pancake, with unbelievable amounts of refuse piled up in the roadside ditches. The rural houses, many abandoned and most half-finished, stand apart from each other amidst smallholdings which appear to be growing nothing but weeds, with skinny cows and donkeys miserably tethered and standing alone in fields.

Not a particularly pleasant sight, but Albania has a substantial redeeming factor - Albanians. We had read the Albanians were famously friendly, and found this to be absolutely the case. Everyone we passed turned to smile and wave, crying out greetings, whether they be workers in the fields, old men in three-piece suits riding bicycles (Albania has loads of these) or groups of boisterous schoolchildren. Memorably, one such child was bouncing up and down with a wide grin on his face, waving and yelling a repeated greeting that we could only discern as English as we passed. "Fuck you!!" he was shouting, joyously. "Fuck you, fuck you!!"

After a few hours' cycling a surprisingly well-surfaced road, we arrived at the town of Shkoder to check into a hotel. Accommodation in Albania is cheap indeed - almost Far East levels of cheap - and we had a presidential-style suite on the top floor of a newly-opened hotel on the outskirts of town for a mere 20 euros. We appeared to be the only guests, and Sarah tells me that the morose staff member that handled our check-in appeared to be on the point of topping himself. Hope you're OK, guys. There's more to life than Shkoder.

Shkoder's famous skyline

After an evening spent trip planning and quaffing a surprisingly decent bottle of local wine, we headed out of Shkoder towards the southern Montenegrin border crossing. Cycling through Shkoder was a real experience. The streets were a scene of amiable chaos, with drivers, cyclists and pedestrians weaving around wandering chickens, goats and dogs. Cars would frequently barrel down completely the wrong side of the road for no discernible reason, but there was a sort of general acceptance of this, with everyone maintaining a kind of devil-may-care good cheer towards the whole thing. 

As we headed towards the edge of town, I heard Sarah yell, followed by a loud bang. I turned around to see her laughing and pointing towards a dazed-looking pheasant running around in circles on the pavement, which had apparently jumped out in front of her only to be promptly smacked by a pick-up truck. Said truck continued to amble down the road without even slowing, suggesting that this was a pretty everyday Wednesday morning occurrence. Even the pheasant didn't look particularly chastened. 

It might seem like cycling through an Albanian town is a frightening or unenjoyable experience, but honestly we found it very amusing indeed, and it was one of the highlights of our trip. Highly recommended. 

We were heading back to Montenegro via the southern border crossing to visit the beach resort of Ulcinj. This detour was being taken on the advice of our host in Podgorica, who was effusive on the subject - "I don't recommend you go there, you understand - I recommend SIX BILLION people go there!" he had said. "Ulcinj is like the best of Dubrovnik, but with more nature, and a beautiful forest to the south! Ulcinj very, very beautiful!" We couldn't possibly have disregarded such advice, given as it was with much finger-stabbing of a dog-eared regional map, so off we went to see if Ulcinj was indeed the town that six billion people should have heard of. 

ULCINJ - THE SIX BILLION PEOPLE QUESTION

Did Ulcinj live up to its hype? Well, the accommodation was very, very cheap (we managed to snag an apartment for 13 euros), the food was similarly cheap, and there was indeed an old town and a beach. However, the hyperbolic comparisons to Dubrovnik were sadly unfounded. 

A taste of home!

Garish signs in the old town

River fishing shanties on the way to Velika Plaza

Ulcinj old town itself is like a miniature Dubrovnik, if Dubrovnik was plastered in garish laminated signs advertising cocktail nights and horrible food, and if its streets ended abruptly in piles of rubble and scaffolding. Basically, imagine if Dubrovnik and Zante had an ugly and disappointing child, which inherited Dubrovnik's crumbling walls but Zante's penchant for seedy nightclubs.

Is that hamburger tartare I see? And is there a subliminal message in the lemonade?

This is not to say it was all bad, but it suffered from the curse of a town with potential which is trying too hard to attract tourists and ends up losing all its charm in the process. Nowhere was this more present than along the Velika Plaza ("Long Beach") strip, a 13km stretch of black sandy beach bordered by wild pine forest. The strip behind the forest was lined with advertisements for beach bars, all of which were trying to piggyback off the fame of some more well-known location (e.g. "Cocktails on Copacabana beach", "Come to Miami Beach", or just "CALIFORNIA"). The overall effect was one of a location which is not confident enough to tout its own unique charm but has to don the mask of another in order to fit in. But, come on, Ulcinj! You have a potentially well-preserved old town and some real Eastern European black sand beaches - make that the selling point! And clean up the rubbish, it's everywhere! 

In conclusion, if six billion people came to Ulcinj, about 500 million people would leave mildly disappointed. Not hugely disappointed, you understand, just... slightly let down. The rest would quite enjoy it, I'm sure. Certainly the many Russians and Kosovans we saw were having a jolly good time. 

It was time to head to the final country in our three-month European tour, so we cycled along the coastal road north to reach the ferry port of Bar. We boarded a pretty awful, piss-smelling, rickety overnight ferry, heading towards Bari and the delights of southern Italy.

On the ferry to Italy

Croatia Part 2: Froggy Fun and Cheap Wine

SPLIT

Split is a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, it has one of the best city parks I've ever seen - an entirely forested peninsula jutting out from the harbour with beaches galore - and Froggyland, which we will come to later. However, in all honesty, the rest of it is a bit crap. The old town is reached through endless blasted industrial suburbs with pothole-ridden roads and some of the most aggressive, selfish driving we've seen yet. The old town itself and the adjacent harbour smells foul and is lined with endless tat stalls, all selling the exact same selection of checkered Croatia beach towels and other assorted shite. The people are rude and unhelpful, the ferry port is confusing, and even the world's largest collection of stuffed frogs in amusing poses doesn't quite salvage it. You might even say that I have a "Split" opinion. Ba-dum tsssh.

I realise all the below pictures make Split look nice, sadly we didn't go with gritty realism as the theme and took the same deceptive selection of old-town photos as every other Split visitor. Apologies.

We arrived in the bay of Split via Kastel Luksic, one of a chain of "Kastel" towns on the coast between Trogir and Split. We were staying in a Warmshowers host's empty apartment, to which he has left the key with an open invitation to cycle tourists. Letting ourselves in around dusk, it was quite clear that the apartment had not been occupied regularly for some time; damp was creeping over the walls and ceiling and there was a pervasive musty smell. The water had been shut off some time ago, meaning the toilet cistern had to be filled manually with water collected from the local beach, although strangely there was still electricity.

Evening in Kastel Luksic

True luxury cooking in a vacant apartment

THE ELECTRIC CHEAP PLONK ACID TEST

That night in Kastel Luksic, over dinner, I quaffed a large bottle of wine from the Croatian island of Korcula, bought for the princely sum of £1.50; naturally, it was foul. However, as with all booze, it gets better with every glass, and I had guzzled it down soon enough. Although the wine was purchased out of necessity, purchased from a local kiosk that sold little else but fly-blown nectarines, it gave me an idea. What if I were to get myself used to progressively cheaper and cheaper wine, so that a bottle costing £1.50 would become the new normal, and the previous £5 staples would become as rare and precious to me as the finest Bordeaux vintages?

The strategy seemed a sound one; I would be able to drink twice the amount of wine as before, and we would still save a hell of a lot of kitty money, which as Sarah is keen on reminding me, seems to drain away when myself and booze have one of our many chance encounters.

The next day, I began the experiment with gusto, purchasing an Italian vino rosso  (no specific denomination of origin) from the local supermarket for £1. It was only slightly worse than the Korculan the night before, which in retrospect seemed much better than it probably really was. So far, so good.

A month and a half later, having sampled the very worst Vranacs, Lambruscos, and Merlots of the southern European region, I can report that the experiment has been a roaring success. I have plumbed the depths of the Continent's cheap plonk and found to my surprise that it's not actually as bad as feared. Indeed, in Italy, where we have been for the last couple of weeks, it seems literally impossible to buy genuinely bad wine. I've had a few Puglian reds that were the wine equivalent of an overexcited five-year-old at a family wedding (lively as hell, no subtlety at all, and a bit annoying after a while), but even those were a fine vintage compared to some of the English wine I've had the misfortune to taste.

But I digress.

DALMATIAN ISLAND HOPPING

After a day exploring Splithole, finished off in true Split fashion by being manhandled and having our bikes thrown down some stairs by a belligerent train conductor, we grabbed a ferry to Vis, the most remote Dalmatian island. This tiny island has an interesting history - its strategic location in the Adriatic has meant it has been in the possession of several masters over the last couple of hundred years, including Britain, Italy and France (I think, I can't be bothered to look it up again, so don't get your knickers in a twist), and the lush pine-forested hills are covered in old bunkers and military installations as a legacy of the Yugoslavian General Tito. Its history as a military base has meant that  Vis was closed off to the world until 1990 or so (again, can't be bothered to look it up) so it has been relatively protected from the over-development of some of the other islands in the Adriatic.

Vis at dusk (or was it dawn? Is there any definitive way of telling?)

The road down to Komica

We arrived in Vis as dusk fell and struggled up the islands only main road, sleeping under the stars beneath the walls of an old church. In the night, I was disturbed by the unmistakable sound of something - or someone - quietly riffling through our bags. In the darkness, it was difficult to see what it was, but the patter of tiny feet assured me it wasn't human, so I threw a rock at the bags and turned over to sleep. However, as soon as I did, the rustling started again. I grabbed a light and shone it at the bags, and caught a glimpse of a wide-eyed fat little rodent, which promptly jumped back into the underbrush. Little bugger had been trying to get at my bag of crisps.

This is one of the blessings and the curses of wild camping; you are sharing your space with wild animals. You get to see so much nature in action that it sometimes feels you are living an Attenborough documentary, but wild animals, with their incessant hooting, squeaking and rustling, can also make for disturbed sleep. Sarah opts for a pair of earplugs to block them out, but (paranoid Londoner that I am) I feel the need to keep an ear out for stealthy forest thieves trying to nick our bags. Ridiculous, I know.

We cycled down to Vis' second town, Komica, the next day, and spent yet another idyllic beach day snorkelling in turquoise waters. Due to some predicted inclement weather, we had decided to get off the island on the 5.30am daily ferry the next day, so we duly rose at 3.30am and packed by starlight under the church, catching the ferry and returning to Split just before 8.

Komica harbour

Before catching our transfer to the island of Korcula at 10am, we managed a smash-and-grab visit to the aforementioned Froggyland. Some strange Hungarian fellow, over a 10-year period in the late 19th century, had caught 507 frogs from his local lake in order to stuff them and pose them in a selection of bizarre dioramas that included mass gymnastics, frogs at school, and frogs at play. It's the strangest museum you will ever see, and 3 euro well spent, although we had taken in the whole thing in 20 minutes. 

Next was the island of Korcula. After an evening spent on the handsome port of Vela Luka, we spent a morning cycling down the island to the town of Korcula itself, wild camping between crumbling walls in an abandoned olive grove.

Vela Luka harbour

Camping in abandoned olive grove

Korcula town is a great example of a walled medieval old town, but you know what? By this time we were sort of done with walled medieval old towns. We had seen them in Koper, Piran, Porec, Cres, Zadar, Split, Trogir,  and the Kastels - to name a few - and there was no joy or surprise left in seeing yet more maze-like streets and stern bearded statues in funny hats. After a while, just as with the well-documented European Catholic church fatigue (little electric candles, Madonna and child, and skinny carved Jesus anyone?) you become immune, and wander through the old towns taking pictures with a grim and joyless sense of duty.

Korcula main gate

It's the birthplace of explorer Marco Polo, as they're keen to remind you

Only Dubrovnik had the power to shake off the creeping malaise. Speaking of which...

DUBROVNIK

The final part of our journey to southern Croatia was done by bus, after we had negotiated our bikes below decks with much smiling and wringing of hands. We had decided to forgo the cycling due to the time pressure involved - we were meeting Sarah's brother Tim and his wife Sarah in Dubrovnik in two days - and the large amount of climbing along narrow roads.

However, sitting on the air-conditioned bus watching the landscape flit past, I sort of regretted not cycling it.  The peninsula below Korcula island looked spectacular, with lush steep hills, salt flats, and fortresses galore, and I could only imagine too clearly what it would have been like. The rich good smell of the coastal pines, the quick green lizards, the dry heat; you miss it all when flying by in an air-conditioned pleasure palace. But it is what it is, and we skipped this part out. 

Dubrovnik's history is quite distinct from the rest of Croatia, having led a charmed life as the prosperous capital of the Republic of Ragusa for many centuries. It was badly caught up in the Yugoslav Wars, however, enduring a seven-month siege in which it was badly scarred by shelling. This does nothing to diminish its charm, though; it truly is a stunner and is duly appreciated by the staggering hordes of cruise-ship tourists who swarm about like ants on a dropped piece of nectarine.

Walls of Dubrovnik

Sarah with her bro

Looking back over the town

The fortress at dusk

Looking over the town

We quickly realised that cycling around greater Dubrovnik was not a good idea. The streets are narrow, steep, and crammed with tourist buses and suicidally speedy taxi drivers. We left our bikes at the guesthouse and took the bus for the three nights that we were there. 

Sarah and I were holed up in a small guesthouse on the edge of town, Tim and Sarah at the swanky Valamar President on the southern tip of the Dubrovnik peninsula. For those of you that aren't familiar, there are now two separate Sarah Bridglands involved in this account. One is my girlfriend and trip companion, the other is Sarah's brother Tim's wife. Keep up!

Anyway, the Valamar President was clearly the superior meeting point, and we spent many an enjoyable hour posing as hotel guests, taking frequent dips in the pool and hoping the staff didn't notice my trainers, which were by now truly appalling.

The three days we spent with Tim and Sarah were a delight. We walked the walls of Dubrovnik and visited the island of Lokrum during the days, and in the evenings we ate some spectacular meals. The highlight was Oi Mari, a restaurant that served truly stunning local fare. Tim and I had drank some robust Long Island Iced Teas, along with a few beers, before arriving, and I can't quite remember what I had, but I have a strong memory of unctuous, melting, meaty deliciousness. 

We took our leave of Tim and Sarah after three days, leaving them to their five-star luxury, and spent a couple of days heading south through mostly empty scrubland towards the Montenegrin border.

On the way down, we had run out of water, so I entered a local house to beg for more - it turned out to be a polling station, and when the staff had got over their initial confusion at a blustering Englishman waving a bottle around shouting "Voda" during one of the most tense election days in recent Croatian history, they were only too happy to oblige.

South we headed, towards the border of the European Union towards the thickly forested and steeply hilly Balkan country of Montenegro. But we'll talk about that next time.