Leaving Hanoi, slowly in the early morning traffic, we headed almost due west towards our trekking area. Although the trek was in the north, it was, in fact, 200km slightly south of due west of Hanoi. Gradually the flat land of Hanoi was replaced with impressive lumps of limestone. We were heading into areas inhabited by the Muong and White Thai ethnic groups.

En route we stopped at a road restaurant for coffee. Vietnamese coffee is quite strong, and because they use condensed milk, very sweet. In one corner a number of men were smoking a bamboo pipe through a bucket of water. We were alerted to it by a strange gurgling sound. On a shelf there were some interesting bottles of fermenting liquid. The largest contained a snake and some roots, while a second had a number of lizards and a third, birds. It looked revolting and not something I would be prepared to knowingly try. We were learning quite quickly that the Vietnamese eat a lot of things that we would not consider as edible. If they don’t eat them, animals, as far as the Vietnamese are concerned, have medicinal properties. It seems no animal is safe. The fact that we did not see any wild animals in the countryside from the bus or during our trek suggests that there might mot be very much. We similarly saw few birds.

Roadside services

Continuing our journey, we again stopped near the top of a hill where there were a number of roadside stalls. This was the Vietnamese equivalent of a service station. Only this one had some rather unusual items. Each stall had its own wood fire with blackened pots bubbling away on them. Tubes of bamboo were stuffed with banana leaf packets of rice and placed around the edge of the fire along with skewers of meaty morsels. Tucked away in quiet corners were piglets contained in tight fitting bamboo cages. Their fate was probably not very far away.

Village crafts

On reaching the model village of Mai Chau we alighted from the bus for lunch. All the houses are on stilts, a traditional building style in this part of Vietnam. All life in the day time takes place under the main body of the house between the posts that hold the structure up. Our dining area was in just such a place. Taking time to wander and explore the village, many of the houses had a loom making scarves and cloths of all sizes. Each house was also a shop where they sold their goods. All around the village were lush fields of vegetables and banana trees, some of which we enjoyed for lunch.

After lunch we had a little time to sort our kit out before it was transferred on to motorbikes, the mode of transport for our kit for the next few days.  A short bus ride took us to Quan Hoa, which was the starting point for our trek. As well as Mr T we also had a local guide who spoke very little English but ensured that we did not stray from the route.

The walk was easy going, largely up a wide track that took vehicles. To our left the land rose quite steeply with plenty of trees and clumps of giant bamboo. To our left there were flooded paddy fields being prepared for the next sowing. In the corners of some of the paddies were cloches of young, fresh rice plants, waiting to be sown. There is very little mechanical assistance in this area; the individual paddies are far too small to allow that. Water buffalo pull a wooden plough back and forth to prepare the ground beneath the water, the walls are repaired by hand and, when the time comes for planting out it is all done by hand, largely by women bent double for hours on end. All the time these tasks require them to be knee deep in mud and cold water. This is a twice yearly occurrence as the climate allows two crops a year. Occasionally we saw someone wearing wellingtons, but on the whole, they were bare foot.

We eventually arrived in the village of Ban Hang where our homestay was. It was, again, a lovely village of stilted houses, all well-kept and cared for. They are quite large structures. They needed to be to cater for 23 of us. However, we could not enjoy the privacy of private rooms, there only being two large sleeping areas, so we split into a boys’ room and a girls’ room, for decencies sake. On the floor we had a sleeping mattress with a pillow and blankets to supplement our sleeping bags. Hanging above each mattress was a mosquito net, just in case. It was all rather comfortable and friendly.

The family, in whose house we were staying, made us very welcome. They provided us with excellent food, yet again, and plenty of beer. However, once dinner was done and enough beer had been consumed, there was nothing much else to do other than go to bed early, and, perhaps, get to sleep before the snoring took off. Whilst there was some snoring, it seemed not to be too disturbing and I am sure that being in our beds for at least 10 hours guaranteed us sufficient hours of sleep and rest.

The following morning after much hand shaking with our hosts we set off. It was cloudy again and the steep forested slopes all around us looked as if they were steaming. We soon left the road and walked along footpaths, through villages, skirting along the edges of paddy fields, crossing streams and climbing small hills. Mr T would stop us to show us points of interest in villages. Little did we know, until he showed us, that many of the houses have coffins stored beneath them ready for the day when a householder should die. They were usually in houses where there were elderly people. This forward planning is not such a macabre idea. Without it, a corpse may lie waiting for many days for a coffin to be delivered from a town some distance away. Strangely, it is probably very reassuring for the eventual recipient, to know that all their affairs, once they have gone, are taken care of.

Simon and Mike enjoying the stroll

Traditionally, the deceased is buried, in their roughly hewn wooden coffin and left for three years. They are then exhumed, the bones collected and cleaned, before they are placed in an earthenware cask for a second burial, often in an adjacent paddy field to the home where they once lived. Once they are buried for the second time a proper headstone and memorial can be erected. Sometimes, we saw a cluster of such memorials where generations of the same family have been interred adjacent to each other.

Nearly every house we came across had a pond with many large fish in. Some were carp while others were Tilapia. All were a ready source of food, just like the chickens that ran around the houses and the piglets housed in pens.

Mr T preparing the picnic lunch

We were due to have a picnic lunch on this second day of trek, in a house along the route. Unfortunately, when we arrived, there was nobody home, so our guide went in search of a house that was occupied to ask if we could have our lunch in their house. Needless to say, we were made most welcome and after removing our footwear were invited up into their main room, which covered almost the entire building. In one corner of the room there was an open fire upon which the family cooked. The smoke from it drifted up into the roof space and escaped through a series of vents in the bamboo lattice roof, but not before darkening the strips of bamboo with a layer of soot. It was a great place to eat our lunch, to observe a family at home and to enjoy the several young puppies that wanted to chew on our shoes at the foot of the stairs.

The family were rewarded for their hospitality with, not only a payment, but with any leftover food from our picnic. A real bonus when you have a young family to feed.

In the afternoon it was more of the same until we reached our homestay in Kho Muong village overlooking a landscape of paddy fields fringed by limestone cliffs. To begin with there was some confusion over the accommodation where we thought we would all have to cram into one room. Fortunately, the men were moved to the new house next door where we had plenty of room to spread out.

The following morning the conversation tended to focus on the erratic and loud snoring. Those closest to the perpetrator began to plot against him. Our attention was also drawn to Mike’s head, which had violently come into contact with a beam as he returned from the toilet in the night. Thankfully, his daughter Carol, a nurse, tended to his split head but nothing could repair his dented pride.

We had had some rain in the night and as we set off there was still a dampness in the air. It had made the path, largely made up of clay, very slippery. Mr T cut us all staffs to help us stay upright. As most of the walk in the morning was downhill they became essential. At one point I was walking near the back of the group when there was a cry from ahead and a call for help. Pauline had become a victim of the slippery path and fallen about fifteen feet down the slope through all the undergrowth. Or had she been pushed by Angie? There were no witnesses. Mr T ran back from ahead and was able to rescue Pauline and bring her back to the path. Fortunately, Pauline was unhurt and seemed remarkably calm considering what had just happened to her.

On the outskirts of a small town we came across some young boys playing football. Hovering to watch, they passed the ball to me for a shot at goal. I was hopelessly off target. Shamed by my performance, I tried again, for the ball to be saved. Another attempt missed, a fourth saved yet again. With my head hanging in shame – I could not even score against a seven year old barefoot goalkeeper – I sloped off.

After lunch we continued our journey following the valley along a newly laid concrete road, so new the concrete was still very wet. After an hour or so we veered off the road to start the climb up to Hieu Village. At this point a few took advantage of a motorbike ride up the hill to the village. The remainder of us enjoyed the walk running parallel to a series of small waterfalls until we reached our delightful homestay in a really beautiful area of thatched, stilted houses, fish ponds, palm trees and happy, smiling faces.

After a surprisingly quiet night (I think the fear of what might happen had put the snorer off) we set off back to the town of Pho Doan where he had lunch the day before, but by a different route. As we descended into the town the street was lined with colourful stalls, on either side, selling all items for the Tet Festival. Friendly faces greeted us from every stall.

Shortly after arriving, the convoy of motorbikes, carrying our kit bags arrived. After a few more minutes the bus arrived, the kit loaded, our goodbyes said to our guide and the motorbike team, and we were on the bus and off on the next stage of our Vietnam adventure, Ninh Binh, Tam Coc and Halong Bay.

The trekking had been really enjoyable and far too short. The rural communities might not have a great deal, and their work might be hard, but they don’t have many of the hang-ups that city dwellers have. There is a peace and serenity about them as they tend to their paddy fields, their chickens and pigs. My only disappointment is that we did not see the sun during our trek, we did not see the hills at their best, but we did see enough to lure me back at some point in the future.

As the aircraft descended towards Hanoi it scythed it’s way through the murky mist gradually revealing a grey landscape below. I suspect that the murky mist is a combination of normal atmospherics and pollution. Time would tell.

The flight had gone so smoothly it was a disappointment that we then faced a two-hour delay while our visas were sorted. Despite the fact that we had all completed the forms correctly, they seemed to be more concerned as to who was actually meeting us on the other side of passport control. After a lengthy phone call to the Asia Aventura office they began to process our passports and eventually let us proceed to passport control and to our luggage waiting on the other side where we were also met by our guide, Thanh, better known as “T”. It was now plain sailing to the hotel, although the closer we got to the town centre the more congested the traffic became, particularly with motorcycles, of which there were thousands. The population of Hanoi is 8 million and there are reportedly 7 million motorbikes. As the Tet Festival (Vietnamese New Year) was approaching some motorcyclists were precariously carrying large branches of cherry blossom or potted orange trees.

Having settled into the Hanoi Emotion Hotel, a very narrow, eleven floor hotel, we went into the old quarter for dinner. It was a fascinating walk through narrow streets alive with activity; so many interesting sights, sounds and smells. Groups sat on children’s plastic stools eating noodles produced by pavement cafes. There were some stunning displays of flowers, all ready for the Tet Festival.

Octopus?

There were also some interesting items of food for sale, including some very lurid, orange octopus and some weird and wonderful fruit. Where there was not a colourful stall of some description blocking the pavement, motorcycles were parked, forcing us all the time to walk in the road. Remarkably, we did not come into contact with any traffic. Similarly, if we needed to cross a wider road we simply walked at a steady and regular pace, confident that the traffic would work its way around us. If we tried to run or to change our pace we would be introducing unpredictability into the operation and an accident would be much more likely.

After the first of many good multi-course meals we headed back to the hotel, through the same streets that were still very much alive with activity.

You would have thought that when staying in the heart of the capital city you would be woken by the hum of early morning traffic. That was not the case. It was preceded by cockerels crowing across the city to each other.

After breakfast Mr T met us for the start of our Hanoi city tour. The streets surrounding our hotel were too narrow for the bus to pick us up, so we walked a short distance to a main thoroughfare. Now, in full light of day, we could see the true impact that the motorbike has on the roads of Hanoi. At every traffic light there was a sea of motorbikes of all shapes and sizes. Some were carrying impossibly large loads, piled high and wide behind the driver. Others carried long items that jutted out in front by several feet and trailed behind by even more. It made the journey interesting looking for the most bizarre load or the bike with the most riders. Five was a maximum, but it did not stop us looking for six!

The entrance gate to the Temple of Literature

Dragging ourselves away from motorbike watching we visited the Temple of Literature dedicated to Confucious. Built in 1070 it is the site of Vietnam’s first university. There is a lake in the grounds beautifully described as the ‘Well of Heavenly Clarity’. It is a site of traditional architecture, stone carvings, Buddhist temples, bonsai trees and tat. Many of the stalls were selling really tatty items aimed at the Tet Festival. We made a point of trying to find the most grotesque, cheap and nasty Tet tat.

Heading back into the traffic, we next visited the mausoleum to Ho Chi Minh, a huge marble pillared edifice surrounded by old colonial French architecture and a modern parliament building. This is a place of huge significance for the Vietnamese as “Uncle Ho”, as he is affectionately known, was the founder of modern Vietnam, unifying the north and south after some bitter and bloody wars.

The Vietnam War was really the first war to be shown daily on television news bulletins and I remember, as a teenager, feeling bitter towards him, only because of the way he was portrayed by the media in the west. My reading leading up to this trip, and what I was learning as the trip unfolded gave me a very different perspective of Ho Chi Minh.

Ho Chi Minh’s Mausoleum

A long, circuitous walk past guards in white uniforms, eventually brought us to the steps leading into the mausoleum. Respectful behaviour was expected at all times with no talking, no hands in pockets, no inappropriate dress and no photos. The steps eventually led into the heart of the mausoleum where Ho’s body lay like a wax dummy. Having given due respect, we emerged into the hazy sunshine to a huge parade ground in front of the building. We were not allowed to stand directly in front of the building; there was an invisible line beyond which we could not go beyond. As we stood there listening to T, people would regularly wander into the ‘no-go’ area, to be ushered back, without ceremony, by the guards on duty.

Ho Chi Minh, was a simple man, who probably would not appreciate all the fuss. He preferred not to live in the Presidential Palace, a huge ochre coloured French colonial building, preferring the simple stilt house with the bare minimum of furniture.

A traditional tribal house at the Museum of Ethnology

Lunch was taken in a parkland restaurant adjacent to the Museum of Ethnology. It was a very special restaurant where those working there were all pupils of Hoa Sua School, run by retired Vietnamese teachers. The school is a none profit organisation that takes young people from difficult circumstances and gives them vocational training in catering and hospitality. So far 7000 young people have benefited from the training and have been able to secure work in restaurants and hotels, an opportunity that otherwise would not have been available to them. The meal was excellent.

After lunch we went into the museum to try to get to grips with the tribal history of the Muong, the White Thai, the Black Thai, the Khmer and the other minority tribes of Vietnam. It was fascinating but, also, confusing as there was too much information to absorb.

Outside, and probably far more impressive were, reconstructions of tribal houses. These were large and provided homes for extended families. While there were two very impressive traditional stilt buildings, a long house and a very tall house, the building that took most of our attention was the burial chamber with its collection of sexually explicit wooden statues all around it. They left nothing to the imagination!

Time was getting on and we were due to watch a water puppet show at 5.00pm. Unfortunately, we hit the road at the wrong time as it became gridlocked with thousands of motorbikes. We arrived at the theatre on the edge of the old town fifteen minutes late, so we had to creep in. For many in the group it was a welcome relief to sit down in a darkened room after such a full-on day, and it was not long before eyelids began to droop.

Our introduction to Hanoi had been quite short but packed with as much as we could cope with in the time. The following morning we were due to leave. A shame, really, as I think Hanoi deserves a little more time, to enjoy its traffic chaos, the atmosphere of the Old Town, the colours, the tastes, the smells and the forever cheerful faces that greeted us. I have seen enough of Hanoi for me to want to return to absorb all that it has to offer.

Most people who climb the Yorkshire Three Peaks, Wernside, Ingleborough and Pen-y-ghent, do it as part of a challenge, raising money for charity or as part of a team building exercise. We were going to climb them purely for pleasure, and while most of the group were only climbing the two, Mike, Jonathan and I were going up a day earlier so that we could do all three.

As we headed north up the M6, England was bathed in glorious autumn sunlight. Mike and I decided to break our journey at Charnock Richard services, and, unbeknown to us, so had Ann and Stella, who were also going up a day early. A leisurely catch up with them over lunch and coffee added another hour to our journey.

Continuing north, we arrived in Ingleton by mid afternoon, full of intention for going for a walk but after checking in we wandered round the village until we settled on a cafe for a cream tea. It never ceases to amaze me how easily we can be distracted. We did eventually set out to walk to a series of waterfalls to discover, in no uncertain terms that they were private and there was a charge of £6 to walk up to them. In the end we didn’t go there but explored more of the village with its numerous eateries and cafes, far more than a town of its size warrants, but clearly catering for a constant stream of tourists.

The evening was spent enjoying the hospitality of the Whearsheaf Inn on the High Street.
Before dawn a bright light shone through the curtains of our room as the “harvest” full moon sat low in the sky outside our window. It was enormous and incredibly bright. The moon, having sunk into the western sky, it was replaced by the sun which shone from a flawless sky on to an earth sparkling with morning dew and perhaps a hint of frost. It was going to be a perfect day. That perfect day started with a full, Yorkshire breakfast, although, as I later climbed Wernside, I began to regret its volume.

While Ann and Stella were off to the Lakes for the day, Mike and I were joined by Jonathan, an extremely fit, retired GP, interested in joining me in Nepal next spring. We drove round to Ribblehead, renowned for its stunning viaduct, a testament to Victorian railway engineering, with its twenty four arches carrying the Settle to Carlisle line.

Oh dear, Mike!

Our walk took us initially parallel to the viaduct and railway until it disappeared into a tunnel under Blea Moor. Standing beneath the stone and brick structure highlighted just how big it is and, looking through the arches framed Ingleborough. Crossing the railway we began our ascent on a good, well used, path, a mixture of stone chippings and well laid slabs of rock. It was easy to walk on and we were making excellent progress, when Mike tripped and fell headlong into the bog to the side of the path. Fortunately he did not hurt himself and once we had ascertained the fact we fell about laughing. He was plastered in wet, black mud. A little further up the path we stopped to sit on some rocks on the summit ridge so that the sun could help dry him off. As we did so a widely spread group of young soldiers were following our route. They were making good progress despite carrying 55lb packs on their backs. The PT sergeant who was well clear of the rest of the group was extremely positive and driven, while some of the squaddies following behind were less enthusiastic and didn’t mind telling us.

The bleak, open moors of the Yorkshire dales

Well rested, and Mike partially dried, we headed on up to the summit, which provided superb 360 degree views. The views are not necessarily dramatic and all the hills are of a similar height and the slopes, on the whole, are well rounded. It was the feeling of space, of being away from the normal hubbub of UK life that made it so pleasurable. The summit was not without its crowds, for shortly after we arrived a large group of accountants, in varying degrees of distress, reached the summit on a team building charity challenge. This was their second summit of the day having already climbed Ingleborough. All they had left was the long, cross country walk to Pen-y-ghent. I anticipate that some might be really struggling towards the end.

You can just make out Morecambe Bay in the distance

I never really appreciated before just how far west the Yorkshire Dales go, but from this lofty viewpoint Lancashire was well and truly squeezed between the Dales to the east and Morecambe Bay to the west. Just to the north of Morecambe Bay the hills of the Lakes could be clearly seen, with Scafell Pike and others being easily identifiable. To the north, south and east there were rolling hills as far as the eye could see.

Back in Ingleton, we settled into the camping barn at Stackstead Farm and awaited the arrival of the rest of the group. As the afternoon progressed towards evening friends arrived in dribs and drabs until it was time to head out to the Wheatsheaf for a meal and a drink or two. It was a good evening and the conversation flowed between friends who have known each other for a long time but don’t necessarily see each other that often. It was also a bonus that we were introducing new people into the group, adding greater interest and diversity. While some of us headed back to the barn, some stayed on for a few more drinks and, so I am told, went in search of a take-away, despite having had a sizeable meal only a couple of hours earlier. There were a few lapses of memory the following morning.

It rained heavily in the night and the cloud hung low over the hills. Looking at the conditions and knowing that the forecast was predicting it to get worse, I suggested a late change of plan, to climb to shorter Pen-y-ghent on the Saturday, leaving Ingleborough for our last day. It made sense, so after a full breakfast, we drove over to Horton-in-Ribblesdale for the relatively short ascent of the third, and lowest, of the Three Peaks. It wasn’t actually raining as we set off, although many of us decided to wear our full waterproofs for the eventuality.

It was an easy walk on the Pennine Way, a wide track leading from the village on to the open hill. Immediately on reaching the open hill, Mike suggested we take a slight detour to look at Hull Pot, a former cavern where the roof had collapsed, leaving a large hole into which the river fell before disappearing underground. It is an impressive sight, a classic limestone feature in an area full of classic features – shake holes, limestone pavements, escarpments, pot holes and caverns.

Shortly afterwards we veered off to look at Hunt Pot, another hole in the ground where the stream disappeared into a maze of underground passages and caverns. Mike’s enthusiasm for showing us these features made it all the more interesting. In his early years of teaching he was an enthusiastic potholer and spent much of his time crawling along underground tunnels and squeezing his way through tight corners.

A wet lunch!

Continuing our climb, the path became steeper, the last section being a newly made staircase made of huge slabs of rock. As we climbed the weather deteriorated. With greater height came stronger winds and by the time we reached the trig point the rain was driven horizontally across the summit. Thankfully there was a wall behind which we could shelter in order to eat our lunch.

There seemed little point, and less enthusiasm, to walk along the summit plateau to Plover Hill before making our descent, so we headed back down the way we had come. It was an easy descent despite the fact that in the early stages of it the wind did its best to throw us off balance.

A shoe tree!

Back in Horton-in-Ribblesdale there is a tree in the car park behind the Golden Lion Inn. This tree bears a rather strange fruit. This is not a seasonal fruit but one that occurs throughout the year, but, perhaps more so in the summer months when there are more visitors. The fruit I refer to is lots of pairs of boots and trainers hanging by their laces. For many, this is the finishing point for the gruelling 24 mile Three Peaks Challenge, a time when those who have succeeded may have sore feet and who feel they will never walk up a hill again and will certainly never want to put their boots on again. So, as tradition has it, when they feel this way, they hang their boots on the tree. Looking at them closely, there were some decent pairs of boots there with plenty more wear in them. A bit of a waste but I presume that occasionally somebody harvests them and feeds them to a shoe bank, making way for more.

As the afternoon wore on the rain ceased and just before dusk we were treated to some sunshine casting a strong light on the fields leading up to a still cloud enshrouded Ingleborough. The evening was spent eating good, home cooking (although I say it myself) and lively and amusing conversation until, gradually, people began to drift off for an early night. A combination of exercise, fresh air and perhaps a little over-indulgence the night before, ensured that nobody was late to bed.

Our last morning dawned bright and sunny, although cloud still hung around the summit of Ingleborough. It was expected to clear. Walking from the barn, we passed through the village to pick up a wide path between two walls, which would eventually lead on to the open hillside and head straight up to the summit. As we got nearer to the summit, the cloud did, indeed, clear and all we saw now was clear blue sky and the hillside bathed in glorious autumnal sunshine.

Ribblehead

The gradient up the hill is quite gentle to begin with but it was quite warm work, particularly as, unlike yesterday, there was hardly a breath of wind. Ingleborough, very much like Pen-y-ghent, has a summit plateau surrounded by steep, often vertical slopes. Hence, the final part of the ascent was making our way up these steeper sections to the trig point and shelter. The views from the summit were outstanding, made the more so by beautiful cloud formations bubbling up in the autumn heat. During the weekend we had seen the Ribblehead viaduct from a number of different angles but from the edge of the plateau it looked particularly impressive.

On the summit, we discussed how we wanted to play the remainder of the walk and day. Some were anxious to get back on the road and head south , while others opted to extend the walk and stay out as long as possible. Some rushed back the way we had come while others took their time and chilled out on some very comfortable rocks for lunch.

It had been a fabulous weekend in every respect. Mike, Jonathan and I had climbed all three peaks and while the weather on Saturday was not at its best, it could have been a lot worse. In the main, we had seen the Yorkshire Dales at their best. Stackstead Farm provided us with an excellent base and is one I would be happy to return to on a future occasion. But what makes these occasions so special, is the group of people you share them with, the common interest, the camaraderie and the laughter. All a stark contrast to what was to follow, as I left to join my sister, to be with her and give her support when her husband died the next day. Thank you to you all.

Albania, for so long a country steeped in mystery and intrigue, closed to the rest of world and yet, here I am, the result of watching Rick Stein on television. His short programme on the culinary delights of Albania showed me enough of the country to know that I wanted to go there.

Kruja

After a late night arrival I wake up at the Panorama Hotel Kruja, a forty minute drive from Tirana and half way up a mountain. My room on this brief overnight sojourn looks out on to pantiled roofs, ancient rock fortresses, a lot of new buildings and the valley below. The hotel is so new I feel as if I am the first visitor to my room it is so spotless. As I drifted off to sleep the night before I could hear the rhythmic vibration of a wedding party deep in the bowels of the hotel. It was as if the fabric of the concrete was absorbing the sound and distributing it throughout. It didn’t stop me from sleeping though.

Breakfast was taken on an open veranda overlooking the oldest part of the town. I was amazed by the birdsong ringing out so clearly until I discovered it came from a canary in a cage in the dining area. By the end of breakfast I could easily have rung it’s neck, it was so loud.

A steep, rocky ascent

Our first walk was up the holy mountain of Tumenisht behind the town, a climb of about 600m up, what appeared near the summit to be, a shear face of limestone. As we set out on a steepening path the heat began to tell. There was not a breath of wind and the temperature was rising rapidly. It was also very humid. The stony path, once used by pilgrims to a cave near the top, zigzagged its way up the hill circumnavigating its way around outcrops of limestone. Only occasionally were we given some shade from a path side tree, although most of the vegetation was quite scrubby. All the time the view down to Kruja and beyond got more expansive and impressive. Regularly the sound of police sirens came up to meet us from the narrow streets of the town below as they made preparations for 140 delegates from NATO who were meeting in our hotel.

Looking down on Kruja and beyond

We eventually reached the cave of Bectasci Teqe, a Sufi Dervishes Sanctuary, where we came across more tourists and Albanians, all of whom had taken the easier, less strenuous, and less rewarding journey by a road that approached from the flanks of the hill. A derelict building looked out over the view and spoilt the environment of the summit. It flourished as a shelter and accommodation in pre-road days, when pilgrims would stay longer to eat or even stay overnight. It was all a bit disappointing apart from the view out across the coastal plain towards the Adriatic.The only blots on the landscape was an uncharacteristic, unfinished tower block overlooking our hotel and the oldest part of the town, that has been several years in construction, according to our guide, Hassan, and a number of ugly cement factories.

Returning to  Kruja we were not sure whether we would be allowed to have lunch in the hotel, now occupied by so many important people and protected by an army of security personnel. Having been scrutinised closely by men in black suits and black ties we were allowed into a room for lunch. You could be forgiven for thinking that there might be a very important funeral taking place at the hotel rather than the most important military commanders in the world having lunch.

After lunch we boarded our minibus and began the journey north towards the town of Shkoder. There are no motorways in Albania so all traffic is confined, in the main, to single track roads. While, beyond the towns they are not very busy, there is plenty of evidence of a poor standard of driving with poor overtaking decisions unfolding before us, more wrecked cars at roadside scrapyards than you would expect for a country of only 2.9 million people, and memorials of flowers by the side of the road. Then you have to to remember that people in Albania have only really been driving for the last twenty five years, for before the fall of communism ordinary people were not allowed to own cars, or to drive.

Shkoder from Rozafa Castle

Just before we reached Shkoder we visited Rozafa Castle, an enormous hilltop fortification at the confluence of three rivers and overlooking the town on one side and Lake Shkoder on the other. The border with Montenegro  runs through the lake and the far shore is fringed with mountains.

Whilst the castle is a must see tourist attraction I don’t think they have yet made the most of the monument. There are a few information boards but the majority of it looks rather scruffy. It clearly needs more investment for the development of the site into a living, working museum. It certainly deserves it, parts of it dating back to the 4th Century BC.

One of the most interesting aspects of the visit was ‘The Legend of Rozafa’, which tells the story of three young men, brothers, who were given the task of building a castle. By day they worked hard to build the castle walls yet each night, when they left, the walls would fall down. Day after day they built the walls. Night after night the walls would fall. One day, as they were working on the same walls once again, a wise old man approached them.

‘Day after day we work on this castle,’ they told the old man. ‘Yet every night the walls tumble down. We will never complete the castle. What must we do?’

‘I know what you must do but I cannot tell you,’ said the wise old man.

But the brothers pleaded.

‘Do you have wives at home?’ the old man asked.

‘Why yes, we do!’ the brothers answered.

‘The castle will only remain standing if one of your wives is sacrificed within its walls. Do not warn your wives, but  whoever comes to bring tomorrow’s lunch will need to be sacrificed. You must build the stone walls with her within them. Only that shall prevent it from falling.’

The brothers all promised that none would tell their wives of the terrible fate that would occur to them the following day should she be the one to take their lunch over to them.

The oldest brother did not keep his promise and quietly told his wife of the fate that would befall her. ‘Keep away,’ he warned her.

The second brother did not keep his promise and warned his wife also.

Only the youngest brother kept his word.

The following day, the mother of the brothers called the wife of the oldest son over and asked her to take over bread and wine for them.

‘Alas, mother,’ she said. ‘I cannot for I am unwell today.’

So the mother called the wife of the second son.

‘Alas, mother,’ she said. ‘I cannot for I am unwell today.’

The mother then called over the wife of the third son, who went by the name Rozafa.

‘Rozafa, please take over bread and wine for your husband and his brothers.’

‘But mother, I do not wish to leave my baby son. He needs me.’

‘We shall take care of him,’ said the oldest wife.

So Rozafa picked up the bread and wine and made her way to the site. As she approached the brothers looked up sadly and they explained what now must happen.

Rozafa did not protest and accepted her fate, asking only that she be built into the castle whilst still alive. Her plea continued, as she asked for her right eye to be left showing so that she might still see her son, her right breast to be exposed so that she might still feed her son, for her right hand to be exposed so that she may caress him and for her right foot to be left free so that she might still be able to rock her son’s cradle.

At the place where Rozafa was interred the walls are permanently damp with milk that still seeps from her breast.

An Orthodox Church

Shkoder, the town, looked pretty unremarkable from the castle walls but, having established ourselves in the very smart Europa Hotel, we ventured out into town for our evening meal. From within, the town was much more pleasant with tree-lined pedestrianised avenues of smart restaurants and shops – not at all like the Albania we had imagined. We had learned already that Albania enjoyed religious tolerance, and it was clearly evident in Shkoder with a mosque adjacent to an orthodox church, adjacent to a catholic church. Throughout the communist era people were not allowed to follow their religion, certainly not openly, and many priests and imams were executed as a deterrent. Since the fall of communism there was an initial resurgence in religion, because the repressive restrictions were lifted, but in the intervening twenty five years it has tapered off. There is not the religious fervour of some countries and there seems to be a more liberal approach to the act of worship.

King John

The following morning was an early start as we were to be collected by a local bus at 6.15 for the journey to Lake Komani. As we waited we appreciated just how over-the-top some of the furnishings were in the hotel. There was an unnecessary opulence about the chairs in the reception area, which provided us with a little bit of early morning humour.

I was expecting to be travelling on an overcrowded local bus with chickens and goats but as it turned out we had a local minibus with just three other passengers. There was no overcrowding, just a strong smell of stale sweat leaking from the seats and no seat belts. Fortunately, I had a young Albanian man sitting next to me who had enough manly perfume on to counter any unpleasant smells. After only half an hour of travelling we stopped in a small town so that the driver and two elderly passengers could disappear for a few minutes to return with a box full of bags of sugar. I can only assume that they are heavily into jam making, which is probably the case as it is obvious from our brief experience in the lodge that they are largely self sufficient. They make their own butter, cheese, jam and honey, and I am sure a great many other things.

After nearly two hours we passed through a tunnel where the dam blocked the valley which created Lake Komani back in the late 70’s during the height of China’s influence in Albania. The lake is long and narrow as it snakes its way through what must originally have been a steep sided gorge. When it was created no people were displaced by it and we discovered, as we sailed up its length, that very few people live along its shores, because of the nature of the terrain on each side.

As we emerged through the tunnel to the small embarkation area there were two ferries waiting to receive passengers and vehicles. We were in good time so we were able to get the best places to sit at the front of the top, open deck. The early morning air was a little chilly, and while some retreated to the cabin below, I stayed put, wanting to take advantage of a great viewing spot. More and more vehicles arrived in the cramped jetty area, offloading their passenger who seemed to be favouring our boat rather than the adjacent one.

Eventually, after much shuffling of vehicles, both on the shore and on our boat, we headed off up the lake on a two and a half hour journey. It really wasn’t very wide at all; sometimes only about 50m wide and never more than 100m. On either side the rock walls and steeply wooded slopes rose out of the water to meet a clear blue sky, which, in turn, reflected in the water, also turning it blue. The only disappointment was that it was not a totally pristine environment. Every-so-often we would pass a number of plastic bottles that had found their way into the lake, presumably tossed into the water by those few people that live near the shore. With no roads, it is easy to understand that the disposal of rubbish might be difficult, but you would hope that those who live in this beautiful environment might also look after it.

Frog for breakfast!

There was not a great deal of bird life on the lake, just the occasional duck and we saw frogs skimming across the surface, moving so fast that they hardly broke the surface with anything more than their feet. A heron fished by the side of the water was disturbed by our approach and flew off. As it did so it scooped up a frog and carried it off to enjoy elsewhere, away from noisy boats and prying human eyes.

The scenery never lost its drama for the whole length of the lake. As we neared the end a road ran along the shore and shortly afterwards we reached our destination and came ashore. A minibus was waiting for us to take us to Valbona. Although this was the end of  Lake Komani, a little further up the valley another dam stretched across its width, creating another lake behind it.

The journey into the heart of the Valbona region did not take long and we arrived at our lodge, Natyra, in time for lunch. I have to confess that I was expecting something a little more rustic, not a newly built house with adjacent accommodation, and with more being constructed. What I could not ignore was the beauty of the countryside around it. On either side of the narrow valley, steep slopes rose up to sheer limestone cliffs piercing the sky in a series of jagged ridges. At the head of the valley a wall of mountains ensured that only those fit and able would pass over into the next valley.

In the afternoon we explored the floor of the valley and came across a number of concrete bunkers, strange things to find in such a beautiful environment. However, when the Chinese lost interest in Albania in the mid 70s, after the death of Mao, the communist regime, without an international friend in the world felt vulnerable to attack from any quarter, so they embarked upon a programme of building bunkers that could withstand the harshest of attacks. Their aim was to build 250,000 but by 1983, while they failed to reach their target, they had still managed to build a staggering 174,000 bunkers. It was the expense of such a programme, which weakened the regime and began to slowly bring it to its eventual knees.

The following morning I sneaked out of my room early enough to catch the morning glow on the limestone crags, turning them orange. I had missed the evening glow, so I was determined not to miss the morning. It was not difficult as we had all drifted off to bed by 9.00pm and there are only so many hours you can sleep, or listen to the gentle breathing of your fellow room mates.

Taking a break

After a rather unsatisfactory breakfast of fatty doughnuts, we set out to to climb up to Qafa e Rosit, a mountain pass on the border with Montenegro known as Pyramid 18. Crossing the dry river bed we climbed gently up to the small village of Kikaj with just two houses. From there we climbed up through woods and across beautiful alpine pastures, eventually reaching a shepherd’s hut where we could buy a refreshing drink. It was fascinating to be served by a shepherd in this remote location wearing a suit. We had seen similarly dressed shepherds on our travels and they all seemed highly inappropriate, but they were all kept remarkably smart.

Wow!!

Three members of the group decided not to go higher, so while the rest of us continued upward, they began the descent. We were now on open, alpine hillsides, level with many of the craggy peaks we had gazed up at from the valley bottom. They were stunning. But, however stunning they were, we were not prepared for the view when we reached the top of the pass at a little over 2000m. As we reached its crest we were faced with a mass of spectacular rock faces and craggy peaks. It was a stunning view, impossible to turn away from. We were looking into a little corner of Montenegro with the furthest wall of mountains on the other side of the valley again being the border with Albania as it swept round in a huge arc. We were so lucky that the weather and conditions were perfect for us to enjoy such a vista.

Dropping about 30m into Montenegro we sat on the grass in pleasant sunshine and ate our picnic lunch, pausing between bites of bread to take yet more photographs. I felt that those who had descended were missing a highlight but as Claire was not feeling too well, it was probably the right decision.

After more photographs we dragged ourselves away and started the descent, retracing our steps all the way back to our lodge. We again stopped for refreshment at the shepherd’s hut, drinking cups of wonderful mint tea.

On the way down Fraser began to feel ill and by the time he reached the lodge he had been sick a number of times. What was happening to the group? What was the source of this illness? I could not think of anything that we had eaten or drunk in Albania. Certainly the food was a little different, a bit greasy at times but not sufficiently so to make us ill, I would have thought. It had to be something that was brought out with us or picked up on the plane.

I felt a huge surge of satisfaction by the time I got back to the lodge. We had climbed almost 1400m to one of the most stunning views I had seen and I felt that this was the best day walk I had had for a long time. I will never forget the splendour of those views.

That night it rained heavily and the night sky and surrounding hills were lit up by regular flashes of lightening. Thunder echoed around the peaks. The rain was so heavy it rattled on the roof above our heads. In the morning it was still damp and the mountains were wearing necklaces of whispy clouds. I was thankful that we had had such good weather for our hike the day before.

After another disappointing breakfast a local minibus took us up to the trail head, saving us about ninety minutes of road and river bed walking. There we met our mule team that were going to carry our kit over the pass to Thethi.  It was still damp and it was necessary to don waterproofs, but after a while of steep climbing through woodland, the rain eased and it became far too hot to keep the waterproofs on. Fortunately, those who had been off colour the day before had made a remarkable recovery, and although Fraser was still a little delicate, he was able to cope with the walk.

The climb continued steeply until we reached another shepherd’s hut serving refreshments, where we rested for a while. The gradient continued to be quite steep but we at least felt we were making some vertical progress as the valley below us opened out. Above, it was impossible to see where the path was leading us as there seemed to be cliffs of limestone blocking all access to the summit. Occasionally we would see a cleft and think that was where we were heading, only to find that the path then veered away from it. Eventually the path took us under the cliffs on a narrow path with a fairly steep drop below us, until we rounded a corner, and there was the pass. As we reached the summit a cold wind hit us and it was best to rest on the Valbona side while we waited for the group to reassemble.

Unlike the Valbona side of the pass, the Thethi side was forested almost to the top. The descent took us into an amazing area of beech forest on a steep slope. All the trees had a bizarre bend in the trunk just above ground level. I can only assume that the young trees initially grew at right angles to the slope but in their quest for light turned to the vertical. Walking through this beech forest it was hard to imagine that we were in Albania; we could so easily have been back home – beech trees, rain, temperate environment. It really was beautiful walking. It did not have the wow factor of the day before but we were all very privileged to be able to walk in such beautiful surroundings.

Just below the forest we came across another shepherd’s tea shop, but this one was very much an up-market affair with a welcoming log fire, tables and chairs crafted out of logs and a very clean toilet. While we rested and took refreshing drinks the rain returned, allowing us to linger and luxuriate longer until the rain eased and we were able to resume our journey down hill.

As we neared the floor of the valley we joined a stoney track and were almost immediately confronted by a JCB. To the side of it the vegetation on the downward slope had been disturbed and there were tyre marks leaving the road. Peering about 50 feet down the slope we could just make out a minibus through the branches and leaves. It had reversed over the edge and down the slope. The JCB was trying to manoeuvre in order to attach a line to it and pull it back up on to the track. We learned that the two occupants, brothers, were unharmed and that the undergrowth had slowed its fall until, eventually a couple of trees caught it before too much damage could be done.

Steve looking down on Thethi

On reaching Thethi, we were again surprised by the amount of development that had occurred recently, with new lodges being built, replacing the traditional building with their wood tiled roofs. There was even a very smart tourist information office, although I don’t think it was open, possibly because the season was quickly drawing to a close.

It was certainly colder in this valley and we were grateful for the log fire in the living/dining room of the lodge. The accommodation was in dormitory type rooms with five beds in each room, although there were only three to a room with an adjacent bathroom. It was comfortable, but quite basic; the windows did not shut properly, there was nowhere to hang anything and just about every pipe connection in the bathroom leaked. As the afternoon progressed into evening, both Rupert and Mike began to feel unwell, confirming that whatever it was that had affected Claire and Fraser was being passed around the group. Those who had so far remained healthy felt there was a sword of Damocles hanging over them.

The following morning the weather had improved slightly, although it was still rather cloudy and cold. Hassan tweaked the itinerary and suggested that we walk down valley for a couple of hours before climbing up to have a look at Blue Eye, a pool in a mountain river, tucked deep in the mountains. It seemed like a good idea, as going high we would almost inevitably end up in cloud and see very little. Fortunately Rupert had recovered but we left Mike behind to continue his recovery.

The walk down valley, dropping about 400m was pleasant and without difficulty, a bit of a relief after two strenuous uphill days, On reaching a small, largely deserted village, we turned into a side valley via an interesting small gorge with fascinating limestone formations smoothed by fast flowing, swirling water. This lead us up through scrub and woodland to a perfect pool of clear, blue, deep water fed by a single water shoot. It looked incredibly inviting but we weren’t fooled, having seen a couple of Dutch lads shivering, having been in for a quick dip.

Returning to the main valley by the same route, we then returned to Thethi on the stoney road on the opposite side of the valley to which we had descended. With the exception of the pool, this was the least spectacular of our walks but, in a way, I was pleased. My right achilles had become increasingly more painful as the week went on, although it appeared to be more noticeable on an easier walk. I almost decided there and then that I would not go on the short walk the following morning before we returned to Tirana. That is what I did and was joined by Steve who now was suffering a little as the sword of Damocles had fallen upon him.

A final look at the wall of mountains at the head of the Thethi Valley

After lunch on our last day in the mountains a minibus picked us up for the journey to Shkoder. According to the itinerary we should have been walking this route towards the village of Boga, but as it involved a very lengthy climb lasting several hours, Hassan decided there were not enough hours in the day to achieve everything. So, we let the minibus take the strain and drive us around many hairpin bends higher and higher. On reaching above the tree line the views opened out and we alighted from the bus to enjoy these last precious views before we began the descent toward Shkoder. Now that we were above the tree line we felt rather more exposed and the road hugged the hillside with a 1000 foot, very steep drop into the valley below. On the other side of the pass the road was newly tarmacked with safety barriers etc. It will only be a matter of time before the Thethi Valley is served with a tarmac road, making it more accessible to all.

In Shkoder we transferred to a newer, smarter minibus for the journey to Tirana, where, on arrival, we checked into our hotel, Villa Tafaj, very close to the centre of town.

The mosaic above the museum entrance depicting the history of Albania

Our last day was upon us but as our flight was not until midnight, we had plenty of time to enjoy the sights of Tirana. In the morning Hassan gave us a guided tour of the city centre, taking us first to the square in front of the museum. Here, a large stage had been set up for a concert that evening. From there we visited the statue of Skandaberg on his horse, the mosque, the clock tower and, most interestingly, the museum of the communist era held in an expansive underground bunker. Underneath tons of reinforced concrete we learnt about the power held by the communist regime, about the way they suppressed everything that was normal in life, murdered and tortured opponents and finally were overcome by the strength and determination of the people. The most chilling aspect of the whole display were the filmed interviews of people who had lived through the torture. Hopefully it is behind them and that the lessons learnt by the experiences of those dark years will never be forgotten.

The Bunker Museum

The rest of the day was largely free so people went off and did their own thing, filling in the time to departure as best they could.

What did I think of Albania? I thought it was a stunningly beautiful country with sophisticated city centres and rural areas that are beginning to prepare for a positive future. I’m not sure I fully agree with Rick Stein’s assessment of Albanian cuisine but I am sure it will improve as the sophistication of Tirana and other cities spreads further and deeper into rural areas. I was disappointed and surprised by the lack of wild animal and bird life. We never saw a single bird of prey.

Our guide, Hassan, did everything he could to make our trip memorable and his love for the mountains came across strongly. His English was excellent, making it so much easier to understand the history, the geography and the legends that surround this fascinating part of the world. I think Albania, in the not too distant future will be one of the hot destinations of Europe as more and more people experience its treasures and report back. Would I go again? I most certainly would.

Thanks must also go to my fellow travellers, who, despite some health problems, were very good company. The conversation was interesting and varied and I thoroughly enjoyed beating them all at Uno! Here’s to the next time.

Ready for the off

There are occasions when we become slaves of the weather forecast, watching it religiously to see what we might encounter on a day out in the hills. This was the case this weekend, when we were heading out to walk a circuit around the northern end of the Black Mountains. If the truth were known, I was not looking forward to the prospect of getting a good soaking in the heavy rain and strong winds forecast for the day of the walk. There is no such thing as bad weather, just inappropriate clothing. This became apparent as I stepped out of the car in my shorts and flip-flops to be greeted by fellow walkers covered up to protect themselves from the blustery wind with its autumnal nip and the inevitable rain that was going to be driven by the wind soon after we started walking.

Looking across at Twmpa

This circular walk of 11.5 miles was going to take us immediately up the steep northern face of Hay Bluff, followed by the long southerly trudge along the largely pavemented Offa’s Dyke Path, until we came to a small pile of stones with a faint path leading off it to each side. That marked the way down, gently at first, and then more steeply on a muddy, slippery path to Capel-y-ffin where we would break for lunch. Another steep climb would take us up the nose of Darren Lwyd and along the ridge to eventually reach the summit of Lord Hereford’s Knob (Twmpa), before descending to Gospel Pass and back to the cars parked by the stone circle. It is not a particularly difficult route with the steep up sections only lasting about half an hour each. The hardest part is the descent to Vision Farm, the setting for Bruce Chatwin’s, “On Black Hill”.

Hay Bluff

Geared up for the wind and the impending rain, we set off. The reward of this walk is that within half an hour of setting out you are on the top of Hay Bluff with its dragon embossed trig point. On a clear day it has an imposing view across the Wye Valley to the hills beyond, but today it was all a bit murky. Flurries of light rain began to fall and, as we walked south along Offa’s Dyke, we could see a wall of thicker, heavier and more persistent rain coming towards us from the south-west. We just had time to make some adjustments and additions to our outer layers before it hit us.

One of the more pleasant aspects of a walk are the conversations you have en route. In the ensuing conditions, strong winds, rain, hoods up and a narrow path conversations were virtually impossible, so for much of the time we were left to our own thoughts.

Lunch under the yews at Capel-y-ffin

Descending, carefully, we made our way to Capel-y-ffin and the shelter of the ancient yew trees around the graveyard of the chapel. The trees gave us excellent shelter from both the rain and the wind.

Immediately after lunch we had our second climb up the steep nose of Darren Lwyd, although the route avoids the more direct approach and takes us zig-zagging to a rocky outcrop just below the brow of the hill. In pleasant conditions this outcrop gives stunning views down the Llanthony Valley, but today it disappeared in a haze of cloud and rain.

Heading out to climb Darren Lwyd

One of the group was clearly having some difficulty and seemed to be drained of all energy. Unfortunately, I could not contemplate her making the long trudge along the ridge to Twmpa and eventually back to the cars. The weather had deteriorated significantly, the wind had strengthened and the rain was sheeting down. The best she could do was to retrace her steps back to the shelter of the chapel at Capel-y-ffin with Trevor who volunteered to look after her. This would leave me free to guide the rest of the group, pick up my car and collect the two from the chapel.

I gave no instruction about their descent other than to take their time in the slippery conditions. I fully expected them to retrace our steps. I learned later, when I picked them up, that they had had an enjoyable adventure! I decided not to ask too many questions.

Looking down from Twmpa

The rest of us set off up the ridge of Darren Lwyd. I decided to set a good pace as there was nothing to be gained from lingering, fully exposed to the wind and rain. Fortunately, the wind was behind us so that instead of battling into it it was helping to push us along. There were several boggy areas we had to negotiate, but we made excellent progress and reached Twmpa after about an hour. Ironically, the conditions began to improve; the sky to the south-west began to brighten and the rain eased. The sun even temporarily brightened up some of the fields in the Wye Valley below.

The descent to Gospel Pass and on to the cars was very straight forward. It was only when we stopped that I began to appreciate how wet I was. At no time during the walk had I felt cold or wet. Instead of feeling miserable I felt excited about the conditions, enjoying feeling the elements. I felt invigorated and energised, which just proves my point at the start of this blog, that it does not always pay to be influenced by the forecast. Provided you have the right gear, bad weather can be some of the best weather to go for a walk in.

Having divested myself of my outer layers, revealed my legs again and donned my flip-flops, I drove over Gospel Pass to Capel-y-ffin to pick up Trevor and Ann. Their downward adventure meant they had only arrived at the chapel a few minutes before me, but they were in good spirits and no harm had been done, although Trevor’s hat decided to allow the wind to separate it from his head and disappear in the bracken, never to be seen again.

Photos curtesy of Claire Cox