Trogir and the Propitious Moment

I first visited Trogir in 1990. My recollection of this beautiful old town, as one of the most charming in Dalmatia, was confirmed by this return visit. Since 1997 it has been a UNESCO World Heritage site, although I could not help wondering at the placing of the word ‘UNESCO’ in neon lights above the entrances to the old town. Perhaps someone had misunderstood the point of that honour. Still, wandering the narrow streets and alleys of Trogir is as great a pleasure as in any town in Dalmatia.

Portal of the Church of St Lawrence, Trogir

The jewel of the town is the church of St Lawrence, on the main square in the old town, and especially its intricately carved portal by the 13th century master Radovan. I was especially struck by the carved figures holding up the portal on their backs, some of whom clearly appear to be in Muslim attire, complete with turbans. Trogir had been sacked by Saracens in the 12th century, and it seemed interesting that Radovan should have wished to represent such figures in his creation.

Trogir was founded as a Greek colony in the 3rd century BC. Early in the 20th century a relief of Kairos, the Greek god of the propitious moment, from the 3rd century BC, was discovered in the abandoned house of a local family. It depicts the god as a young man whose forelock must be grasped in order to catch the fleeting moment, or else it will fly away, never to be caught again. The poet Posidippos described how Kairos, in answer to a question about why the artist had created him, replied that he was a moral, to remind people. The relief and the story attached to it struck a chord with me, as it might with anyone who has ever missed an opportunity, and as a reminder to grasp opportunities that come our way.

Kairos, Trogir

There is another nice story attached to the Trogir Kairos. Before its significance was realised, the stone had apparently for some time been fitted into a barrel and used for pressing down salted fish. Nowadays it is housed in the Benedictine convent of St. Nicholas in Trogir. I had to see it. Finding that the convent museum was closed, it being out of the tourist season, I went to the evening Mass and afterwards asked one of the sisters if I could see the Kairos. She kindly opened the museum for me the following morning.

Travellers in Šibenik

In setting out on a journey through Dalmatia, revisiting many places I had been to before, as well as some I had not, I was inspired by a book by the excellent Sonia Wild Bićanić on past British travellers in the region (British Travellers in Dalmatia, 1757-1935, Faktura, Zaprešić, 2006). I envisaged myself following in the footsteps of such travellers as Robert Adam, A.A. Paton, J. Gardner Wilkinson and T.G. Jackson in the 18th and 19th centuries. The experience today, in the age of mass tourism, aeroplanes, buses and tourist offices is vastly different to what those earlier adventurers found. In the 1880s Jackson could write of Dalmatia as “a strange, mysterious and almost unknown shore.” Nowadays you can fly there with Easyjet.

Yet in Šibenik I could look at the same old streets as Jackson, still dominated by the marvellous cathedral of St James, which so inspired him. Jackson approached the city by sea, passing through the narrow channel into the elongated bay that leads to the city and the mouth of the Krka river. He described it as “an imposing mass of picturesque old houses piled up the mountainside, with the great white-domed cathedral in the middle.” I arrived overland, but the impression is much the same.

Cathedral of St James, Šibenik

The architecture of the cathedral is noteworthy, built entirely by blocks of stone, pre-carved before being lifted into place. Great interlocking stone slabs make up the roof on one side and the ceiling on the other. It was built in several stages in the 15th century, but the principal architect was Juraj Dalmatinac, who was born in nearby Zadar. In 2000, it was proclaimed a UNESCO World Heritage site. Jackson, a leading Oxford architect, was astounded, describing the cathedral as one of the wonders of Christendom, its architecture ‘original to the point of daring’, adding that ‘it would be difficult to match it in singularity of construction.’ The cathedral’s ornate baptistery, to one side of the main alter, is particularly fine. A notable and unusual feature is the depiction of God the Father on the ceiling above the baptismal font, as an old man with flowing long hair.

Also appealing are little touches of humour in the cathedral’s construction. Either side of the side entrance, giving on to the central town square, are touching statues of Adam and Eve, naked and sheepishly holding hands over their private parts, their faces pictures of embarrassment. Around the outside of the apse are sculptured portraits said to be of people known to Juraj Dalmatinac, some of them plainly caricatures.

Out of the tourist season, Šibenik was quiet, nearly deserted on the Saturday evening when I arrived. It came to life on Sunday, as people gathered on the square outside the cathedral, drinking coffee in the sunshine, spilling out of the cathedral following the morning Mass. Among the devotees attending the Mass was a group of men and women from Bosnia decked out in traditional dress, who performed traditional dances for the onlookers, the older men intoning haunting, wailing, almost howling chants.

Sunday lunch was at a restaurant overlooking the cathedral entrance, Pelegrini. A marvellous place, highly unusual in my experience of Dalmatian restaurants, its cooking displayed a sophistication, ambition and adventurousness I had not previously associated with the region. Seafood in Dalmatia can be very nice, so long as you are happy with a narrow repertoire of grilled fish, crustaceans, seafood pasta dishes and risottos. Nice, but safe and unexciting. And unfortunately not always very nice, with a surfeit of restaurants offering poor quality, over-cooked fare aimed principally at ripping off easily pleased tourists. But Pelegrini is so far above all that. I started with an aubergine soufflé, perfectly executed, light and delicious. I followed it with a mushroom risotto with truffles – yum. And their home-baked bread was exceptional.

Šibenik is a charming and rewarding town to walk around and explore, with beautiful views around almost every corner in its narrow streets and alleys, and intimate little squares. So many of the buildings feature wonderfully ornate stone doorways and windows, attesting to the wealth once enjoyed by the town’s notable residents. Little churches abound, most of them closed at this time of year. Among them is a small Orthodox Church, the centre of the Serbian Orthodox diocese. Serbs have clung on in Šibenik, despite ongoing resentment from the war in the 1990s, when Serb rebel forces controlled territory inland from the city.

The Krka waterfalls

Jackson travelled by boat up the River Krka, marvelling at the waterfalls. With none of the tourist boats operating in November, I travelled by bus, but the falls are still splendid, a series of cascades interspersed with blue-green pools, framed by the greens, reds, browns and yellows of autumnal trees. Nowadays there are wooden walkways enabling the visitor to stroll around the network of pools and falls. There is a cluster of stone buildings, given over to tourism today, although closed when I visited. In their day they housed mills, powered by the water flows. Gardner Wilkinson also travelled up the Krka, continuing to the Franciscan monastery of Visovac, and then on to the Orthodox monastery of Michael the Archangel.

Zadar post scriptum

Not long after my visit to Zadar (see journal posting of 18 November 2011), it was announced that the city was granting an award to Ante Gotovina, the Croatian general convicted of war crimes for his commanding role in Operation Storm, which in 1995 returned swathes of previously Serb-controlled territory to Croatia. The operation resulted in the murders of hundreds of Serb civilians, the flight of almost the entire Serb population, and the destruction of thousands of Serb properties with the intention of preventing their return.

A Zadar city councillor from the ruling Croatian Democratic Union (HDZ) expressed the view of most in Croatia when he said that Gotovina “defended the truth about himself and the Homeland War … with honesty, dignity and pride.” Opposition councillors abstained from the vote, one of them explaining that, while they considered Gotovina a hero, his name should not be used for political purposes.

Indeed, the move is probably connected with the coming parliamentary elections in Croatia. The HDZ faces an uphill struggle in the wake of corruption scandals that have seen its former leader and prime minister Ivo Sanader accused of bribe taking, and an economic crisis that has hit the country hard. The party, which ruled throughout the 1990s, under its founding leader Franjo Tudjman, has appealed once again to wartime patriotism, stressing the rights and dignity of veterans. It may be helped by the 20th anniversary of the fall of Vukovar in November 1991, an event still pregnant with emotion in Croatia. However, with some pointing the finger at Sanader for alleged war profiteering, the appeal to patriotism rings hollow for many Croatian voters. Fifteen years after the end of the war, some object to the power of the veterans lobby, suspecting that the numbers of its beneficiaries are in any case inflated.

Given the image that Zadar, so close to the emptied former Serb-controlled lands, has honed as a centre of virulent Croatian nationalism, it was not surprising that a decision to honour Gotovina came from there. But, whatever the merits of the case against Gotovina, or lack thereof, the move reflects the continuing failure of most in Croatia to face up to the fact that war crimes were also committed by Croats, and that many of their hallowed veterans were far from being heroes. The trial of Gotovina by the international war crimes tribunal for former Yugoslavia served mainly to burnish Gotovina’s reputation in Croatia, and if anything set back any proper accounting with the sins of the country’s recent past.

A visit to Nin

Nin is a tiny little town at the northernmost end of Dalmatia, close to Zadar. I visited on a bright, blustery autumn day, the town swept by the bura, the north wind that is such a relief in summer, blowing away clouds along with stiflingly humid, muggy weather, leaving everything clear and fresh. In winter it is cold and bracing, and at its strongest, on the coast roads, can be dangerous.

Nin had a key place in the early medieval history of Croatia, one of the oldest Croatian towns and the seat of early medieval rulers. It is a charming little place, a small island situated in a lagoon, reached by two 16th century bridges. But its historical place as the cradle of the Croat nation is much bigger than its physical size. At the entrance to the town is a statue depicting Prince Branimir, a ninth century ruler whose loyalty to Rome in its rivalry with the Byzantine Empire elicited letters from Pope John VIII in 879 referring to the Croatian people, the first recorded international acknowledgement of Croatia.

Gregory of Nin, Split

Another important figure in medieval Croatia, Bishop Gregory of Nin, is remembered for his defiance of Rome for, in the tenth century, defending the use of the Slavonic liturgy, in the Glagolitic script, rather than Latin, as insisted upon by Rome. An enormous statue of Gregory, by Ivan Meštrović, the most noted 20th century Croatian sculptor, stands just outside the walls of Diocletian’s palace in Split. It had originally been placed in the peristyle of the palace, but was moved by the Italian occupation authorities during the Second World War. A smaller replica of the statue stands in Nin.

Church of St Nicholas, Nin

Nin is also notable for some remarkable churches. In the town itself is the 9th century Church of the Holy Cross, known as the smallest cathedral in the world. Perhaps even more extraordinary is the tiny pre-Romanesque Church of St Nicholas, situated on a mound not far from the town. Popular tradition associates the church with the coronation of medieval Croatian kings. Especially incongruous looking are the battlements around the roof of the church. These were apparently added during the Turkish wars, to turn the church into a lookout point. As well as being at the centre of early medieval Croatian settlement, the site of Nin has an earlier pedigree, with Roman remains, including a fine mosaic floor.

A return to Zadar

My first ever visit to Dalmatia, in 1989, was to Zadar. Looking back, it seems a strange choice. I went on from there to Dubrovnik, but would not Split have been a more obvious starting point, if choices had to be made? But Zadar too is a remarkable town.

Dating back to Roman times, it was, under the Venetians, the administrative centre of Dalmatia, and the largest and most important town. Later, in the 19th century, it lost out to Split, which surpassed it in size and importance. Following the First World War, Zadar (Zara in Italian), with its Italian majority, was ceded to Italy, while the rest of Dalmatia, which had been part of Austria for the previous century, passed to the new Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, Yugoslavia. The city’s severest blow came during the Second World War, when it endured carpet bombing by the Allies in 1943-44. The town was devastated, 60 per cent of its building destroyed, and an estimated 1,000 of its inhabitants killed (Italians claimed a much higher figure). After the war, only the churches were renovated, while large swathes of the old town were rebuilt in modern style, medieval streets replaced by soulless blocks. Most of the Italian inhabitants fled, either from the bombs or from the Yugoslav Partisans who took control in 1944 and summarily murdered several leading Italian citizens.

The town has spread out since then, its population boosted by an influx of Croats and some Serbs from the hinterland. There is little sign of its previous Italian character. When I visited in 1989, I noted that the waiter at a seafood restaurant repeated my order to himself, and counted out the bill, in Italian. But that was about it.

Church of St Donat, Zadar

The most striking feature of the town is the extraordinary church of St Donat. A ninth-century, pre-Romanesque edifice, it is quite unlike any of the later, more familiar styles of church architecture. An enormous rotunda, with three apses on one side, it looks like an enormous drum. On the inside, it has a gallery, held up by arches and, in front of the apses, two pillars from the Roman forum that once stood in the area around the church. In fact, the church includes a great deal of masonry filched from the forum. Most remarkably, chunks of Roman masonry, including upended bits of pillar, were fitted higgledy-piggledy into the foundations in an extraordinary mish-mash. Visiting Zadar in the 1880s, the English architect T.G. Jackson described St Donat’s as ‘rude to the point of barbarism, but not without a certain simple dignity’. The bombing during World War II levelled an area next to St. Donat’s, including the forum, whose outline and much masonry have now been revealed.

Jackson thought highly of other churches in Zadar, describing St Grisogonus (Krsevan, being renovated during my present visit) as a perfect example of Romanesque architecture. He left his own mark in Zadar, as he was commissioned to design the campanile of the cathedral of St Anastasia, which had been left unfinished in the 15th century.

In the 1990s, Zadar, like several other Dalmatian cities, became a noted hotbed of hard-line Croatian nationalism. In May 1991, following the murder by Serb paramilitaries of Croatian policemen in Borovo Selo, in eastern Slavonia, and of a policeman in a small place nearby, there was an anti-Serb pogrom in Zadar, as well as in Šibenik, during which Serb property and businesses were trashed, in what a local newspaper, Narodni list, described as ‘Zadar’s Chrystal Night’. That Croatian nationalism was especially fierce here may have been in part due to the proximity of Serb-controlled territory during the war. Zadar was partially cut off from the rest of Croatia for part of the war, and atrocities were committed against Croats in the surrounding area. All this left a legacy of bitterness. When Croatian forces swept through the region in 1995, most of the Serbs in the formerly Serb-controlled areas fled. In the years following, in the hinterland of Zadar, around the town of Benkovac, which had previously had a Serb majority, the local Croat population offered especially stiff resistance to the return of Serb refugees to their homes.

When I visited Zadar in 2002, a huge poster was prominently displayed, expressing support for General Ante Gotovina, who had the previous year been indicted for war crimes by the international war crimes tribunal for former Yugoslavia, in The Hague. A decade later, and following the guilty verdict against Gotovina (see journal posting of 1 May 2011), such posters can still be seen in Dalmatian towns, on walls, in bars, proclaiming that Gotovina is a hero, not a criminal.

Zadar had not always been such a breeding ground of Croat-Serb antagonism. Narodni list, the oldest Croatian newspaper, founded in the 1860s, had, as a focus for Croatian aspirations, been directed against Italian domination. At one time it had appealed to the town’s Serbs as well as Croats. Indeed, before the formation of the Yugoslav state, Dalmatia had been a centre of Yugoslavism, and some of the most prominent advocates of Yugoslav unity had been Croats from Dalmatia.

In addition to its old churches, Zadar also boasts some fine examples of modern design. Along the quayside from St Donat’s is the Sea Organ. As one approaches, one can hear the gentle, randomly piped sounds of an organ. There in the quay are holes, the entrances to pipes that go down to the lapping waves below. As they wash against the quay, the waves push air up through the pipes, creating a soothing music. A little further along, is the ‘Greeting to the Sun’. Discs of glass set in the quay, representing the sun and all the planets, soak up sunlight into solar panels by day, the energy from which powers a multi-coloured light show by night. Visitors and the citizens of Zadar stroll over the sun disc, some of them dancing across the coloured floor, while children run about, inventing games with the lights, jumping as the colours move and ripple across the ground.

Blood sausage and chestnuts in Zagreb

Any time of year can be lovely in Zagreb. Walking up Sljeme, the mountain on the edge of Zagreb, on a crisp autumn day, with the trees a mass of golds and browns, and still some greens, is a delight. And autumn has its special food opportunities. Krvavice (blood sausages) on Sljeme, with kiseli kupus (sauerkraut) have me salivating even before the plane touches down at Zagreb airport. Nowhere else have I enjoyed black pudding as much as here, deliciously spicy, homemade. That’s what makes the food in the Sljeme mountain huts so special. Good simple fare, sourced from local peasants, homemade, luscious.

And it’s also the time of year for chestnuts, found in abundance on Sljeme. Sunday walks punctuated with long detours to pick them by the sack full. Roasted chestnuts on sale in squares and on street corners; the cooperative effort of roasting and peeling our own at home; pureed chestnuts served with cream; cakes made of chestnuts with cream and chocolate. Gorging ourselves on chestnuts.

None of this is sophisticated fare, just simple, traditional and delicious. Zagreb is in many ways a conservative place. I hope it stays so, and that all the things that delight me so do not change. Let them open new, fancier restaurants, catering to more cosmopolitan tastes. But let’s keep the old pleasures as well.

I was sorry to see that my favourite Kod Žaca is no more, at least not in the form it used to be. A cosy little restaurant near the Archbishop’s garden, run by a couple of young boys from Slavonia, but with cuisine from Istria. Can there be two cuisines more dissimilar than Slavonian and Istrian? One old gentleman from Rijeka told how, when he first married, he wondered whether his Slavonian wife was trying to kill him with the heavy food she served. But, as my Italian friend, one of their most faithful customers, put it, the mama of the two boys at Kod Žaca had taught them well. Wonderful food. Delectable steaks. Perfectly textured gnocchi with a truffle sauce. And such an atmosphere, and such generosity. It felt like we were their guests, in their own home. A grater and a truffle were placed in front of the eater, who was left to grate his own. It was at Kod Žaca that I first tasted the delicious Istrian honey liqueur, a wonderful aperitif. And again, no messing about; the bottle and glasses were simply placed on the table, the guests left to serve themselves. I have not tasted as good anywhere else. They had their own source. The restaurant was, I think, not legal, part of the grey economy; there was no sign outside the door. That did not stop prominent politicians eating there. Now there is a sign, still called Kod Žaca, but a pizzeria.

Plov and lepeshka in Kyrgyzstan

Leaving behind the modern comforts of Bishkek, we boarded a flight for the southern city of Jalal Abad, close to the border with Uzbekistan. The flight, in an old, rickety little aircraft, with seats that would not go into the upright position, and smelling much like the old and decrepit buses still found around the former Soviet Union, was not a lot of fun. The weather was atrocious, and the plane kept swooping and diving, leaving stomachs behind as it went. I concentrated hard not to spill the beaker of water the stewardess had given me, as she struggled up and down the floor of the plane, now sloping one way, now the other. One of our party sat next to an official from the transport ministry who told him that the model of plane we were flying in was now outlawed in Kyrgyzstan, but it was still flying – just.

Arriving, relieved, at Jalal Abad airport, we had to wait for our luggage in the driving rain. Turning around, there was a sign above the entrance to the runway wishing departing passengers ‘good luck’. After our flight, it seemed apt.

A short stop in Jalal Abad to eat samsa (samosas) and delicious little pastries stuffed with pumpkin. Then the bus journey on to Kerben, through the still lashing rain. We arrived during a power cut, a rare event, we were told, due to the weather. Supper was by candlelight, starting with tasty little scraps of mutton fat, followed by salad and plov, the ubiquitous plov, found all over central Asia, consisting of rice, laced with raisins and pieces of mutton, boiled until they resemble leather. All washed down with green tea and vodka.

We had been expecting the worst from the accommodation, but in fact it was not too bad, if basic. The rooms were clean and warm, and the beds comfortable. And though the water pressure was weak, I had a hot shower.

Kerben is a quiet little town, quite dark at night even when there is no power cut, with just the very centre dimly lit, and one solitary set of traffic lights – the central feature of the town. Walking along the dim main street in softening rain, we heard pounding music off to one side. Perhaps Kerben had a night life after all.

Aksi district

Then a couple of days off in the villages of Aksi district. Muddy, charming little places with smiley people and a spectacular surround of snow-capped mountains. Ladies with scarves and men with tall woollen hats. Some on donkeys, sometimes a man atop a sprightly horse, reminding of the nomadic Kyrgyz past. One old lady sitting on a donkey, asked by our interpreter if I could photo her, cackled happily; ‘does he love me’, she asked?

Then there is our most frequented eating place; a little shack in one of the villages, the only restaurant for miles around, if the word restaurant is appropriate for such a hovel. Goat soup; fried potatoes and chicken; fried potatoes and eggs; and truly the worst plov I have tasted – inedible for me and my Russian companion. Hailing originally from Kazakhstan, she professes to like central Asian cooking; her father spends hours preparing gargantuan quantities of plov for the whole family. But neither she nor I could eat this. Our interpreter and driver wolfed it down however. But somehow I grew fond of the place, and of the cheerful lady who served us. Arriving for a pot of hot green tea and the latest offerings from her blackened pots seemed almost homely. And her lepeshka (central Asian bread) was the most delicious of my whole stay in Kyrgyzstan, when it was fresh and warm.

Krujë and Skenderbeg

In Albanians’ sense of their history, a uniquely significant position is occupied by Skenderbeg, the preeminent national hero. His statue stands in prominent places in capital cities around the Albanian-inhabited areas of the Balkans, in Tirana, Prishtina and Skopje, and elsewhere. It is hard to think of a European country where a single historical figure holds such an important place in the national consciousness. For a small nation, ruled and dominated by others more powerful for much of their history, often seen as occupying a peripheral region, isolated from the main currents of European history, the memory of Skenderbeg is an affirmation for Albanians of their self-worth. They too produced a great hero, who played a significant role in the affairs of the continent. Despite their frequent disappointments, the example of Skenderbeg continues to provide inspiration.

Statue of Skenderbeg, Tirana

Born Gjergj Kastrioti, Skenderbeg was the name given him by the Turks, meaning in Turkish, roughly, Lord Alexander, it is presumed after Alexander the Great, a reference to his prowess as a military commander. Skenderbeg lived in the 15t Century, when the Ottomans were extending and consolidating their rule in the Balkans. Following his father’s submission to the empire, Skenderbeg served with distinction as a soldier of the Sultan before turning to rebellion. Instrumental in forming the League of Lezhë, a town in northern Albania, then under Venetian rule, for two decades Skenderbeg led Albanian resistance to the Ottomans from a base in his hilltop redoubt of Krujë, not far from Tirana. He led a guerrilla campaign and withstood sieges, putting off the extension of Ottoman rule until after his death.

Today, Krujë is a pleasant little town, with a small Ottoman-style bazaar, now mainly given over to selling tourist souvenirs. The fortress’s defensive value was appreciated also by the Turks, and much of what one sees today dates from the Ottoman period rather than from Skenderbeg’s time. Particularly fine is a beautifully maintained 18th-century house inside the castle walls, which had once accommodated the Ottoman commander of the fortress. The original decoration, including ornate wooden ceilings and simple yet exquisite murals, is a striking example of Ottoman style. Unlike the open verandas of the houses in Berat and Gjirokaster, here the gallery is enclosed by a tightly latticed wooden screen, through which the occupants could see out, but outsiders could not see in. Did this perhaps reflect the practice of a stricter version of Islam, with its preoccupation with hiding a house’s womenfolk away from view? Displayed photographs of the bazaar from the beginning of the 20th century showed women completely covered, burka-like.

18th-century house, Krujë castle

The castle contains the Skenderbeg Museum, opened in 1980s. The Hoxha regime eagerly tapped into the cult of Skenderbeg. A 1970 novel by the great Albanian writer Ismail Kadare, ‘The Seige’, described an Ottoman siege of an unnamed Albanian fortress in Skenderbeg’s time. The book was published in the aftermath of the 1968 Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. Hoxha’s rule had nothing in common with the suppressed Prague Spring, except that Hoxha feared Albania might face a similar fate. The clampdown on the Prague Spring sparked heightened paranoia in the Albanian regime, which responded by building the thousands of defensive bunkers that once peppered the Albanian countryside. Kadare’s novel portrayed a defiant Albania, led by Skenderbeg, standing up to and defying the mighty Ottomans. Of course, Albania ultimately succumbed, albeit after Skenderbeg’s death, and in that sense the book’s message for the 20th Century was ambiguous.

The museum contains surviving documents signed by Skenderbeg, his correspondence with European rulers. Skenderbeg was lionised in much of Europe for his feat of withstanding, with few resources or men, the Ottoman Empire for so long, as a defender of Christendom and of European civilisation. However, many of the exhibits appear to have more to do with ‘creating’ history rather than recording it. Concrete knowledge of Skenderbeg and others involved in the resistance is limited, lost in the mists of time, and certainly many of the pictures and busts of people from that time are based on imagination. Such embellishment, selectiveness and fabrication is a feature of many Albanian museums. Perhaps it reflects a need for a small nation to give itself a history of which it could be more proud. But Skenderbeg’s story was remarkable enough without the need for embellishment. A (much embellished) history of Skenderbeg was written by Marin Barleti at the beginning of the 16th century, and was subsequently translated into several languages. Not a peripheral state, Albania under Skenderbeg was at the forefront of the defence of Europe.

The mountains of northern Albania

A hundred years ago, when Edith Durham travelled through the mountains of northern Albania, the world she described in her book, ‘High Albania’, was one in which there were no roads, just tracks, some of which could not be passed on horseback, let alone by any kind of vehicle. It was a world in which only the priests could read or write. And though the Catholic mountain people were devoted to the symbols of their Church, it was the Kanun – code – of Lek Dukagjin that held sway over their lives, and the honour code of the blood feud, which substituted for the lack of any effective state institutions.

This remarkable Edwardian woman dragged herself up mountain passes and along cliff ledges; she ate and slept in the primitive houses of the region, listening to the stories of the men, and sometimes women (for she generally ate with the men, not the women, who grubbed up the leftover scraps of the men, and were treated as little more than chattels, their role to bear male children and serve the family of their in-laws). Hospitality was sacred for the mountain people, and, though often poor, they gave her the best that they could.

Valbona

So much has changed now. The valley of the Valbona, close to Bajram Curri, a mainly Moslem region, is now a national park. It is rapidly being developed for tourism, mainly for visitors from Albania and nearby Kosovo, as well as a smattering of westerners. Wooden hotels and restaurants in a style that looks more like Scandinavia than the Balkans are being erected by families with the right political connections in Bajram Curri (construction in Albania depends on political patronage). The scent of money and opportunity is in the air Many of the traditional stone houses have been left to fall into decay, as have the barracks for an abandoned military base, placed here due to the proximity of the Yugoslav (now Montenegrin) border. The natural beauty of the place is spectacular, the mountains rising up on all sides. Driving into the valley, the villages of stone houses dotted around the verdant slopes have great charm.

The day we visited, a minor American film star of partly Albanian descent, Eliza Dushku (she was in ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’), was in the region, as part of a tour of Albania to help promote tourism. We saw her greeted by the head of Valbona commune together with a troop of traditional Tropoje dancers. She gamesomely joined in the fun, while the cameras whirred. Valbona is going to be developed further. One can only hope that it will be done with sensitivity and respect for the nature and the local traditions and styles.

Theth

Just across a mountain pass from Valbona is the valley of Theth, a Catholic area, also a national park. Part of Shkoder region, Theth can only be reached from Valbona by a tough climb over the mountains. The only road is from Shkoder, which in its higher reaches becomes a rocky track, unsuitable for vehicles less robust than a four-by-four or the sturdy little furgons (minivans) that push their way up, although some adventurous cyclists make the journey too.

Edith Durham was much taken with Theth, which she described as “a grandly wild spot”. She wrote of the valley that “great isolated boulders are scattered over it, on which stand kullas.” A kulla is the traditional tower that was the home and castle of mountain families, with tiny slit windows from which it could be defended from enemies. In such homes extended families lived in Durham’s time, and owed absolute obedience to the head of the household, the house lord. Many older houses remain. Some have been abandoned, but others have been renovated, some with red corrugated iron roofs in place of the traditional stone ones. The little church at one end of the valley has been restored. Durham would have been heartened by the fact that a school now stands in the heart of the village.

Not far from the church stands a traditional lock-out kulla, where men once took refuge to escape from blood feuds. Even now, as a tourist attraction, it seems a bleak and forbidding place. When Durham visited, the mountain tribes were in a state of near-constant feud, with their neighbours and within the tribe itself. The writer Ismail Kadare wrote about one such tower in his novel ‘Broken April’. Blood feuds have made a comeback since the end of communist rule, though mercifully not on their previous, all-pervasive scale. Travelling through Valbona, our local driver pointed out two houses whose occupants were in feud with a nearby family. Two people had been killed already. The men of the two houses dared not go out except at night, and the police apparently stayed clear of the matter. Most local people, he averred, still approved of revenge killings. The primitive call of honour continued to exert a pull in the villages.

Lock-out kulla, Theth

Many of the houses in Theth now take in guests. The conditions can be fairly basic. The village has for some time been without an electricity supply. At the place I stayed, a generator was switched on for a couple of hours in the evening. Hot water for washing came in a bucket that could be ladled over the body for a primitive shower. But this is nothing compared to the conditions experienced by Edith Durham on her travels, where the living area of a house frequently consisted of one large room, where she slept with all the family, and on occasion animals as well. Nevertheless, the warmth and hospitality with which she was everywhere received delighted her.

Nowadays, the guesthouses in Theth are commercial operations. The hosts have satellite television, and some of them speak English. But some of the spirit and charm Durham witnessed remains. Most of the food served is local produce, including home-baked bread, wine, butter, honey, and utterly delicious fig jam. Homemade fig jam featured on the breakfast menu in most of the places I stayed in Albania. It was wonderful. One still has the feeling of staying with a family, from the old lady, with her hair dyed jet black and worn long, topped by a light scarf, in the local style, who smiled benevolently at her guests (when not shooing away the hens or the family cow from the front of the house), to the little children who ran around throughout the day, and greeted me each morning and evening, telling me their names.

Theth too is surely going to experience further tourist development, including a tarmacked road that will bring in greater numbers of visitors, a reliable electricity supply, new hotels, shops etc. The wilderness that Durham wrote about is being overtaken by the modern world. As with Valbona, one hopes it will be done sensitively. Perhaps, away from these national parks, some unfrequented, more truly wild places will remain for a time.

Re-established links: Gjakova and Tropoje

The recently built Kukes highway and tunnel have transformed links between Albania and Kosovo. Old ties among communities on the two sides of the border are being re-established after decades of communist and, in the case of Kosovo, Serbian rule. Travelling to Tropoje, in the northeast corner of Albania, is now quickest and easiest by the new road, passing through Kosovo, via Prizren and Gjakova (Djakovica in Serbian).

Tropoje is a sparsely populated region, neglected by Tirana since the end of communist rule, despite the fact that current Prime Minister Sali Berisha, the dominant figure in Albanian politics for two decades, comes from here. The main town, Bajram Curri, has not fared well. Lacking the frenzy of new construction that characterises more favoured Albanian towns, Bajram Curri is shrinking, its citizens moving away in search of better prospects. The ill-lit streets have an especially forlorn feel at night. Someone in Tirana told me all Albanian towns were similarly dark and unlit in communist times. Bajram Curri seems hardly to have moved on since then. The high number of UK-registered vehicles is evidence of how many people from the region have moved to Britain. Some of them have moved back with cars they bought there, but many are just visiting for the summer holidays. Strolling through Bajram Curri one evening, a boy from Twickenham, with a pronounced London accent, started talking to me, over to visit the town of his birth.

Bajram Curri

Historically, this region had not looked primarily to Tirana or the coast. Rather, its main link was with Gjakova. Indeed, it was formerly known as the Highlands of Gjakova. Tropoje was part of the hinterland of Gjakova, and it may be becoming so again. Gjakova is a fine old Ottoman town, with a large bazaar, much in the style of many others in the Balkans. Unlike some of them, such as those of Sarajevo and Mostar in Bosnia, or Kruje, near Tirana, the Gjakova bazaar is not at all touristy, at least not yet. Instead, the little shops sell ordinary things to local people, clothes, shoes, hardware. The bazaar has the hustle and bustle so typical of Kosovo, where everyone seems to be doing business in a constant hubbub of activity. The bazaar was damaged during the 1999 conflict, some of its wooden buildings burned. The fine old mosque was damaged. But the damage has largely been repaired, and it has been done sensitively, in keeping with the traditional style.

The furgon (minibus) that drove us from Gjakova to Bajram Curri stopped at several places along the way, picking up supplies from various small shops which were piled along the floor. All manner of things: food; soft drinks; electrical goods. The driver had apparently taken orders from people in Bajram Curri. Travelling to remote areas in Albania it is often like that. The furgons are the conduits for trade. And it Tropoje, it now seems that the source for goods and supplies is coming once again to be Gjakova, as it once was. Old links among Albanian-inhabited lands are being re-established. Will these revived social and commercial ties have political consequences as well? Maybe. Certainly the logic of geography says that Tropoje should never have been separated from Gjakova.

Bajram Curri takes its name from an Albanian hero of the same name. His statue stands in the town, rifle in hand, the picture of the rebel outlaw. Bajram Curri hailed from Gjakova. He fought the Turks and, one of the leading members of the Committee for the National Defence of Kosovo, organised resistance to Serbian rule after 1918, as part of the Kachak insurgency. He served as Minister for War in the Albanian government, but fell out with Ahmed Zogu (later King Zog). Pursued by Zog’s troops, Bajram Curri was trapped and killed (some say he killed himself to avoid capture) in the mountains of the Valbona valley, close to the town whose name now commemorates him.