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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.