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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.