Travel Writer, the Balkans: ‘Albania . . . not the centre of sex trafficking my mother feared’

Let me preface by confessing my ignorance; I knew very little of the recent history of the Balkans before we left. They didn’t teach us this in school because it was happening while we were in school. I have vague recollections of war-torn Sarajevo on the news but my teenage self had no interest in the news.

Embarking on a one month whistle-stop tour of south eastern Europe we had little time for research as we finished our exams on Friday and left the following Tuesday.

The criteria for our adventure was an affordable pocket of the atlas that none of us had previously visited. This quickly whittled down the viable countries for three committed, albeit sporadic, nomads. We booked flights to Greece and flights home from Croatia and in between stretched a month of possibilities.

When you have no expectations it’s hard to be disappointed.

Touring countries with such recent political turmoil was enlightening because the people you encounter in bars and hostels are young and have lived through the fall of communism. I think it’s called a primary source in terms of research. A primary source being two bar stools, two steiners of local beer and for example, the lovely Klardi.

Albania is home to some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met. Not the centre of sex trafficking my mother feared. All I encountered was beautiful scenery, interesting locals, cheap beer and memorable pancakes.

They don’t make puddles back home like they do in Tirana (the capital) and watching my good, good friend slip in one and attempt the front crawl was the highlight of the night we got our results (when the highlight should have been passing).

Skopje is described as Disneyland, fake statues abound. A boozy lunch with a motley crew of travellers is how we’ll always remember it, despite the impressive surroundings.

We had a commendable, robust breakfast in Pristina, the capital of Kosovo. My exasperated father implored us not to go there. Why couldn’t I like New York like my mother and sister did; like a normal person? Because it’s wonderful here, Dad, I’ll do New York when I’m your age.

Montenegro was our trough, our low point. A lack of forward planning, which made the rest of our trip so spontaneous and good, saw us spend a night in the local bus station with the local homeless people. But everything is an anecdote if you tell it right, right? And Texas Hold ‘Em played with cocktail sticks will happily pass many hours.

The much anticipated Sarajevo had so much potential. A beautiful city embracing it’s pocked complexion. We endeavoured to do laundry here but a faulty tumble-dryer and an unprecedented cold snap meant we spent three days wearing insufficient layers and left the city charmed, but well rid.

We’ll be back.

And so to Mostar, where a booked-out city tour led us to Medjugore by default, on an historic day in Irish history. And I bought rainbow coloured rosary beads. How apt.

And for the last hurrah? Hvar. Three days of accidentally arriving at nudist beaches, and accidentally arriving home at 6am, and blowing off steam perfectly before returning to real life.

And floating hats.

[ Irish Times Amateur Travel Writer Competition ]