Ballyconneely III

For the third time I found myself in the privileged position to pay a visit to one of my favourite places in Ireland. Tucked away in the bog lands of western county Galway, with the Atlantic on all sides, and the mainland dotted with lakes, lies the sprawling village of Ballyconneely. This time however I didn’t find myself being driven across Ireland in a slick BMW (Padraic) or sporty Alfa Romeo (Aidan), as my bike and I boarded the 18:30 train to Galway city last Friday evening. Given the beautiful weather we have had in Dublin over the past weeks, I was under the impression that summer had finally come to Ireland. Well, it has come to Dublin. The west coast is a completely different story. And since I cycled from Galway to Ballyconneely, that mattered.

Saturday morning, eight o’clock. I wake up, bewildered, realising it’s an hour later than I had intended to rise. Since I had been nagging the owner of the place about breakfast ‘as early as possible’ and her response that ‘the earliest I can do for you is half seven’ I felt slightly guilty. An hour later however I found myself well fed and properly equipped on my hybrid, with a backpack full of bananas and sports drinks, repair kit and hand pump included just in case, heading off west on the coastal road. Four hours later I arrived at Melani’s place. Soaked. Whatever rain I didn’t see in Dublin since coming back from Albania, well, I caught up with that last Saturday, as an INCESSANT DOWNPOUR accompanied me for AT LEAST half the time on the road. Ok… ‘incessant downpour’ might be a bit of an exaggeration, as it didn’t quite compare with the showers I remember from the rainy season in New Delhi. There, when the first mega droplet exploded in the dust right in front of your feet, you knew you had five seconds to look for shelter lest you might as well jump in a pool with all your clothes on. So it wasn’t that bad. But then again, it wasn’t 40 degrees Celsius, as in Delhi. It was just warm enough not to be cold when working your way through the gorgeous landscape of Connemara. Cause whatever wind and rain is thrown at you, the scenery is still very pretty.

Arriving at Melani’s place I got a very warm welcome and a very welcome warm lunch. An hour later, with food in my belly and after a hot shower, I felt reborn like a phoenix and happily sat down to prepare the ingredients she would use for making pancakes at the Roundstone market the next day. Glad to be at least a little bit useful rather than being just a freeriding liability I sliced ham, peppers and onions while Melani prepared the batter. Later in the afternoon we were joined by Joane and her niece for a walk in an area I forgot the name of, whereafter Melani and I stocked up wine and bites for the evening and sat down at a cool pub at the bay for a pint. What had hitherto appeared to be a remote and sparsely populated area to me, which it is to be honest, I now got a flavour of the very active community that lives there and the range of nationalities that jointly make for a nicely varied crowd. From the old lady in the supermarket who told us to ‘stop arguing’ to the chatty people in the bay-side bar, the people in Connemara seem an assertive and happy bunch. Meanwhile the rain was only intensifying, which by now didn’t matter anymore as really all we were going to do was sit inside, eat, and drink.

A lovely dish prepared by Joane, in conjunction with Melani’s oven-grilled chicken, proved more than enough food to satisfy the appetite of four adults and four kids, with the leftovers being enough to feed an orphanage for a week. Irish coffees (plural) for desert and a wide variety of red wine completed the culinary experience and it was well after midnight when we called it a day. Melani offered Nick a bed for the night so he wouldn’t have to drive home and I am quite confident to say that we all feel asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

The next morning I was woken up by a cat that climbed on top of me. With the wind howling outside and my tongue feeling like a dried piece of leather, the prospect of cycling another 100km back to Galway didn’t particularly appeal to me. With Melani off to the market and me sitting in an empty house I decided that if I was going to cycle the whole way back I might as well start straight away. Great views and great weather lasted for about 20 minutes whereafter the clouds moved back in and I took the N59 back to Galway (back home I had been too lazy to navigate the way back which forced me to take the main road). Fortunately the wind that had been quite a challenge on the way there had only gained in strength and was now pushing me back east. Going 30 km/hour there was no need for me to do any work all the way Oughterard with a strong tailwind pushing me through the rolling hills. From there the road turned which made the last 25km the hardest ones, but all in all the three hours cycling back weren’t quite as challenging as the first leg had been. Luckily, as my body wasn’t quite up to it. Arriving in Galway well ahead of schedule, the staff of Kinlay hostel proved that my previous positive experience with them wasn’t a one-off as they let me have a shower and hang out in the common room free of charge. There’s worse ways reminiscing a great weekend and a nice exercise than in a soft sofa, reading the economist and sipping a can of coke. Six o’clock, tjop tjop back on the train to Dublin, and home at nine. Cycling in Connemara, even with atrocious weather, well worth the trip. Thanks Melani for the great stay!!

Nick: ‘She doesn’t swim in the sea because the fish fuck in it’

Melani: ‘Not fuck Nick, swim.. SWIM’

Nick: ‘Well oh eh that’s what you told me’

Melani: ‘I was joking Nick’

Blissful summer nights

Flashbacks to a time that long since passed brought me back to my childhood days last Tuesday evening. As a kid growing up in a semi-rural environment, without smartphones or computers, the long summer holidays were spent outdoors. It usually involved playing football at the local playground, where all the children from the village would gather for a game that lasted until twilight turned into darkness and you could barely see the ball or your friends on the pitch. The final set of what seemed like endless games of ping pong at the camping site in France was similarly forced upon us by dusk, and plans were always enthusiastically made for the next day. In my memories these evenings were warm, a pleasant warm summer night, that would allow you to run around in shorts and still be comfortable. Whenever you were sent to bed by your parents it always felt too early, cause it had only just gotten dark? The lengthened exposure to daylight over the summer holidays only magnified the endless energy you seem to have as a child and the summer holidays seemed to last forever. No worries, no responsibilities, and the blissful ignorance of what those words really mean.

Last Tuesday was a bit like that. One of the lads with whom I usually play on Saturdays had the brilliant thought of making the most of these long summer evenings by organising a weekday kick-around as well. The venue was Fairview Park, as usual, and the scene was very reminiscent of those old days when you were playing football with your friends. The sultry summer evening that is really not that typical for Dublin and the blend of South American and Mediterranean accents on the pitch made for a scene that could have been anywhere in the world. But no, this really is Ireland, it is summer in Dublin with already three weeks of very pleasant weather in a row. It is almost as if it will never end. But like back in the days, when the beginning of a new year of school was looming in the distance, I know that sooner or later this spell of good weather will be swallowed up by some incessant downpour. Better enjoy it now that we have the chance, I can’t wait for the next game. 

Land of Blood and Honey

Which is what the Turks supposedly call the Balkans. I don’t know if it’s true, but it does make for a cool blog post title. Bar two separate trips to two of the Balkans’ biggest cities (Belgrade in 2006 and Zagreb in 2012), the area was rather unknown to me. Emphasise the past tense, as I embarked on a 10-day journey to Albania two weeks ago. Now a massive red flag with a two-headed black eagle (once the banner of Skanderbeg’s house and now Albania’s national flag) adorns a wall in my bedroom, and I listen to Albanian music while writing this blog post. Albania, you have been wonderful. I’ll be back.

The journey basically consisted of two separate legs. During the first five days it was worn and sun-bleached shorts, t-shirts that had started to disintegrate a good while ago and would receive disapproving looks from slum dwellers, and either flip flops or hiking boots (depending on the activity). I found myself on the top of the towering Accursed Mountains, trekking through valleys, on the roof of a boat crossing lakes, and sleeping in dorm rooms. The deceiving sensation of complete liberty made me forget about life in an office for a while, which makes the blow of reality upon homecoming all the harder. The second leg was of a more urban nature, and featured sipping cocktails, shopping for clothes (sort of a necessity as my attire made me feel uncomfortable anywhere close to civilisation), and dining out, all in very privileged company. Curious? Well, there we go. A 10-day deep dive of Albanian food, nature, and people.

The start of the journey was slightly ominous, as I was still finding splinters of glass in my clothes and hair that evening when undressing for a night’s sleep in one of Munich’s less eccentric airport hotels. On the way to Dublin’s airport, our bus, which was already half an hour late, got further delayed as some north-side hooligan decided to throw a stone through one of the windows. Luckily nobody got hurt, but the extra delay was not welcome at all. Well, from then it got only better. I did make my flight to Munich that night and after a 12-hour stopover boarded the plane to Tirana the next morning. The adventure had begun.

My first impression of Albanian people was positive and would only be reaffirmed over the next ten days (bar a few modest exceptions). The taxi drivers touting for clients outside the airport’s gates were polite and didn’t press when told thanks but no thanks. The one with whom I eventually agreed on a price agreed to drop me off at a bus to Skoder, as that was where I had a dorm bed booked for the night. Please note the ‘a bus’ as there’s no designated bus terminals in Albania and you pretty much rely on locals’  knowledge of where what bus departs from. Well, there’s an agreement that could cause friction in many ways. Traveling in the likes of India and Morocco an ‘unexpected’ event would invariably occur, likely a quarrel about the previously agreed price because of some i) road works, ii) unmentioned taxes, iii) extra levy for the bag, iv) you name it. Your man might pretend not to have change or he would drop you off at the hotel of a cousin (‘I need to get on the bus, not to a hotel’). Experiences as such have made me a cautious and somewhat cynical traveller when venturing off to unknown and faraway lands. Well, that quickly vanished in Albania. After consulting some men hanging around a café, the taxi driver dropped me off at the corner of the street, whereafter one of the blokes walked me to the white minibus waiting to be filled up. No quarrel about the price. The man who helped me get to the bus nodded his goodbyes after making sure I got my seat, and I paid the same price as my Albanian co-passengers. Throughout my entire journey I found Albanian people helpful, kind, and honest. From that first experience I shook off the guarded cynicism that is required in some countries, retained a healthy dose of common sense, and entered Skoder with an open mind. Hello Albania. Welcome Tony.

Traveling by bus in foreign destinations, or even better, by train, is one of my favourite pastimes. It is like watching a movie; constantly changing scenery, accompanied by matching sounds and scents, make for an experience that tickles all the senses. Gazing out of the window of the minibus I saw the outskirts of Tirana slowly give way to green rolling hills, dotted with detached and multi-storeyed houses. Another positive surprise. Albania appeared a lot more developed than I had expected. Big houses on green plots of land, with fruit trees and cattle around, suggested a pleasant lifestyle for those who lived there. As Erio told me later that day, this is at least partially a façade. ‘What good is a big house if you can’t even afford the electricity for it?’ And I did recognise his observation that many of them had not been finished (yet), with the ground floor for instance being inhabited while the first floor still required completion. As an Albanian who had, until recently, lived for 15 years in Italy and Sweden, Erio was sceptical of the perceived progress his country had booked in the meantime. He complained about poor governance, corruption and nepotism. Over a refreshing soda we had a refreshing discussion on Albanian politics. And however much I value the insights he shared with me, I can’t help but being positively impressed with what I saw during my trip. Especially with Albanians. Cause how did I end up having a drink with Erio? Because he asked me. He saw me in the streets taking pictures, recognised me from the bus journey, and invited me to have a drink with him. First day in Albania. Wow. If this is the precedent of what’s to come, lucky me. It was.

Upon arrival in the ‘Mi casa e tu casa’ hostel I was welcomed by Drini in what I came to appreciate as an, ehm, very, well, characteristic way. ‘What do you want?’ Well. ‘I booked a room.’ Mutual observing. ‘Ok come here’. Pours me a shot of raki. ‘Drink. Well done. Welcome.’ The hostel turned out to be a very pleasant place to be. The main lounge had comfy sofas, a bar with bar stools, a table tennis table, a hammock, loads of cats, the occasional dog, art + artists… all that you need and more. The evening was spent at that very bar, drinking raki and beer with amongst others Josh from the States and Ben from France, who made us a very tasty pie with pancakes for dessert. Whereas at the time my appreciation for raki was still limited to it being ‘Albanian’, ‘traditional’ and ‘alcoholic’, I admit that from the next morning onwards I added ‘no hangover’ to a list of plusses that would grow up and till my last day in Albania when I searched in vain for bottles to take home. Bad luck, nearly all Albanian raki is home-distilled. Not commercialised. Everybody drinks it, everybody makes it at home. I love it, even though it does prevent me from taking it with me.

Hangover-free I was collected from the hostel at 6 in the morning (Albanians are indeed early risers!) for a ride to lake Komani. The loop that the area is famous for is from Skhoder to Komani, Fierze, Valbona, Theth and ultimately back to Skhoder (lest it wouldn’t be a loop). The cool thing about the whole journey is that it cannot be completed by car; from Komani to Fierze you have to go by boat and in between Valbona and Theth a massive mountain range without tunnels makes hiking (or flying) the only way to complete the whole thing. The 6 o’clock pick-up could have been 7 or 8 as well in order to make it to the 9 o’clock ferry (which actually left at half 9 at the earliest) if it hadn’t been for the driver stopping in every village so he could chat with locals, load and unload some baggage and drink coffee. While slightly resenting the whole procedure (I would have loved an hour or more in my bed), the scene in the village was amusing enough to witness. It slightly reminded me of India; locals who would get up at the most impossible hour, only to hang out in the main street of their village, chatting with their neighbours, and scrubbing the floor of their shops that don’t need scrubbing. Why get up so early if you have nothing useful to do anyway? Eventually the ‘dieci minuti’ had passed (it was more like 45 minutes) and off we went, with some extra passengers on board, across the first serious mountains, to lake Komani.

‘One of the world’s great boat trips’ is how the 3 hour journey is advertised. Well, I don’t disagree, although I haven’t been on too many mind blowing boat rides so I mightn’t be the one to make this comparison. What it did remind me of is the 3 day (!) boat ride over the Yangtze (?) river in China, through the so called ‘three gorges’. Mountains rising from both sides of the river, sometimes narrow, sometimes broader, with the prettiest scenery and a multifold of green colours overlapping after every turn, make for a very enjoyable journey. While waiting for the boat I struck up a conversation with Jen and Mike, from the USA and Brazil respectively, who were on a slightly longer journey than I was (a year). Albania appeared a suitable travel destination to make new backpacker friends not long after you said your goodbyes to your old ones, and I stuck with my new friends until they left Valbona the day after. After being amazed by the scenery for about half an hour on the back of the boat, I got the ingenious idea to follow some Czech youths up to the roof for an even more spectacular 360 view of the natural bounties around us. With my backpack propped up behind me, the brilliant sun shining down on me, while chewing on the ‘nuts for snack’ that Jen had brought along, we slowly drifted to Fierze. What a way to travel.

A few km before Fierze the drifting came to a halt however and we were dropped off at some random docking point next to a dusty road. All the Albanians on the boat had apparently arranged for transport, which left us gazing around for a way to get out of there. Luckily a tour operator full of tourists from the capital had a few empty seats in his minibus which he offered to us ‘at a price that you deem fair’. Cool! ‘I don’t do this for myself, nor for you.. I do this for Albania’. I like it. Some consciousness about creating a positive image for travellers! With less legroom than on the average South American bus we set off towards Valbona, where it took us a while to find the guesthouse with whom I had arranged for two nights’ stay. Tasty home cooked dinners, fresh fish, freshly baked bread, locally sourced ingredients and imported Kosovan beer made for a splendid combination which left me well-nourished during my stay in the valley. After two days I was more than ready to move on however, especially with the prospects of getting to cross the mighty mountain range that separated us from Theth. Along with being on foreign public transport, hiking, and especially hiking uphill, is really one of my favourite activities. Especially in an area as stunning as the Accursed Mountains.

‘What about the pass between here and Theth?’

‘Full of snow’

‘Really’

‘Yes. Apparently there’s a shortcut. But I haven’t been there yet this year’

‘Ok. Let’s take a guide’

The guide turned out to be a teenage boy who hadn’t been to the pass yet either that year. Luckily I found two Polish travellers, Agnieszka and Pawel, willing to share the costs of the guide for the journey uphill, to get us past the snowy bits. Eventually there wasn’t too much snow around, but some expertise in crossing the nasty bits was very welcome, as a wrong step could be fatal. So the boy did come in handy.

In Theth we found a pleasant home stay with a local boy named Vincent and his mother, at whose house we ate and slept that night. When dusk slowly set in, and rain and thunder engulfed the valley, I sat on the balcony next to Agnieszka and Pawel, mesmerised by the spectacle in front of us. After dinner and some raki (I still didn’t really like it) I decided to call it a day as the following morning would feature another early wake up. Vincent’s confusing references as per whether there would be a bus going to Skoder and if so at what time left me eager to go out early and find out for myself, as my schedule wouldn’t allow for another night in Theth, however lovely the scenery. Eventually I secured a ride with some bloke in a 4-wheel-drive, which wasn’t a luxury given the state of the road leading out of Theth. Definitely worth the tenner I paid for that, and I did feel pity for the people in the back of the ramshackle old minibus that passed us on the way (so there was a bus!).

Back in Skhoder I immediately headed for the hostel I had stayed in the first night, where I was welcomed warmly by the staff who had evidently not forgotten about me. It felt a little like homecoming, to be returning to a cosy and warm place with happy memories after a few days out in the mountains. I had just about managed to put all my dirty clothes in the washing machine when Margareth from Canada introduced herself and her friend Sara and invited me for a bike ride along lake Skhoder. Apart from these two ladies our company comprised two Norwegian lads and Drini, who accompanied us on his shiny red Vespa while we peddled our ramshackle old bikes. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these bikes fell apart before we get there’. My words proved painfully accurate, as Margareth’s bike saw its chain snap and drop, not too far from our final destination. Well, those last 10 minutes could as well be covered on foot, and anyway the place was so beautiful it would have been worth crawling the whole way from our hostel. After about half an hour’s cycle along the shores of the lake, with beautiful vistas over the smooth blue water, mountains in the background and small fishermen’s boats dotting the lake, the paved road came to an end and a dusty track was all that remained. Carefully hidden from many a tourist’s eye but well known to locals, a concrete building just off the dusty trail was home to an old man who was frying freshly caught fish for hungry swimmers. Perfect. After an hour on the bike, in about 30 degrees Celcius, we were all longing for a dive in the lake that had been looking more and more appealing the further we cycled. The water was lovely, and from it the surrounding mountains looked even more spectacular. 

After a refreshing swim we sat down for lunch on the roof of the concrete building, enjoying the freshly grilled fish, the captivating views, and the nice people at our table. A big advantage to Albania is that it attracts a certain type of traveller, and most of the people I encountered had their own interesting stories and experiences. Mostly backpackers, with a yearning for traveling that I recognised all too well, I found myself in very pleasant company almost all the time. Apart from the guesthouse in Valbona, I didn’t come across the stereotyped German tourist in their late fifties, who travels by tour bus and walks around in mid-calf length trousers and sandals. Any sight of those is usually a cue for me to move on and explore somewhere further, as any such destination has obviously become too accessible and is in the process of falling victim to the disease of mass tourism. Well, fortunately very little of that in Albania. Hopefully for a good while to come.

Post-awesome-lunch my stay in Skhoder comprised cold beer in the city centre, ice cream from a remnant of the Soviet Union, super tasty dinner at Peja, a tour of the ‘small streets of Skhoder’ as Drini put it, and some drinks at ‘the Black Sheep’  to finish the night with. The next morning I resented the idea of leaving this lovely hostel and these lovely people with whom I had had such a nice time, but eventually I bade my farewells and took off in search of transport back to Tirana. ‘Where will I find a bus to take me to the capital?’ I asked Drini. ‘No need. Just walk to the roundabout with your backpack on your back. Don’t worry, the bus will find you. Sometimes I find myself on a bus to Tirana even when I don’t want to.’ Ok, that sounds easy. It was. Ready for another movie.

And that was the first leg of my journey. The second leg was all about Marisa and our mini-Erasmus ’06 reunion, after three years (!) of not having seen one another. Some things change, others never do. Our tendency to constantly encounter funny moments that ask to be written down in a quote seems to have only increased over the past nine years. Instead of attempting to catch the spirit of our travels in blossoming sentences I may therefore instead stick to the quotes, as they do a much better job of reviving the moments, even years after I read them. Quotes and pictures. Thanks for a lovely long weekend Marisa!

‘Where’s the pyramid??’

‘Imagine there’s a real pyramid just behind this one. With a sphinx next to it. Ohh here it is!’

‘This river looks more like a gutter.’

‘I don’t want to go there.’ (pause) ‘No.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We just hang out here until they approach us with a decent offer.’

Marisa: ‘I’ve done zero research.’

Later on…

Tony: ‘Ok imagine this is Albania (waves vaguely in mid-air) and this is Tirana (point somewhere on the ‘map’)’

Marisa: ‘Ok..’

Tony: ‘What city is this?’ (points somewhere west of Tirana)

Marisa: ‘Durres.’

‘There’s coffee everywhere.’

Being amazed by animal farm:

‘Where are you from?’

‘Holland.’

‘Amsterdam?’

‘No.’

‘Ok lady what is your target market. I don’t think you should aim for millennials.’

Hotel: ‘We only have twin rooms left’

Tony: ‘That’s alright’

(considering to elaborate on the situation)

‘Twins are fine’

(Upon arrival in Berati castle, sat down straight away at the first roof top restaurant, and had a two hour lunch with beer, wine and raki).

(After lunch) Tony: ‘Ok let’s go and explore the castle.’

Marisa: ‘What? Really. I thought we had already done that.’

Which resonated an earlier experience from six years ago:

<China 2009 revamp>

Marisa about the Forbidden City in Beijing: ‘I don’t want to see it, I just want to have been here.’

Luckily I have in the meantime learnt how to deal with this attitude…

Tony: ‘Ok let me give you a carrot. If we go and explore, we’ll come back here afterwards and have another raki.’

Marisa: ‘Ok.’

Which led us to a revamp of another old quote:

Tony: ‘Ok Stefan you lost the coin toss. You sleep in the 12 bed male dorm tonight.’ (Belgrade 2006)

‘Lead me!’

‘Do you mind if we… take?’

Waiter: ‘Ok do you want a raki for a girl, for a boy, or for both?’

Us: ‘both.’

Waiter: ‘Ok. For the girl I have this super sweet, nut based, smooth raki.’

(Tony thinking, I want that)

(Marisa thinking, I don’t want that)

Waiter continues: ‘And for the guy we have a mulberry raki.’ (smiles) ‘Strong.’

'Tonno'
'Yes...'
'Look a village'

'I remember this pace'

(counting back when we last saw each other)
Marisa: 'So that was Berlin, Copenhagen..'
Tony: 'I'm sure you're going to forget one (thinking of the random Schiphol 2-hour coffee meeting)'
Marisa: 'Copenhagen... and then Paris! (forgetting about India and China)'