Tirana — The home of reckless driving. There are no rules, just get your car from A to B. It feels as though you’re cycling through traffic that’s inches away from being a destruction derby, with most cars bearing the scars from previous battles. Overzealous use of hazard lights, beeping horns and lack of awareness is commonplace in this free-for-all. I found this out first hand, as one guy stopped in the middle of the road and reversed right into me. In Tirana, cyclists are invisible.

I waved goodbye to William and Lara in Tirana, they were heading inland and I was heading south, then towards the coast. It was great riding with them, they were perfect compadres, and they had just enough sense of adventure to get us into some entertaining scrapes. I hope it’s not the last time I get to ride with them, and I hope they have a cracking trip down to Athens.

It’s worth mentioning at this point my Panaracer RIBMOs were looking pretty tired, and every bike shop I find seems to cater for 4-8 year olds, clearly cycling isn’t a pastime for adults in the part of Europe. This may turn into a long running saga.

Out of Tirana and heading south, straight up some huge mountains in hot heat. Knackering. Halfway up I took a siesta to be woken up by the squealing brakes of a guy called Mark from Bristol. He’d flown out to South East Asia and cycled back, partly with a friend, living proof that all this is possible. We chatted for about an hour and gave each other tips on what’s ahead, leaving me with the golden tip of ‘learn some fucking mandarin, it will make your life so much easier’, duly noted.

The first bit of Albania that looked nice

The peak of the mountains was the first time I’d seen anything remotely nice in Albania, amazing views, and it was quiet, for the first time in days. It didn’t take too long for Albania to confuse me again; at the top of the mountains, was a woman, laid on the road sleeping, she was fine, she lifted her head and waved, but for some unknown reason, she’d decided to have forty winks up there. Fair enough.

There were some awesome switchbacks on the way down, but I was about 30km short of Berat, my target, before the sun went down and it was clear I was heading through some shit villages and dirt roads. I decided to ask a farmer sat in his field with his son if I could pitch on his land. After five minutes of charades he lead me to a half built house (there are loads of these, apparently you get taxed on complete houses, so people build them and stop short of finishing) where he told me I could stay — perfect.

My lodgings for the night. I’ll take it.

The view from the window

Doors cost extra.

That’s until he goes home and tells his family he’s got an English bloke in the half built house and his little shit of a kid and his mates spend the next few hours shouting and flashing lights through the window. I drew the line when they chucked a rock in, got up and shouted at them to piss off. The appearance of a half naked, sweaty, bearded Englishman was enough to get them to scarper.

Back to Albanian flatland for a while to Berat, where things seemed relatively normal. I asked a bloke about the best route south.

“You cannot ride south” pointing to my tyres

“Your wheels are too small, it is dirt road”

Duly noted, figuring he meant my tyres are too thin, and not that I’m riding a kid’s bike I headed west to Fier, then south to Vlore on a relatively flat, hot, industrial ride.

By this point I thought I’d got used to 40 degree heat, day in, day out. The problem is, when you’re riding you have some wind that cools down the sweat, when you stop, there’s no wind and you sweat. A lot. Which means you get back on the bike to catch the wind to cool you down, and so the cycle continues, until you’re truly knackered. Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, by the time I got to Vlore, checked into a hostel run by a bloke who sounded like Robin Williams doing a voice, I figured out I had heat exhaustion. At first I’d put down the tight stomach to dodgy Albanian water. Now I had headaches, aching muscles, dizziness and confusion. I figured I’d get a cold shower, reached for the light.

Ouch.

It took a couple of seconds to realise I’d jammed my fingers into the plug socket. I blame this on ridiculous Albanian wiring, I mean, who puts an open plug socket in a bathroom, where the light switch should be? The light switch was outside. Zero logic. Zero common sense. I’ve given up trying to understand things in Albania.

I’ll focus on the good things in Albania — the mountains. People say it’s the coast, it’s not. It’s the mountains. The coast seems good because you get to look away from the shit, busy town you’re stuck in. Anyway, Mount Çika in particular. It’s a beast, especially when you’ve been withered by heat exhaustion. 1500 metres of climbing, all undone by half an hour of switchbacks, followed by a puncture (I need new tyres) just before I got to Shkolla, in Vuno, a nice chilled hostel where I could pitch up for the night.

When you can’t see the top…

It’s going to rain, or thunder. I hid in some blokes shack, he wasn’t happy.

It cleared up quicker than I could reach the top though.

Starting the switchbacks

It took half an hour to get down.

The ride to Sarande included some rolling cliff side hills and canyons. Nice stuff. Unfortunately I didn’t feel up to taking many pictures, most of them were covered in burning rubbish. I also saw three donkeys on separate occasions hopping up the road with their legs tied together. Again, fine examples of Albanian logic.

Seaside ride to Vuno

I ran into some cycle tourers heading the other way, a Spanish couple on a tandem (I doubt they’ll be a couple after Mount Çika), and the snappily named ‘Bosnian Adriatic by Bike Team’. We shared a watermelon, talked bike, and then I warned them about the mountain before setting off. They were good lads those Bosnians, apparently they met up with Alex Duaurin a couple of days later, it’s a small, cycle-touring world.

Sarande isn’t like any other Albanian City. It’s chilled out. Clean. Relatively relaxed. There’s a fair bit of money there too (a lot of it is apparently drug money though).

I was talking to a bloke about a hostel when I noticed a bearded guy, on a loaded bike, waving at me. Five minutes later, I’ve met Paul Ferguson (visit www.paulferguson.com for a witty, articulate, and more commonly updated blog with stats and maps and everything), a cycle tourer who tricked himself into riding to Paris, then further, met the love of his life, who’s visa ran out, and now he’s cycling about with a vague idea of hitting the Silk Road. We spent the night drinking beer and talking bike whilst I tried to convince him the Silk Road is definitely a good idea.

That’s about it for Albania. I wasn’t convinced in all honesty, it could be great, but it’s mostly shit. I think I narrowed down their favourite three pastimes though —

1. Fly tipping in beautiful places

2. Watering the road

3. Beeping at cyclists

Weird bastards.

Still holding up. For now…