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We had been told by many the roads in Albania were dreadful, and that the whole place was still trying to catch up after so many years of seclusion. All I knew about the country was the usual megalomaniac dictator had kept all the cream, and the rest of the population had suffered dreadful privations. It was illegal to own a private car, and you were likely to be imprisoned if you broadcast the wrong opinions, and blood feuds were still prevalent…

Such a reputation made for fearful imaginings.

Crossing from Kosovo to Albania, where the new four lane super highway peeled off through the mountains, made me wonder what all the fuss was about. Surely the 45mile ride to Peshkopi would be a breeze and take no more than an hour at most. I was also confident that petrol would be cheaper in Albania than Kosovo, and was sure I had just enough to make the distance. As we turned off the highway, we were told the petrol station was out of benzin, and the next one was in Peshkopi. My heart began to sink. The asphalt road stopped and turned into a donkey track, but we were reassured by a local we were on the right road. Surely this couldn’t be right. The map showed the road as a secondary road, in fat yellow lines; what lay ahead was no more than a badly maintained farm track. Rutted, loose, bouldery, cut by mini streams, 180 degree dusty hairpins, and us two up, heavy, and none too agile.

What an introduction! As our track took us winding south through steep valleys, following a river far below, we passed through settlements of loosely grouped old stone houses, which in the sunshine looked idyllic, but in the winter must be perishingly cold. On we bounced, and slid, and freewheeled… This was one place I was keen not to run out of petrol!

With legends of dubious morality and Albanian honour killings ringing in my ears, the petrol light firmly on and night rolling in, I began to daydream the newspaper headlines back home: “Foolish Bikers Cross to Brigand Country with no Petrol to be Murdered… etc”. However nothing, not even our jerking pace, could quite distract from the epic landscape. Rural was not the word. These were untouched, voluptuous mountains, scattered with small dwellings – only our shuddering engine disturbed the peace.

Finally, finally. 4 hours, 45 miles, painful bottoms and thoroughly jiggled liver later we arrived in Peshkopi, a small town seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Nervous but exhausted, we spoke to our first Albanians to discover they’re not in fact all murdering brigands. Petrol tank and tummies full we were asleep pretty quickly in the enormous communist built hotel – ready to explore a new country, but not ‘til tomorrow!

Macedonia was just over the hill, and with only a short bumpy ride we crossed our tenth frontier and visited Ohrid, ‘the pearl of Macedonia’ . Actually to be correct it’s the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, but that depends on which Greek you speak to… We only stayed a night and that was on account of a monstrous thunderstorm which kept us hostage in a lakeside cafe for an hour and a half. With the weather brooding and unsettled we hunkered down and declined the multitude offers for Ohrid Pearls – authenticity dubious!!

We crossed back into Albania, and as we were bowling down a rare tarmac road, we spied a cross high up on a hill. Curious to see such a thing in a country 90% Muslim, we turned off into the village. We were struggling up a steep dirt track, when Mitro appeared in his jogging pants, a singlet and plastic slippers. His English was good, and he offered to show us the church to which the cross belonged, but only after sampling his home made Raki. On the steep climb to the church we were given a lecture in many things, mostly apocryphal, and then on returning downhill, both of us still in bike gear, hot and sweaty, were invited to take some food his mother had prepared for us. Curiosity had the better of us, and we accepted. Whilst the 30 year old Mitro sat with us and expounded on life, lecturing us on British history learned from such pearls as Braveheart, his down-trodden mother ran hither and there getting food and drinks for us. With little to do, our genial hosts kept toasting us with homebrew, and before long the invitation to stay was offered. Once again curiosity got the better of us and I accepted for both of us.

Alcohol, cars and the need to show off are a toxic mix, and before long we wished we hadn’t accepted the offer of hospitality. A night on the tiles listening to a spoilt child expound on what he was planning to do to an ex girlfriend who had snubbed him, and bullying another girl he fancied left us in no doubt this was someone we would rather not be involved with. After breakfast of plastic bread liberally spread with sheep’s butter and sheep’s cheese, and warm sheep’s milk with a spoonful of sugar to drink, we left. Out of sight of the house, and checking we were not being tailed, Flora leapt off the bike to be sick behind a bush on the side of the road!

It was agony. Mitro’s father had carefully watched our every mouthful while sipping his first Raki of the day. As a chef, I like to think of myself open to all flavours, keen to try local organic produce but I’m ashamed to say this culinary treat had me undone. All that sheep, presented alongside the faint acrid smell of goat, proved too much for my delicate stomach and I wretched dismally for the next 10 miles (while keeping a watchful eye on the horizon and any Mitro mafia shaped vehicles following us). Keen to stay off the beaten track, we headed for yet another rocky road that took us down the most staggering gorge. We jiggled and shook for another 6 hours. Exhausted and hungry, a low moment came when two enormous army men perched on one whining scooter shot past, leaving us for dust. Matt felt emasculated, I felt disheartened and (despite our yummy breakfast) we realised that blood sugar was worryingly low. It was time to take emergency measures: out came our wrinkled Swedish ration pack (ref. Kosovo post). After a fretful 10 minutes of sifting in order to establish what was edible and what was not, we tucked heartily into stale digestives and unpronounceable energy bars. Thanks to the Swedish Army, we were able to continue our journey refuelled.

A night in Elbasan passed in a haze of exhaustion. The impressive old Christian city walls almost tempted us to a day of exploration but, with bags laden with dirty laundry, we were keen to get to our next stop. Another jiggley journey. Another 6 hours (the sparkling tarmac at the boarder now a distant misty dream) and we finally arrived in Berat, old Ottoman town. The beautiful houses perched either side of the river were extraordinary, the ancient Christian fort on top of the hill staggering but, most exciting of all: we found a washing machine in our hotel. Clean clothes, clean hair and 2 whole days off the road… Not even a tiny jiggle.

Tearing ourselves away from the wooded slopes of verdant Montenegro, winding up perilous roads over mountain passes, through logging villages and alpine passes, our road began to descend, our ears began to pop, and the flat patchwork plain of Kosovo spread out below us.

Our first stop was Pec, Pesh, Peja (the ‘j’ being a ‘y’). The variety of names for this town was confusing and depended on who you spoke to – Serb or Albanian Kosovar. Although the conflict is officially over, there are a plethora of K4 NATO troops still in the country. Groups of them guard individual monasteries from attacks by Albanians and Serbs alike – Kosovo is 90% ethnic Albanian, which is itself 90% Muslim. The Serbs don’t recognise the new found independence, and the home of the Serbian Orthodox Church is to be found in the monastery at Decani (pronounced Dechani) so problems abound on all sides!

To gain entry to the monasteries ID was required, which we found out for the first time after having walked 40minutes to the outside of town. Although obliging, the Italian K4 troops were not to be budged. To get past the razor wire and armed sentries we would have to follow protocol.

Returning with passports in pocket, we were awed by what we found.

Luscious frescoes, staggering icons and beautiful inscriptions covered every surface, from the walls and pillars to ceiling and arches. That such exquisite colours and detailed descriptions have survived over eight hundred years in such a war torn country can be nothing short of a miracle (or so the monks maintain). According to history books, the church was even recognised under Muslim Ottoman rule- the Turks paid Albanian soldiers to protect the precious frescoes. The only damage we could see was on the lowest layer of paintings were the eyes of each figure had been chipped out. This could have been vandalism by the Albanian soldiers or women from the village grinding the eyes into powder to drink as a fertility potion.

Back on the roads (which are surprisingly good) and away from the tranquil guarded beauty of the monastery, we set off for the busy capital city of Pristina and a friend of a friend who’d offered us a bed for the night. En route, war damage became more obvious and heading north via Mitrovice, where a kind of stalemate between Serb and Kosovan has been reached, was somewhat shocking. A river divides the town; on one side the Serbs live and on the other, the Kosovans. There are abandoned, burnt out houses on either side and most of the cars have no number plate: a Kosovan registration plate isn’t recognised on the north side of the river, and cars carrying one are often made a target if they cross.

For me the country was reminiscent of Croatia and Bosnia 5 years previously, where the war damage was as equally evident. Seemingly little has changed in this war torn region, where sectarian divide is brutally palpable. Once friends under the firm rule of law, bitterest and most brutal of enemies when it breaks down. Friend and neighbour pitted against each other to extremes of malice and viciousness. Things seem to be getting better, slowly, but like a simmering kettle, its only just below the boil…

Our host in Pristina was involved in the Intelligence department, and assured us all was well, but travelling in the north of the country, Mitrovica in particular, made it clear where we were. Our French host was most generous, and as we have found time and again on this adventure, generous to a fault. Not only did he give us a bed for the night, but took us out to an excellent restaurant. The next day, outside Pristina we visited another monastery, and though beautiful I feel as if we have seen the pearl of them all in Decani. This one was guarded by the Swedish K4 troops, and the gate guard, friendly, broad-shouldered and youthful with his clean-shaven round face was most accommodating. He suggested we leave our heavy coats and helmets in the guard hut, and then called up one of the other soldiers who showed us around the interior of the monastery. Describing daily life he said the nuns had a habit of charging one. Typically my mind jumped to financial charging, but he was describing a couple of the nuns who charged at you with large sticks. As we left so the friendly sentry gave us two ration packs, with the soon to be remembered phrase, you never know when they may come in handy!

From Pristina to Prizren via the Kosovan tourist hotspot Gadime Caves. Discovered by an elderly villager when digging his garden, these impressive caves reach far into the earth. We were fortunate to be given a personal guided tour by the charming but incomprehensible youth on the door. His grasp of English seemed to consist of three rather unlikely and complicated words: stalactite, stalagmite and Shakespeare (one of the rocks we were shown was said to be in the shape of Romeo and Juliet kissing). We were thrilled but a little concerned when, at the end of the tour, we were each handed a piece of rock broken off from one of the afore mentioned stalactites. Let’s hope tourism doesn’t take off with too much speed in Kosovo, otherwise there may be nothing left to show for the prehistoric caves at Gadime. Not only that but our charming guide’s entire knowledge of English could be rendered useless.

The road to Prizren was winding and picturesque, through wooded, steep hillsides. We passed the large German K4 compound, and drove through and round the town. Not a hotel to be seen; tempers beginning to fray; no guide book, no city plan. A man on a bicycle appeared and in broken English offered help. Racing off on his ancient, gearless bicycle, and us following sedately behind, we were shown to an hotel. At €40 per night we declined. Benyamin, our genial cyclist, racked is sweaty brains, but unable to think of anything, bid us farewell. Just as we swung back onto the main drag he reappeared, beckoning us to follow before speeding off. 300 yards later we were shown into another place. Waving him off and not expecting to see him again, we were somewhat surprised when he hailed us as we rounded a corner the following day. Coffee with his mother and wife at the communal family home lead to four hours of personal guide. Despite our very British subtle hints, we couldn’t shake him off, and only after paying for coffee – a deadly sin if you’re if invited by an Albanian – were we able to bid him a final farewell. Leaving Prizren, we headed for more uncertainty as we crossed the Kosovan / Albanian border into bigger mountains, and horrendous roads.

With no cabins available, we passed a fitful night on our sheepskin ground-mats and the seats of the Pullman chairs, which all the Tunisians rip off the seats to act as mattresses, and which we copied. Bleary eyed and disappointed our planed route was in tatters we watched as the cliffs of Palermo hove into view, and the pitched roofs and Church domes comforted our weary soles.

Eager not to hang around in the Euro zone for any longer than we had to we set off for Messina and the next ferry across to the mainland. It was sad to be missing out on Sicily, with its peaks and rugged interior. The road north east was spectacular; more tunnel than open road, we passed under mountains and over valleys on a suspended black ribbon of perfection, with minimal damage to the local environment as possible. What a shame the British government won’t follow this example, and still insist on cutting huge clefts through our precious chalk downs.

We reached Messina, had one of the best sandwiches ever, and found ourselves on our eighth ferry. Soon we were twisting up into the hills, as the main highway was closed for repair. With dusk beginning to settle, our nerves somewhat frayed, our eyelids beginning to droop we hit reality with a wallop and a discounted hotel room at €40. Boy was this visit to Italy gonna have to be swift…

Whizzing along the cliffs and then up the motorway to Bari on the east coast, as if rubbing salt into the wound, we were suddenly hit by a gargantuan stormy rain cloud. With another night on another ferry ahead of us we weren’t keen to get wet. So, balanced carefully on the central reservation of the motorway we both stripped to our knickers – much to the amusement and tooting of passing Italian traffic – and popped our waterproof liners on. Finally screeching into Bari, we managed to buy a ticket at the desk with none of the same charade as Tunisia, gulped a final pizza and boarded the rather miserable, dimly lit boat.

As rowdy youths settled in for a night at the bar, and girls in tight short skirts appeared, my imagination ran riot. After the stifling modesty of North Africa, I felt unprepared for what Eastern Europe might bring…

Our luck certainly changed on landing at Bar, Montenegro. Friends of Flora’s, notified by an ever concerned mother, has tipped the wink to their Montenegrin housekeeper, and within an hour of disembarking we found ourselves ensconced in a fabulous villa, with spectacular views, a swimming pool and a washing machine! What luxury was this?? Many thanks to the Monkton family.

Using the villa as a base we explored the coastline, and ventured into the tree bedecked mountains. On one morning, looking for the small winding back road to the double bay of Kotor, we found ourselves ten miles down a West Country style narrow lane, where it just came to an end above a village. Only just managing a U-turn we then took another ‘wrong turn’, and began to follow a dirt road. Occasional glimpses through the trees, as we climbed higher up the track, showed a cross. Then to our delight the gates of a monastery appeared, and we drove in as if approaching a border crossing. The locals had blown the place up when it had been sold to the Austro-Hungarians in the 1860;’s but there was a very special church at the site which had not been damaged, and so four monks were slowly setting about repairing the complex. They made candles for the faithful to light in Orthodox churches and sold them widely, and relied on donations from the devout. The monastery clung to the mountain side, shrouded in cloud, as if knocking on Heaven’s gate.

As we dismounted a shrouded medieval figure loomed through a doorway; a long straggly black beard and pony tail topped heavy black robes. We were shown into the exquisite little stone church with a barrel ceiling and left alone with the glowing icons. Mystified and hushed we walked out again to be greeted by Vladimir, a Serb and distinctly modern man in amongst this time capsule. With 4 others, he helped the monks make candles and spoke a little English. He explained the life he’d had before coming to the monastery had been filled with “things you see in films” and that now he was much happier.

We were offered their home brew raki but declined in favour of a tamer coffee, as we had the dirt track to negotiate downhill. He invited us back for the Ascension Day celebrations on Sunday, something not to be missed we were told, and we pottered back down the track.

Abandoning the back route to Kotor, we hit the road to Cetinje, the old capital city where we were swept into a pub by welcoming locals. Less able to decline offers of home brewed raki since it was (we later discovered) Independence Day, we spent a dizzying afternoon putting the world to rights with our new found friends. Not quite the cultural day of museums we’d planned but, we decided, just as enlightening.

Only a little worse for wear, having declined more drinks than accepted, we set off for a quite night in and a home-cooked supper of fresh vegetables, which had been sorely missing in our diet, and for which we were longing. Endless nights in endless restaurants make you realise the the luxury of homecooked food.

The following day we took the main road to Kotor. Perched at the end of a double bay this medieval walled town lies guarded by an impossibly perched fortress, the walls of which rise vertically above it. Having climbed the vertiginous steps to the pinnacle the ruined stronghold balances atop the mountain, showing the evidence of armies from the 11th to 20th centuries.

This part of Montenegro, occupied by Venetians, Italians and Ottomans bears all the hall marks of ancient fortified towns, many still in excellent repair. Also in the Bay of Kotor was Perast, another sublime Medieval / Venetian town, hugging the edge of the bay, and opposite two 14th Century churches apparently floating in the middle of the bay. It had once been a rich and important town, with 30 trading ships, and an important timber export industry.

We could go on about beautiful Montenegro for a while: Lake Skada with its epic scenery and quiet vineyards, feast day celebrations at the monastery, turquoise sea, white boulders and the nudist beach. All enhanced by the great luxury of having a house to ourselves + washing machine! We must have been the cleanest people around, relishing our crisp sunshine dried laundry! Many many thanks to the Monkton family for their generosity.

Tearing ourselves away from our new found home, we hit the road again this time heading north for the Kosovan boarder. A good few days in one place had allowed us to get our maps out and plot the next leg of the journey. Curious about the “newest country in Europe” and lured by the foreboding FCO website description we decided to give the boarder a go. If it all looked too hairy we could always turn back, right?!…