What happens when you walk alone in mountains ?
Trip to Greece and South Albania – Chapter 3
I retraced my way back down to the plain where the city is located, and after a few minutes, I arrived at the small village of Drenovë, nestled on the slopes of the mountains (https://maps.app.goo.gl/AtUp1d3dwt2WfhvM6).
I parked in the center of the village, which is tucked beneath the side of a mountain whose summit boasts a large cross accompanied by a tiny church.
After a brief conversation with one of the locals in a house—he greeted me warmly and showed me the way—I began a steep climb upward. Luckily, it wasn’t long, and after a few labored breaths on the ascent, I reached the cross and the church, with the view of the plain and city sprawling below. There, I met Ardit, an Albanian who lives in the city. He decided to climb up to the church and ring the bells, their sound carrying far away. Like many Albanians, he smokes (in fact, he lit a cigarette during the break he took while climbing to the top) and already had a noticeable little potbelly.
If there’s one topic I dare to gently bring up and share my worldwide knowledge about, it’s the hazards of cigarette smoking—and the importance of sports. Here I had someone to speak with because Ardit understood exactly what I meant and agreed with me. We decided that he would make this climb once a month and maybe—just maybe—cut down on his cigarette consumption. Beyond that, we talked about Israel and the ailing Albanian economy, and perhaps—just perhaps—I might even manage to get him a job in Israel with a salary that would be unimaginable in Albania. After about twenty minutes of conversation, I said goodbye to him and continued along the trail that circumnavigated the mountaintop.
A little snow began to fall, and I welcomed the opportunity to move and warm up. The trail—which had been exposed to cold winds that, along with the falling snow, made the walk more difficult—soon entered a grove of trees that sheltered me from these harsh conditions, allowing a bit of warmth. Once the snow stopped and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and as the path started leading downhill, I could finally take off my gloves, and the walk along the wide, comfortable trail became easier. The route wove into a forest and emerged from it; aside from two occasions when I had to detour slightly around patches of heavy mud, the rest of the way was quite pleasant.
After about an hour of descent, I reached a rusty, abandoned factory that had clearly been in that state for many years. The only sign of life there was a few cats that roamed the area, adding a touch of vitality to the prevailing stillness.
From there, the road merged with a river that flowed to the left, running alongside it. The shimmering water provided the only sound to accompany me along the entire way. Occasionally, louder murmurs of rushing water emerged as charming waterfalls formed in several spots along the river’s course. Naked, bare trees—standing upright and straight—occasionally lined the path, especially abundant along the banks of rivers and streams.
Near the end of the route back to the village, a tiny church appeared atop a hill on the opposite side of the river. In just a few more minutes, I was back in the village, delighted to enjoy a hot drink in the village square. In the café, several local residents—mostly older gentlemen—sat and were happy to help me with a question I had.
After warming up by the wood stove in the café, I gladly returned to the city and my hotel. Following a rest and lunch (it was nearly evening by then), I went to sleep, tired yet completely satisfied.
The next day, I had only a limited amount of time in Albania—by that evening I was already due to return to Thessaloniki, more than 250 kilometers to the east. In the morning, I set off northwest to visit the beautiful mountain settlement of Voskopojë—an ancient village that once served as a cultural and trading center for the Balkan Aromanians and where, about 300 years ago, they established the Ottoman Empire’s first printing house. The village’s cobbled streets allowed for a short walk during which one could admire ancient buildings and lovely houses, surrounded by green forests and a small stream trickling at its edge.
After a brief stroll through streets that were nearly empty apart from a number of construction workers busy renovating or building both old and new structures, I entered a café filled exclusively with local men. The small space was thick with cigarette smoke; rock music blared at high volume on a generic TV channel, while groups of men played cards. When I stepped in, everyone suddenly fell silent at the sight of the unfamiliar visitor. I ordered a cup of hot chocolate to fend off the cold outside and ended up sharing a table with an older man because no other tables were available.
Soon after, I set off toward the Greek border—only after buying one last spinach bourekas in Albania and an Ayran drink, both of which turned out to be quite unsuccessful. The border crossing was fairly quick, and I found myself once again navigating winding, deserted roads that cut through bare forests, alongside flowing streams and mountains. The fresh and pleasant memory of the village Agios Achillios made me stop on the way back home for a few more moments of tranquility.
From there, the road home, like water flowing from tiny streams that join to form one large, wide river, led from winding, narrow country roads onto the broad, busy, and fast A2 highway heading east to Thessaloniki. I arrived after nightfall, brimming with experiences waiting to be recorded on paper.