Forget Spain and France, your next touring trip should be in Albania

As I battled along brambly footpaths and unmade suburban roads, chased out of Tirana by street dogs, I had my doubts about this trip. I’d arrived with the sinking realisation that I’d forgotten to pack my multitool and had to scour Tirana’s bike shops to find one, and then my route failed to download on my Garmin. It was early afternoon before I’d picked up the right road and found a cafe with a satisfying view back to the capital. When the waiter said my proposed route to Elbasan was “not possible”, I panicked, only to realise he just meant it would be easier on a motorbike. The road would turn out to be not only possible but quiet, smooth and scenic. The only hazard was crossing tortoises, varying in size from half-walnut to half-football.

Since retiring from work in 2021, I’ve ridden across Scotland, Spain and France. For my next trip, I wanted to explore further afield. Stumbling upon a UNESCO heritage route in southern Albania, I was intrigued, but all I knew about Albania was that it was a mountainous country in the Balkans, had a king called Zog and had been closed to the rest of the world from 1945-1990 under the communist regime of Enver Hoxha. As I began plotting my route, I was drawn in by the irresistible-looking Ohrid and Prespa lakes and the town of Ohrid in North Macedonia. Adjusting accordingly, I planned to start and finish in Tirana, riding 50- 100km per day over 17 days in June through south-eastern North Macedonia and southern Albania. On paper at least, it looked spectacular.

Between Elbasan and Lake Ohrid, my Garmin told me to leave the SH3 onto a concrete road, which descended steeply and crossed the River Shkumbin. It next wanted to send me up an unrideably steep track, so I ignored it and continued. I’m sure I’m not alone in an irrational reluctance to retrace my steps, even when it’s clearly the sensible thing to do. Convincing myself on the basis of nothing at all that the road must become rideable soon, I sweated and stumbled up the rock-strewn track under the hot sun.

After a few kilometres I reached a junction with a sign for Via Egnatia. Fantastic, I thought, the Romans knew how to build a road, it must get better now. Builtin the second century BC, linking Rome and Constantinople, the road may have been impressive back then, but now it was virtually unusable except by tortoises, lizards and snakes. A man appeared from a house with pity in his eyes. “Pogradec?” I said, gesturing vaguely towards Constantinople. He somewhat dubiously agreed and offered to fill my bidons. I was relieved to rejoin the smooth tarmac of the SH3 as it wound its way eastwards through hills to Lake Ohrid.

On the steep north-eastern shore of Lake Ohrid, I passed by idyllic spots for swimming, and arriving in Ohrid’s old town I found plentiful bars and restaurants along the narrow cobbled streets. Incredibly, Ohrid boasts as many churches as the year has days, though my tired legs were protesting after just three, the last being the 11th-century St. Sophia, which has been both a mosque, under Ottoman rule, and an Orthodox church.

Small-town largesse

The road from Lake Ohrid to Lake Prespa through the Galicica National Park was a delight, climbing 730m to 1,590m over 16km at a steady 5%. The forested ascent afforded occasional views to Lake Ohrid, and the road surface was excellent with almost no traffic. Above 1,400m, I was in cool misty rain, and there was nothing to indicate I’d reached the pass other than a swampy watershed and a cool breeze from the east. Finally descending, I emerged from the mist through trees towards the shores of Lake Prespa.

On the east side of the lake and at the edge of the Baba Mountains, my accommodation above the village of Brajčino was in a fabulous setting. Having settled in, I walked to a bar on the village square, where after one beer another appeared on the table. A man on the next table said: “The first you pay for, the second is on the house” – now that’s hospitality! I returned to a superb dinner of salads, roasted stuffed peppers and leek tart with “homemade” red wine, and was feeling a little woozy by the time I headed to bed. Despite the slight hangover, I didn’t mind at all being woken by a nightingale singing outside my bedroom window at 4am.