Another day with Mr G  playing rally driver, with me as his plucky navigator/side-kick. I think we’d have been better going old school with a paper map on the Albanian roads. The Tom-Tom (used because of data issues) was a big fan of sending us down, what can only be described as mountain paths, as short cuts. The miles ticked down with glacial slowness. The scenery was glorious, but Mr G was struggling to fully appreciate it as he fought to keep us alive and on the road. 

We turned down one particularly wafer-thin road and came to a narrow wooden bridge across the river. Mr G thought we might be able to squeeze through the pillars if we took the wing mirrors in and breathed in. But the wooden slats looked rather rickety, the van’s carrying a little holiday weight, and I could envisage us crashing into the water below. Worried about taking an early bath, damaging the van and being sent to an Albanian jail for wanton destruction of a historic structure, we turned around.

Please excuse the poor picture. Weirdly, Mr G wasn’t fully engaged with the excellent photo op, he was too busy doing a 127 point turn while two elderly Albanian gentlemen shook their heads. Luckily, there was a bigger bridge just ten miles away. Unluckily, it involved going down a one-way road and then making an illegal turn across a dual carriageway. We made it, but it turns out we didn’t need to. On the ABC news site there was a picture of a truck easily negotiating the same bridge. Further evidence that we need to toughen up.

How hard can it be?

When we arrived at Camping Legjenda in the pretty Northern Albanian town of Shkoder, we treated the teal-mobile to a spa day. Meanwhile, Mr G collapsed by the pool with a cold beer reminding himself that we ARE having fun!

After negotiating the steep, rutted road along Cape Rodon, Mr G was ready to lie down in a darkened van. There are no campsites in the area, but wild camping is legal in Albania, so we spent our very first night off the grid. We felt like we were in the middle of nowhere, but there was still a fair bit of passing traffic waving and tooting to a couple of mad Brits. 

We hiked down the cape to the fifteen century Rodoni Castle, which was part of an Illyrian settlement. I’m such an ignoramus, I had no idea that Illyria was a real place, I thought Shakespeare made it up in Twelfth Night. Turns out it was a real place on the Eastern Adriatic coast, and it’s so wild and otherworldly it seems a fitting setting for Shakespeare’s magical land. 

The Cape landscape really reminded me of Worm’s Head, on the Gower Peninsula, it was glorious.  Mr G was particularly taken by the, what he informs me are, machine-gun pillboxes and large gun emplacements, an indication of this area’s defensive importance much more recently than Medieval times.

Tony and a pillbox

There were a couple of scattered restaurants and, what looked like a very smart resort, but the single cafe that was open only served espressos and nothing else. It wasn’t clear whether it’s because we’re early in the season,  a result of Covid, or because our Albanian isn’t very fluent. Fortunately we had a van and plenty of food, drink and pioneering spirit. Well, enough for two or three days anyway!

Toilet talk

There’s a real danger that this is TMI, so please click off if you have a sensitive disposition. 

We’ve never been wild camping before because of the lack of on-board facilities in our van. We’ve hauled a porta-potti ( yes, it’s exactly what you think ) and a pop-up toilet tent all around the UK and Europe without ever using them. I’m just a little squeamish about the whole idea, and I’m in charge of campsite booking , ergo we’re always in campsites with convenient loos and showers. Until now. 

On this big adventure I was fairly relaxed about wild camping, because when I go on holiday my bowel does too. It takes sluggish to a whole new level, so surely I could wild camp for a couple of days. We have an outdoor shower, and the chances of me having to actually use the porta-potti were small, vanishingly small.  But OF COURSE, my toilet paranoia tickled my intestines up nicely. They haven’t been so active since I was waiting for A-level results ( mine and the kids’). Still squeamish, I walked/jogged/squirmed back and for to the single café to use their loo. I bought so many espressos that it’s a miracle I haven’t got a heart arrythmia. But, the good news is that the porta-potty is unsullied by me and I managed a record number of steps to and from the loo. It’s a win win!

Spot the porta-potti cunningly hidden under a grey Dunelm cube

It was a quick hop across the border from North Macedonia to Albania. No more than an hour in total, lovely border guards, and only €50 for car insurance. Kerrching! Obviously the Albanian insurance officer didn’t realise he could charge whatever he wanted and pocket the difference. Do they not have a border insurance Whatsapp group?

At the risk of droning on about the beautiful Balkan landscapes, Albania is genuinely stunning. Wooded hills, clear, teal rivers and sunshine coloured villages. As we drove further south the temperature soared, reaching a heady 28.5 C. Any moment now Mr G will have to eschew his puffer and beanie and I’ll have to up the Oestrogel and turn on our new USB charged van fan (turquoise, of course). 

We could only put one name on the insurance documents-and I’m so relieved I want to go back and give that insurance officer a big hug. The Albanian roads are chaotic. There don’t seem to be any rules, any traffic lights or any road markings. Seriously, even at major junctions everyone just goes when they feel like it. If I’d been driving, I’d still be dithering in the middle of a crossroads on the ring road around Tirana. As it was, Mr G, just went for it and I just yelped and held onto my seat. It’s no wonder the satnav allowed 4 hours to cover 72 miles.

Off the main roads it’s even worse. Can I recommend taking a 4 x 4 or a Sherman tank if you’re planning a road-trip to Albania? There were deep potholes, many unpaved routes and areas where the side of the road had just collapsed leaving perilously long drops down the mountain. The van and Mr G huffed and puffed their ways along, while I tried to find a restaurant to refuel and restore Mr G’s equilibrium. 

With my unerring poshometer, I managed to navigate to a beach bar that was more Marbs than Albs. HK@Valamar was all cocktails and cabanas- it’s clear that with Albania’s beautiful coastline, great hospitality and bargain prices, it’s set to be the next holiday hotspot. I’m not going to lie, we were very tempted to stay. But we were planning a more rough and rustic few days, so we had a delicious meal then headed to the Cape of Rodon, a little-known area which had been recommended by Rino in Ohrid. Reader, we are going off grid with a spot of wild camping. No loo. No electric. Nothing, just me and Mr G. If that all sounds a bit Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining to you, then watch this space!

Still smiling at the moment!!!

We had a totally chilled few days on Lake Ohrid, it was blissful. We met some other Brits in a campervan- the first we’ve come across on our journey. We can officially confirm that we are travelling LIGHTWEIGHTS compared to David and Christina. They’ve been in their van for over six months and travelled as far as Azerbaijan, over winter, with snow drifting to their waists. Makes a bit of drizzle, a chilly wind and a forgotten V5C seem rather pedestrian!

We had a lovely day exploring the town of Ohrid. It was picture-postcard pretty, reminding us both of old Italian towns. We ate a traditional charcuterie and cheese platter in the shadow of the Fort of Tsar Samuel, admiring the view across the lake to Albania, our next destination. Our campsite host, Rino, suggested a couple of places to visit in Albania and we’re going to follow his advice. Next stop the Cape of Rodon.

Campsite comment:

Camping Rino was right on the side of the lake, our closest neighbours were a family of swans with four little cygnets. They adopted traditional gender roles, she busied herself with the babies while he swanned around looking manly and magnificent. It was mesmerising. 

The good bits: It was in a stunning location, very quiet but a beautiful 3km walk, on a  footpath, to restaurants and shops in the bustling resort town of Struga. The owner was an absolute star, we had free rocket fuel raiki when we arrived and fresh coffee every morning. The loos and showers were clean with plenty of hot water and they even dry and fold your laundry for you! You’ll no doubt be relieved to hear that there were no knicker disasters either. All this for €13- incredible.

The bad bits: None that I could identify, the only sad thing was that Rino had to sell his watersports equipment during the pandemic because of financial pressures. There were no paddle boards or kayaks available in the area. Even so, I’d really recommend this site. 

It was chilly by the lake when the sun went down!

We’re back in the van and back on the road, heading to North Macedonia. We treated it like a trip to Afghanistan, packing up the fridge, the petrol tank and our wallets like we’d never see civilisation again. 

Our major worry was sorting out van insurance. Our insurers and every other UK provider we tried won’t cover the non-EU Balkan states. In the end it was no problem at all. We were through passport control, customs and the insurance office in less than 20 minutes. We’d heard that there was a fairly flexible insurance pricing policy, with travellers at our Greek campsite paying anywhere between 50 and 160 Euros! There was no price stated on our insurance document, but at €60 we were relieved to come in at the lower end of the range. All the border guards were lovely, they seemed delighted that people wanted to visit their beautiful country. The only traumatic bit was the grim, hover-and-hope loos.

North Macedonia was very far from the tiger-country we’d envisaged. The villages and towns were pretty, bustling and well-maintained- it seemed much like the Greek side of the border. However, the roads were rutted, bumpy and we sometimes had to drive through the rubble and dust of active roadworks.  On the winding mountain roads, the random, blind overtaking was absolutely bloody terrifying.  It was a seven-hour journey to cover just 220 miles- but it was so worth the stress. Our campsite on Lake Ohrid is simply idyllic. We’ve already extended our stay by an extra night.

I decided to get ahead with the laundry before heading into the Balkans. More fool me! The campsite is wonderful, but the showers have only one temperature and it seems like the washing machines do too. I managed to melt most of my underwear in what I thought was a cool wash for delicates. As soon as I put anything on they just disintegrated. Literally fell apart. Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the photographic evidence, but believe me they are in tatters.

I’ve got a motley selection of odds and ends, one lovely set that was a mothers’ day pressie, and swimwear- and OF COURSE it didn’t happen in a city centre. We’re going to keep an eye out for a shopping centre on our way to Ohrid tomorrow and expect to see another unexpected below the (waist) line exceptional expense on the spreadsheet!

Luckily, I’m so relaxed on the beach that I managed to find it funny. Which, as Mr G will be happy to confirm, is frankly unprecedented.

Quick campsite comment:

We stayed at Ouzouni Beach Camping, a beautiful beachside campsite.

The good bits: The site is immaculate, the location is stunning and the showers and washrooms are clean and well appointed. There’s a well-stocked mini market that does great cappuccinos and fresh bread. It’s run by a lovely Englishwoman called Paula, who was relaxed and super-helpful. It cost 25 Euro a night, including electricity.

The bad bits: The only problems were the single temperature showers ( OK for me, not quite hot enough for Mr G) and the knicker- munching machines. Disclaimer- user error cannot be discounted!

We drove from Turkey to Greece on impeccable, empty roads. It really was effortless, particularly for me, lounging in the passenger seat giving the odd bit of driving advice. We were heading for the Halkidiki Peninsula. En-route, we stopped overnight in a municipal campsite in Alexandroupoli. It was very municipally campsite-ish- there was a gruff Greek woman on reception, the loos were a bit grim and they don’t turn on the water supply until June! It was, however, in a pretty beachside location and it was a good place to rest and recharge before heading on. Back on the road, we wound our way along the stunning coastline, past Greece’s second city Thessaloniki, and through rolling hills and olive groves to Ouzouni beach. 

Ouzouni Camping ticked every requirement on my list. The sun was shining, the sea was turquoise, the beach was deserted and our pitch was right on the seaside. We’ve had barbecues around a fire pit looking at the sunset. Heaven. 

We were a few kilometres down the coast from the pretty fishing village of Potidea with a  marina, a clutch of tavernas and more dolphins frolicking in the sea. My mum messaged me with her condolences about having to put up with Greek food. On sailing holidays 35 years ago, I remember the food being a little dodgy- but things have definitely changed. We had excellent seafood and Greek rose at a very reasonable price. 

We’ve planned three nights here, but Mr G suggested that we just stay for four weeks then hammer it home over a few days! But that would be a cop out. So, tomorrow we’re heading to Lake Ohrid in North Macedonia. Because it’s out of the EU, we have to buy car insurance on the border. It all worked perfectly in Turkey but we’re staying paranoid and planning detours if we can’t get through.

After making it to Istanbul, it’s time to turn around and head back to Blighty. It’s a long road home. We’re not yet halfway through our travels-our return journey is 40 days, and the route’s a little sketchy at the moment. There are so many places and so little time. On our James-Bond-villain-style map there are little blue push pins (marking potential return stops) scattered far and wide.  Greece, Albania, North Macedonia, Kosovo, Montenegro, Bosnia, Croatia, Slovenia, Italy, France and Northern Spain, everything’s up for grabs. However, some of the non-EU countries have dodgy roads and we’ll need to buy insurance on the border because UK insurers won’t cover them. Looking forward to a bit more border trauma, it’s a loooong detour if we’re not allowed through.

We’re a little citied out after route-marching our way through so many capitals and significant cities in northern, central and eastern Europe. On the way back, we plan to see more beaches, lakes, mountains and smaller cities and towns. But where? 

We’ve got our heads deep in travel guides, blogs and Google maps to try and make decisions. The only fixed spots are Lake Como for our 30^th wedding anniversary on May 30^th and Santander on June 12^th for the long ferry back to Portsmouth. 

Neither me nor Mr G has visited Greece for more than thirty years, back then it was Drachmas, beautiful beaches and cheap tavernas serving wine that stripped the enamel off your teeth. Our first stop on the way back will be beachside camping in Greece, hoping for something like Mamma Mia but without Piers Brosnan singing. 

If you’re reading this and can recommend some Balkan, or other southern European highlights ( or can warn us of some lowlights) please comment. Any advice is very welcome!

Our #IceColdinIstanbul was, as John Mills said in ‘Ice Cold in Alex’, worth waiting for.

We were in Turkey for the weekend of Eid, so the city was frantically busy, particularly in the evenings. Our hotel on the banks of the Bosphorus was an oasis of calm after the hustle, bustle, mosques and bazaars. Me and Mr G barely had a breakfast conversation because we were hypnotised by the flowing water and the birds and porpoises cavorting on the strait. Nothing to do with spending 30 days in close confinement. Absolutely nothing!

The only challenge with the hotel was trying to get back there at the end of the day. Public transport was impossible, the right ferry stop was a long way away, and getting an Uber or taxi was a bit like trying to get a cab to go south of the river in London in the eighties. Mr G recalls hailing a black cab in South Ken to be told ‘Battersea- I’m not going to that sh*thole!’ The central Istanbul cabbies definitely didn’t want to go to the Asian side of the city. But we made it, with judicious use of bribery cash incentives.

The Basilica Cistern was one of the sights I was particularly keen to visit, after seeing the stunning location in films like Inferno and Spectre. I was gutted to find it closed for renovations and we retired to a nearby restaurant to lick our wounds. We couldn’t believe it when we were whisked through a curtain into the most extraordinary subterranean space. The Sarnic, which we chose at random, was in a 1500 year old cistern. It wasn’t on the scale of the Basilica Cistern- but it was a fabulous consolation prize.

In the end, the Turkish border was a breeze. We were through in less than an hour, with very little drama-which doesn’t make for a funny blog, but them’s the knocks. The border guards hadn’t got the memo that they were meant to be surly and intimidating. They laughed, joked and seemed to enjoy their jobs enormously. One called me Queen Elizabeth, another took one look at our densely packed boot and cupboards and decided we didn’t need to go to X-ray. Phew. Our V5C was carefully inspected at least five times, which gave us a warm glow and made the race to get it worthwhile. Mr G managed to sort out van insurance and a Turkish toll vignette close to the border, and we were off.

Our hotel is on the Asian side of Istanbul, on the edge of the Bosphorus. It’s a bit of a way into the city, but it meant we didn’t have to negotiate the narrow, packed streets of central Istanbul. On the drive in we skirted the city, and parked up in front of the elegant Ottoman era building without shouting at each other, tooting the horn, crashing or crying. 

We made it. 2985 miles, ten countries, 16 stops and one errant V5C later we arrived in Istanbul. We’ll definitely enjoy an #Icecoldinistanbul tonight.