Albania I

We didn’t even see the border coming.
The road simply stopped.
A narrow path veered left into the bushes –
not a road, barely a trail.

But we weren’t going back.
Not with bikes.
You don’t ride backwards on a journey like this.

So we pushed forward.
The path was better suited for hiking –
not for 60+ kg bicycles.
It took hours.
We passed through brush, gravel, and loose stone
until we finally reached a small farmyard,
emerging behind someone’s house
onto a paved road.

Just like that, we were in Albania.
No checkpoint. No stamp.
An illegal border crossing, unintentional.

That same evening, we reached our campsite in the dark.
An eco-farm with travelers, tents, and stories –
and Max, the French cyclist,
whom we hadn’t seen in weeks.
A strange kind of reunion.

We explored Shkodra:
poverty and privilege side by side,
wide streets, an old town with Italian flair,
and the kind of contrast that leaves you thinking.

We decided to leave Albania for a moment –
a detour via Lake Koman.

A long, narrow body of water
winding through untouched mountain landscapes,
where we caught a ferry under flawless skies,
heading slowly toward the border of Kosovo.