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Our first encounter after passing through the Yugoslavian customs was with a young English couple whose Mini-van had broken down. The trouble was traced to a faulty petrol pump and, as little could be done to repair this, we decided that it would be expedient to tow them into the nearest town. It was a rough, gravelled, undulating road that, with the restricted ground clearance of the small van, determined that we should drive very slowly.
At Bitola we found a garage, then went to the main street and changed our traveller’s cheques at the ‘Putnik’ office. Hoards of men and young people walked about this central area, and the town had an atmosphere reminiscent of some of the Russian towns that we had visited.
It was just getting dark as we pulled into a field on the outskirts of the town. Although it was marked as suitable for camping there was no definite enclosure, nor anyone in charge, and a group of troublesome children made us decide to move further on. We slept in the Land Rover that night, beside a cart track just off the road, and awoke to a fine morning with an impressive view of the snow-capped mountain known as Pellister, which rises to above 8,500 ft.
Just as we were finishing the last spoonfuls of our porridge, a farmer came over to see us. After he had looked inside the Land Rover, he took off his battered straw hat, and settled himself comfortably on an old log. We discovered that he spoke English well and were surprised when he said that he had been to America and had worked there for almost twenty years. He was the second person we had met, after just a few hours in Yugoslavia, who had told us the very same thing.
“My daughter is over there”– he said, pointing out a girl working in a nearby meadow.
“Is it the girl we heard singing?”– We asked.
“Indeed yes”– he replied, gratified that we had noticed.
“The women work and sing well in these parts. Their voices carry over the fields and sometimes they sing to each other from great distances.”
“Will she sing for us – I asked – so that we will have a memory of this part of your country to take home with us?”
“We will see – he replied – she is not normally nervous of such things.”
He called to her and she came walking towards us, singing as she did so.
“You’re right about the volume”– I commented,
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear her in Zagreb.”
The farmer laughed, then called to her again, whereupon she stopped, and stooping down began to pick a bunch of white jonquil that were growing thick and wild in the fields.
“Perhaps it is the fresh mountain air that fills her lungs”– we suggested. He agreed.
“Yes – he said – it is only the country people who can sing like that. In the towns they are too shut up in houses and office blocks to breathe properly.”
The girl arrived at our side and presented the huge bunch of sweet-smelling flowers to us. When it was explained to her that we would like her to sing, she immediately, and without any shyness, burst into song. It was almost literally deafening. I turned the volume control on our tape recorder right down, as her clear and powerful voice carried once again over the hills. Her father sat on the old log again and watched her until she had finished. Naturally they were both thrilled to hear their recorded voices, a pleasure which had intrigued and dumbfounded several of the people we had met.
Reluctantly we bade farewell to the couple, thanked them once again for the flowers, and then set off.
Our plan for the day was to visit Ohrid and Pestani. Directly we reached the vicinity of these towns, which are situated on a lakeside, we were delighted to see the colourful costumes worn by the women. We stopped to photograph one middle-aged woman, who quickly removed her ordinary dark shawl, and threw it to the ground behind her, so that her dress could be seen at its best. Turning to face the camera, she stood straight and still with a quiet dignity, a white headscarf encircling her gentle face. A black and white waistcoat covered her rose-printed, long sleeved blouse, and over two white skirts, one hanging below the other, was a red and black hand-woven pinafore.
The photograph taken, we offered to give the woman a lift into the village. She gladly accepted and sat between us talking ‘nineteen to the dozen’ all the way. We, of course, didn’t understand a word, but she was so full of excited, bubbling merriment that we soon found ourselves laughing with her. What she found so amusing we shall never know, but we imagined that it was her own happy temperament and the pure pleasure of having a ride with us.
Suddenly realising that she had arrived at her village, she waved at us to stop, jumped down to the road and then delving into her canvas bag, she carefully withdrew a couple of large brown eggs and handed them to us. Thanking her, we departed as she stood by the road happily waving to us.
Just as we entered Ohrid, we saw an older man sitting cross-legged on some sacking. He was dressed in a black fez and a dark brown cloak only a shade darker than his weather-beaten skin. Before him, spread over a large brown cloth, was a heap of golden maize, and beside him were two metal pans into which he was painstakingly putting the corn that he had broken from each cob. I took what I thought might be a first rate photograph, and not liking to walk off without giving him anything, I placed a 50 Dinar note in one of the pans. He was slow to respond, and may not even have noticed that we had taken the photograph but, as we climbed back into the Land Rover we were surprised to see him jump up as if electrified, and excitedly run into a nearby shop, waving the note and leaving corn and cob scattered in the roadway.
“That just shows how little money these people ever see“– said Audrey.
I pondered for a while. Why had he shown such excitement? A wave of realisation then penetrated my complacent mind. Turning to Audrey, I asked:
“How many dinars are there to the pound?”
“I can’t remember – she said – you’re supposed to be the accountant.”
“Where is the log book?”– I queried, knowing that I had all the exchange rates marked.
“It was 2,100 dinars to the pound when we left England – I said – but we only received 35 to the pound, according to the customs document.”
“Oh, no, don’t say we’ve been cheated!”– Exclaimed Audrey, looking worried.
“ No, it’s not that “– I replied.
“The exchange rate has changed and new dinars have been issued, which are worth 100 times the old ones.
“Give me a piece of paper, and let’s have a look at our currency.”
It did not take long to set it down. The proof was before us, and we felt suitably aggravated. I had just given away nearly thirty shillings, not four pence as I had thought. No wonder the old chap was surprised – it must have seemed like a fortune falling from the sky.
We alternately laughed and cursed about this episode, but really did not feel too badly about it, knowing that at least the poor fellow had gained by our error. Needless to say we could not afford to make that sort of mistake again, so we looked long and hard at all our notes and coins for future reference.
Taking photographs of people can be a rather impersonal affair if one does not speak the language. The attitude of some tourists, who blatantly pushed their camera in front of local inhabitants without attempting to see if any offence would be caused, seemed extremely rude. This disregard of personal feelings, notwithstanding the religious convictions that could give rise to objections in Moslem countries, is an intrusion into the privacy of other people’s lives and can cause unpleasant circumstances. If there appeared any chance of causing offence, I would point to the camera and wait to receive some sort of acknowledgement before taking the photograph. The spontaneity could be lost as a result of this delay, but only once or twice were we disappointed with the result, or were given a refusal.
One such occasion presented itself while we were in Ohrid. An old man, with a characterful, and bearded face, was sitting on a wooden bench by the road. He wore an unusually tall brown fez, and, being attracted by the sight of him, I went across and pointed to the camera. Immediately he gave an aggressive shout and raised his stick above his head. I didn’t think he would strike me, so hopefully I stood my ground for a while with the thought that he would eventually calm down. But his temper did not abate and, shaking with rage, he rose to his feet and disgustedly stamped off down the road. What a contrast to the woman to whom we had just given a lift. We must have found the one person in the area who was easily upset, for everybody else that we met was overwhelming in their cheerful welcome and friendliness.
For our lunch break, we stopped near the small fishing village of Pestani, where again the womenfolk wear an attractive and most unusual black and white traditional costume. The village was noted for its flat-bottomed boats, some of which were up to two hundred years old and were still in use. A few of them were being repainted and several fishing nets were hung up between poles, indicating that the waters are still successfully fished. The side of the lake was full of reeds and beyond were the magnificent snow-topped mountains of Eastern Albania.
In the afternoon we returned to the old town of Ohrid and spent some time looking around the narrow, twisting, cobbled streets, which lead between quaint houses that almost touch overhead.
Near the centre of the town is the Cathedral of St. Sofia, one of Yugoslavia’s most highly venerated churches. It dates from the eleventh century, but parts of a ruined fifth century basilica have been incorporated into the present day building. Although very solid, this effect is relieved by the open aspect of the arches above tall columns and the patterns formed by the skilful bricklaying.
Another highly ornamental brick church is that of St. John the Baptist, the fishermen’s church, perched on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the lake. Below is the fishing village of Kaneo, a group of several houses miraculously tucked into one small cove, only a few feet from the water’s edge. Two or three boats had been dragged up on to the shingle beach and a woman was tending a small garden plot just at the foot of the cliffs.
Early the following morning we drove to Prilep, meeting the Autoput that took us through Titov Veles to Skopje. Here we made for the campsite that we found adjacent to a sports stadium. Although we had to put up with numerous sports results being relayed over a loudspeaker system, the camp was not crowded, so that we were able to choose a reasonable space between the trees to position our vehicle. There was a restaurant and washrooms with hot showers, which we were glad to make use of.
Even the visitor cannot easily forget the earthquake that shattered Skopje in 1963, causing the death of about one thousand inhabitants and leaving one hundred times that number of homeless. Although modern apartment blocks have risen from the debris, there was much evidence of the tragedy. Cracked walls, fallen plaster and areas of rubble could still be seen.
We surveyed the town from the ruined Citadel, which has been retained in its damaged state as a reminder of the dreadful day. A modern sculpture looks out over the town symbolising the damaged and the new, the past and the present. From this position, we were able to count no less than seven mosques, an indication of the amount of Turkish influence that survives. Unfortunately, some of the minarets were without their tops, but for such slender constructions, it is surprising that they remained at all.
The river Vardar divides the old part of Skopje from the new town where we visited a self-service restaurant. It was typical of several others that we had seen in Yugoslavia, clean and very popular judging by the number of people that frequented them. The meals, although stereotyped, were tasty and satisfying and only cost less than five shillings a head for two courses.
Skopje is the capital of Macedonia, and we saw the rich and varied costumes worn by the people from the surrounding areas, as well as a high proportion of the town people in western dress. Some of the Moslem men still wear the fez, others the white close fitting skull cap, which identifies the Albanians. The women’s dress was often elaborately embroidered in geometric patterns and some of them wore baggy trousers.
From Skopje we took a rough, dusty road through Kacanik to Prizren, and then a good road on to Pec. It was along this stretch that we came upon a wedding procession. This was a simple affair; three or four carts covered with red, black and white awnings were each pulled by a couple of horses decorated with white ribbons. Two men, who looked like father and son, sat at the front controlling the horses, while at the back another couple of men greeted us and gave us an invitation to look inside. They held back the curtain and a quick glimpse disclosed several women sitting on each side of a central figure. This woman was undoubtedly the bride, but her head was covered and she had her back towards the opening.
An atmosphere of silent, secretive and formal celebration was retained for the while that we were present, but by all accounts the actual wedding festivities would be joyful and lively, with exuberant dancing.
We approached the Cakor Pass driving into the province of Montenegro. Having entered the narrow Rugovo Gorge, we saw the surging river, Pecaka Bistrica, cutting its way through the four thousand foot canyon. Although we were intent upon stopping for the night, there was something about the grandiose beauty of this climb through the rugged scenery that compelled us to go on and see more. The gravel road wound on past slopes thickly wooded with fir trees and then towards higher jagged mountainous peaks. Long litanies of shepherds, with their tinkling entourage of cattle and sheep, slowly made their way upward over propped and unsteady bridges. Suitable for sheep, yes, but would they take our weight? Once or twice we got out to inspect the bridge before venturing over.
From a small settlement at the top of the pass, we had a wonderful view across good pastureland to the soaring heights of the northern Albanian Alps, which rise to nearly nine thousand feet. Completely forgetting our tiredness, we drove down past where the snow was laying thickly amongst the pine trees, until long shadows reminded us that we must find somewhere to stop. The sun of the day had melted some of the snow that covered the meadows, revealing soft green grass and myriads of wild mountain flowers, including mauve meadow saffron.
As Audrey prepared the meal and I wrote my entries in the log, some small children appeared. They hesitated for a while, then one of the little girls collected and presented us with a small bunch of wild flowers. For this charming gesture, Audrey gave her a few sweets. She took them across to her friends and, after a short deliberation, they too collected bunches of flowers, brought them to us and were suitably rewarded. With a quick eye to an easy bargain, they returned again and again with similar offerings.
It rained during the night, saturating everything about us, and we awoke to see the narrow thread of the road disappearing over the lush fields into the mist beyond. This area is devoted to sheep rearing and we saw many wooden huts, which are used by the shepherds during the summer months. Early morning smoke was rising from one settlement in the valley, and two young boys came running to the Land Rover to ask us for cigarettes. Another day was before us.
We sighted the hamlet of Andrijevica, with its black, wooden, steeply roofed houses intermingling with more modern, red-tiled dwellings on the opposite bank of a river. One or two of the black-roofed houses had smoke seeping through the wooden tiles, as if there were open fires inside. Spanning the river was the flimsiest of wooden bridges, and, halfway across, a. man was grappling with a young cow. Just ahead of him, a woman quickly drove a number of pigs off the bridge on to a shingle bank. No doubt they were both on their way to the village market that we could see fenced off on the other side.
Titograd was approached through some more fine scenery, particularly the gorge of the Moraca River, but we did not find the town very inspiring. It rose from the wartime ashes of Podgorica, and represents the progress of the country to date with its new blocks of offices, hotels, flats and shops.
Still vibrating from a very bumpy drive over the bad roads, we found a restaurant and had a long, cool drink. The sultry atmosphere and hot, dusty streets made us decide to move on as quickly as possible in order to reach the coast by the evening.
Lake Shkoder, a third of which belongs to Albania, was as beautiful as we had been told, although the water lilies that cover much of its surface were not yet in flower. As the sun became partially hidden behind the clouds, so the surrounding mountains took on various shades of purple and grey, and then our first view of the Adriatic. What a wonderful sight!
A new road had been cut along the entire length of this coastline, but occasionally, we found small sections of the old road, which had fallen into disuse. These were absolutely ideal for our purpose of sleeping in the Land Rover, and we often took advantage of them, although, I believe, that this use of them is frowned upon by the authorities.
We passed Sveti Stefan, a fifteenth century fishing settlement, connected to the mainland by a sweeping sand dune. All the old houses have been converted to make this very small island a complete hotel. Fortunately, the transformation has been made with a degree of thought and understanding of the visual needs – an example of good planning.
Another attractive small town is Budva, where we stopped to walk along the top of the old town’s ramparts, which were constructed by the Venetians. The narrow, winding streets, which lead between the solidly built stone houses, some of which rise to four storeys, were cool and shaded. Not far away were fine bathing beaches, which made Budva a popular holiday resort. Beneath multi-coloured sunshades lay the bronzed bodies of the intense sun worshippers.
Near Tivat we took the ferry across the Bay of Kotor, a gigantic fiord bounded by precipitous limestone mountains, which rise abruptly from the dark waters. This immense natural harbour was for centuries a hideout of pirates. The ferryboat was really two small boats, strapped together to enable them to take a maximum of about four cars. The crossing was smooth enough and only took a few minutes, during which we kept a watchful eye on the Land Rover. The back wheels were only just on the boat, wedged by a small chock, and the back end projected over the water a fair way. It looked quite ignominious beside a lush, sleek-looking Cadillac with a chauffeur at the wheel. The occupants, two Americans, had hired the car in Vienna and had recently driven through Spain.
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Ahead stretched the wide Placa, or Main Street, which transverses the entire city from east to west. Until the twelfth century, this used to be a sea channel that divided the headland from the mainland but, as gradual silting took place, it was eventually filled in and the new main street was created. Looped from one side of the street to the other were the dried garlands of flowers, a reminder of the spring, or May-Day celebrations a few weeks previous to our arrival.
Immediately to our left was a Franciscan Monastery. Inside were all manner of flowering plants and trees surrounding a statue of St. Francis, which formed part of a fountain in the cloister garden. The arches around the garden were supported by delicate, slender, double pillars, whose capitals presented a variety of motifs; crouching monkeys, winged dragons, heads of rams, and people in different attitudes. The cool stonework and silent bell gave a tranquil atmosphere The pharmacy, founded in 1317, is reputed to be one of the oldest in Europe, and is still used as a dispensary for the people of Dubrovnik. 
Some of the original equipment is on show, including pestles and mortars, distilling apparatus, and a number of porcelain containers, together with various pharmaceutical prescriptions and herbal remedies.
Walking along the length of the Placa, we came to the church of St. Blaise, which has an ornate facade in Baroque style. Pigeons pecked around the base of the nearby Pillar of Roland, a stone column, formerly used by the town crier for posting state notices.
Not far from the Rector’s Palace, just behind the church of St. Blaise, is an open area, which is used as a market place. This was the main vegetable market and it began very early in the morning. No prices were marked on the produce that was spread over long rows of trestle tables, but there was a wide selection. Huge wicker baskets stood on the ground beneath the tables, and it was in these that most of the produce was brought to the town, usually on the backs of donkeys.
Market places are always fascinating and colourful, and it is where local costume can generally be seen. The traditional dress of Dubrovnik we found very attractive. The women who were wearing it, appeared quite tall, but this was probably due to the long, plain skirt and the rather high, stiff, white headdress. One interesting feature was a large yellow bobble worn on the bodice. While we were looking at the stalls we met a couple of English girls, who decided to accompany us on a walk around the top of the city walls. About a mile and a half altogether, it afforded some fine views of the buildings and the pink-tiled rooftops. One could look along the narrow side streets and see bright eiderdowns and bedding, put out to air high above the pathways.
Dubrovnik is a popular, civilised and mature town, worthy of most of the extravagant claims made for it in the guidebooks. It is fortunate to be small enough to visually encompass in one visit, yet it contains a wealth of interest that encourages one to return again, combining artistic and historical associations that can be tapped at will. Also, it has a near perfect climate; at least, it seemed so when we were there in May.
Albania.
While exploring the city, we called in at a tourist information office and to our surprise we saw a poster advertising a coach trip to Albania. Making further enquiries from another ‘Atlas’ office we discovered that we could join a day trip, the first organised visit into Albania, stopping at the town of Shkoder (Scutari). The cost was five pounds each which although expensive, included the price of visas and gave us an opportunity that we felt would be foolish to miss.
Whilst in England I had not been able to gain any practical information with regard to visiting Albania, as there was no diplomatic relations with the United Kingdom. We assumed that it would be impossible to enter. (Some American people that we met later in Dubrovnik told us that they had not been allowed to join the party).
At five o’clock in the morning we left our campsite on the Bay of Zupa to wait at the roadside for the coach to arrive from Dubrovnik. We were very excited at the prospect of the day ahead. It was fine and some of the castles on the nearby hills stood out very plainly as the rising sun caught them with its first light. The coach arrived and the guide checked our tickets. We retraced our journey back to Budva where we picked up some more people before continuing to Titograd.
The party consisted mainly of Germans, a few Belgians and some English people, a young couple with a child, two middle-aged gentlemen and two elderly ladies wearing large straw hats. Soon after our departure the ladies turned to us with very worried expressions
“This is a two-day trip isn’t it?”– One of them asked nervously.
“Oh, no”– we replied.
“We should return some time this evening.”
“Dear me”– she whispered.
“We’ve come prepared to stay overnight.”
Her friend looked quite concerned.
“We wondered why no-one else had any luggage“– she confided.
“We have brought a large suitcase.”
Although we reassured them that everything would be all right, they were obviously anxious, and we could hear them discussing their mistake as the guide started to speak about the trip.
He explained that the visit we were making was the first to be arranged, following a long series of negotiations between Yugoslavian and Albanian authorities. He was anxious that everything should go ahead without any trouble, and asked if we would refrain from inviting political discussion and not venture far from the main party whilst in Shkoder. In view of the fact that we were probably the first European tourists to Albania since the Second World War, I suppose his comments were valid.
Having had refreshment in Titograd, we continued on a road that led only to the Albanian frontier. The few people that we did pass stopped in their tracks with looks of amazement. Then, after about five miles travelling alongside Lake Shkoder, the coach slowed down and finally pulled up. We had arrived at the Albanian customs house. A guard, dressed in khaki uniform, stood somewhat uncertainly fingering the barrier across the road. Fluttering from a tall pole was the national flag, red, with the emblem of a double-headed eagle. A notice proclaimed,
‘Republika Popullore E Shquiperise’
Or: The People’s Republic of Shquiperise.
Shquiperi is the Albanian name for the country, and it means, ‘Land of the Eagle’. The people, ‘Sons of the Eagle’, are considered to be direct descendants of the Illyrians, who conquered the West Coast of the Adriatic in the second century BC.
A face peered from an upstairs window as our guide, accompanied by a soldier, went into the customs house with all the passports. Two more faces appeared, followed by yet another, all watching curiously. This sort of spectacle had obviously not passed this way before.
A guard entered the coach and presented everyone with a customs declaration form, printed in different languages including English. He then, with much deliberation, counted the number of passengers, but did not check any of our personal belongings. In less than an hour, our guide, looking less strained, had returned with our passports stamped with the most disappointing and insignificant mark that we had yet obtained. The barrier was at last raised and we proceeded along a narrow, poorly surfaced road. To one side we noticed high, electrified, barbed-wire fences. Until five years ago there had been trouble and deaths at this border.
“The fences are to keep them in, not to keep us out”– shouted the coach driver, who followed up with a hoarse laugh, and a derisive,
“Autobahn!
“Albanian Autobahn!”
This was for the benefit of the German passengers, who were obviously horrified by the bumpy, winding road. Somehow, we sensed that the driver, too, was relieved that so far all had gone according to plan. A couple of people at the roadside stood with mouths wide open as we passed by, recovering just in time to return our waves.
Albania is a small country, being no bigger than Wales, but it is the most mountainous country in Europe, two-thirds of its area lying above three thousand feet. Consequently, it had produced a hardy race of mountain people, who have developed, and retained until quite recently, a system appropriate to the wild area in which they live. At a time when the average life span of Albanian men was no more than thirty-eight years, people lived in continual fear, for their law was the ‘unwritten law’, the Vendetta. Nearly half the deaths were caused by blood feuds. The gun was the administrator of the law and not a week went by without someone being killed. It was all a question of honour. Today the Vendetta is disregarded. It died with the Nazi invasion, when Albanians, with blood feuds on their hands, found themselves fighting side by side for a common cause.
For a while we did not see anyone. We gazed across the placid lake, wondering about this country, which is largely unknown to the whole of the Western world, yet has a slender hand extending over three thousand miles to Red China.
“We and the Red Chinese are seven hundred million strong”, they say, with a voice of only one and a half million, the tiniest of outposts.
Although there was plenty of grey, stony land and thick scrub, as in Yugoslavia, we did pass some cultivated areas, where the soil was a rich, deep red. There were small cottages and farms that we imagined were collectively owned. Beside the stark looking terracotta coloured church was a school, and nearby in a field stood a teacher with a group of young children, holding hands in a circle. They all turned to stare as the coach drove by, and some waved excitedly.
Beyond, carved out on the slopes of the hills, were the words,
The Albanians were fervently building a socialist society in their country and still held high the banner of Marx and Lenin.
When we arrived in the town of Shkoder, we stopped outside an unprepossessing hotel, the Hotel Turizan. The local inhabitants stood and stared in astonishment as everyone alighted from the coach, and made their way into the hotel for lunch. We sat down to soup, and a main meal of beef, spinach, beans and potatoes, followed by a good helping of black cherries. It was interesting to listen to some of the comments of our fellow tourists, mostly complaints about service and food. Considering that we were the first party into Albania, we considered that everything was reasonably well organised.
In the entrance hall of the hotel there were some photographs of people wearing national costume, surmounted by a larger photograph of the President of Albania, Haxhi Llesi, together with images from the Chinese Republic. These and a pile of Chinese magazines indicated the close association of the two countries.
It was possible to change German marks or sterling into Albanian currency, valued in leks, but not Yugoslavian dinars. As we did not have any English money with us, we borrowed ten shillings from one of the middle-aged English gentlemen. This allowed us to buy a very small cigarette holder, some stamps, and a couple of rather poor quality, black and white postcards, which we wished to post whilst in Albania. There certainly was a poor collection of souvenirs, but this did not surprise us. We were, however, amused to see that a tube of toothpaste had been included in the showcase!
The money changing process was carried out by reference to a folder, containing black and white photographic representations of currency. All the Albanian money that was given out, notes and coins were in mint condition.
There was some time to wait before everyone was ready to look round the town, so we walked over to a small, grass area, where a stone bust of Josef Stalin was prominently displayed. It was certainly something that we would never have seen in Russia.
As had already been arranged, we met an Albanian guide, who was to accompany us round Shkoder.Unfortunately, as he spoke only French or German, we did not get the full benefit of his comments. Our own guide had previously asked us to address all our questions to the Albanian and to treat himself as a member of our party, rather than our representative.
First we were taken to a mosque that, although quite new and well decorated, was set in a rather dilapidated quarter of the town. The floor was splendidly covered with rich, red carpets and the walls decorated with modern Islamic tile designs. A turbaned mullah led us all to the roof, and told us that sixty per cent of the Albanians were Moslem by faith, but that some were followers of the Catholic and Orthodox religions. From the minaret we had a good view of the town, and saw some of the new buildings of several storeys, which were being constructed. Telegraph poles carried a large number of circuits but there was street lighting only at the main junctions. In the distance, on top of a hill, was a solid and impregnable looking building, the Citadel Rozafat, which we were to visit later.
The coach took us all to the foot of the hill. There was a pause, and then a short, animated conversation between the two guides. Apparently, there was no road to the top, and it would have taken about an hour to walk up the rather steep stony track to the citadel. Our guide shook his head, realising that we did not have enough time for the visit. We wondered why this had not been appreciated before we set out, but were much more resilient to change than some of our companions, who complained that their organisational skills were ‘disgusting’.
As no decision had been made as to our next move, everyone stood about rather aimlessly, wondering what was going to happen. In front of us a bridge spanned a waterway, where a collection of black-tarred rowing boats nosed up against the quayside. A soldier showed some alarm as I walked towards the bridge, thinking, no doubt, that I was going to photograph it. In fact, what I really wanted was a photograph of a small, dark-skinned, black haired child who was watching the crowd. Over a faded, blue-spotted dress she wore a grubby jumper, and on her feet were a pair of boots without laces, several sizes too large. She stood leaning against a wooden mooring post, her beautiful, dark brown eyes transfixed.
Even though I approached to within a few feet of her, she did not notice me. I wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps the visitors’ dresses’ colours were foremost in her thought, for they compared so vividly with the surroundings. Even the coach must have impressed her, because we had not seen many cars on the roads.
So we did not see the citadel at close quarters. Instead, we had to be satisfied with a legend relating to its construction. By all accounts three brothers carried out most of the work. It appeared that they were not very successful. Each night the walls they had built the previous day, crumbled to the ground. The only solution to the problem, they were told, was to pacify the evil power by sacrificing a human being. The unfortunate person to be chosen was Rozafat, the wife of the youngest brother, who accepted her fate with remarkable courage wishing, with her last words, that the country would one day be ruled by her son, and that it would always be free.
It had been decided that we would visit the University so, once again, the coach drove through the town, passing a paper-processing plant and a cement factory, which were pointed out as examples of Albanian progress. We were immediately shown to the University’s Chemistry Laboratory. The guide had an intimate knowledge of where everything was kept, so we imagined that he was a lecturer. He told us, among other things, that the children spent twelve years at school, followed by four years at the University. After we had made a tour of the building, everyone gathered on the steps outside, which attracted the interest and attention of the local inhabitants. The costume of the women varied from the traditional loose white linen trousers, embroidered waistcoat and coloured kerchief, to western dress. Many of the men wore the rounded, white felt hat with ordinary, rather shabby, suits. Along the main street we looked into a few shop windows, but there was not a lot available, in fact, large canvas blinds covered many windows. Loudspeakers were positioned on lampposts and corner buildings. In one Side Street, we found a group of young people gathered round a boy playing an accordion, and instantly recognised the popular Greek tune: ‘Never on Sunday’.
There was quite a crowd surrounding the rest of the party on our return to the coach. Two of the Belgians had got themselves involved in a heated discussion with an irate Albanian. The police appeared and told our coach driver to move on, while the guide, wishing to give the impression that he was only one of the tourists, had taken hold of the young child belonging to the English couple. The coach driver looked anxious and started to hustle the party on board, waving to some stragglers, hoping that they would hurry. Directly the last person had got in to the coach, the doors were hastily closed and we drove off.
Having cleared Shkoder, the driver and the guide visibly relaxed and becoming more confident, the burly driver spoke up.
“You see how they are poor, very poor. Can you wonder that they have not wanted tourists to their country?”
We settled down to the journey back, admiring the mountains as the evening light crept over them. Lake Shkoder was almost alight with the orange glow reflected from the sky. At the small town of Virpazar, on the western shore of the lake, we stopped for refreshment, joining the two Englishmen who had come from Birmingham.
By now we felt very hungry so ordered a hot meal, which was well cooked and very tasty. The two men asked for coffee. When it arrived, they were horrified to find that it was the Turkish variety, thick and black, not at all acceptable to the English taste. They tried very hard to make the waiter realise that they wanted milky coffee, but to no avail, the waiter, with a pained expression, simply did not understand what they were saying, even though they gave several variations of the word.
“Milch”.
“Molk”.
“Molko”.
Then, in sheer desperation,
“Milchee”.
There was no response.
One of the men resorted to frantic actions, as though milking a cow. The waiter looked on with some amazement at these antics, but showed only signs of concern that he was in the presence of a madman. After a short silence, when both men had delved deeply for some inspiration, one of them shouted,
“Blanco!”
At this the waiter disappeared into the kitchen.
Both men sat back, exasperated at the inefficiencies and inadequacies of this hotel that could not provide such a simple drink. However, they seemed gratified that they had at last made the foreigner understand.
A minute or so later the waiter returned and placed before each of them a large bowl of yoghurt. They stared at the table aghast, and then unable to respond in any way, sank back in their seats defeated. Our trip into Albania was over.
Yugoslavia.
We had only driven about five miles out of Dubrovnik when I had to brake suddenly for a lorry that was turning on the road. As I let in the clutch to start off again, there was no movement, even though the engine was running perfectly. My first diagnosis was that either our vehicle had a broken half-shaft, or we had a damaged differential. Fortunately, we would not have to wait at the roadside – not with a Land Rover. Engaging front wheel drive, we returned to Dubrovnik, for this was the nearest place where we could get the repairs done. The fact that we were driving satisfactorily on the front wheels proved that the clutch was still good. We found a garage and fortunately the mechanic was quick to understand our problem and soon found the trouble. One half shaft, which is an inch in diameter, had completely sheared off at the end. At some time it must have been under tremendous stress and thinking back, I realised that it could have been when I forgot to engage four-wheel drive when trying to negotiate the rough, steeply inclined donkey track on a hillside at Delphi.
Although the mechanic carried out the practical work efficiently and cheaply, the problem of producing a replacement part seemed almost insurmountable. A ‘phone call proved that there was not one available in Dubrovnik. The proprietor of the garage took me to the nearest post office where, for nearly two hours, we tried to get through to a Land Rover agent in Zagreb. Communications, it seemed, were impossible over this distance. I had almost decided to make the journey to Zagreb, rather than wait for the spare part to be delivered but, reconsidering the matter, I realised that it would probably be better to keep to our original route and wait until we reached Vienna. There we might find spares less expensive.
Driving on the front wheels instead of the rear in a Land Rover is a little more troublesome as it affects the steering, but the roads were now smooth surfaced all the way and I did not expect any real difficulties with the arrangement. One thing that we had both forgotten however, was the need to pull off the road in some quiet, pleasant place for our night’s stop. Previously we had been able to tackle any sort of track, but now we dare not venture too far because of the disposition of our load. We were therefore limited to sections of the road where inclines were not too great.
Between Dubrovnik and Ploce, where we were to turn inland to visit Sarajevo, we had superb views of some of the offshore islands, and the long narrow peninsular of Peljesac. Our route then mainly followed the course of the Neretva River, a wide strip of turquoise blue, passing between tree-lined banks, lush-green pastures and towering mountains. A narrow gauge railway ran alongside the river and the road along this valley, and we found it fascinating to drive alongside picture book, tall funnelled, steam engines, which panted and puffed their way to Sarajevo. Extensive works were being carried out to replace this railway with the standard gauge, which is a difficult and expensive task in such rugged terrain. Large steel bridges, tunnels and viaducts were being constructed, and a huge amount of earth and rock was being blasted away.
When we were quite near to Sarajevo we found a place to pull off for the night beside the railway.Fortunately, we were not disturbed until the early morning, when a train stopped alongside and the occupants stared out at us, as we washed and had our breakfast.
To what extent a place can be regarded as picturesque depends very much on the individual. By using this word to describe Sarajevo, I do not want to imply that the town was pretty in the generally accepted sense, parts of it were untidy, but overall it had an appeal of its own. The old part of the town, with its narrow streets leading past wooden shops to the market place, showed its Turkish character more clearly than any other town this side of Edirne. The fez was still worn here and the rounded domes of mosques huddled close by single pointed minarets. Amongst the general bric-a-brac one could see glimpses of the Orient, the souks of the shoemakers, the coppersmiths and the goldsmiths. There were too, some attractive old Bosnian houses.
The Bezistan, or old covered market, was inexplicably closed, but we found much to attract us in its vicinity. A long line of men and women, dressed in white overalls, stood at trestle tables, selling their home-made butter, cheeses and yoghurt. We bought some cream cheese, before moving to where, amongst a host of other stalls beneath gaily-striped sunshades, a man was selling spices and herbs. His display was a picture, as each variety was neatly labelled and held in small bags rolled down at the edges. After we had photographed his stall, we turned to walk away, but the owner came hurrying after us, and handed us a piece of paper with his name and address on it. Putting his hand into his pocket, he then offered us some money and asked if we would send him the photograph. Refusing the money, we tried to explain that it would be a few months before we would be able to write to him.
Sarajevo is the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, but is probably remembered more as the place where the First World War was precipitated. For it was here that the Austrian heir to the throne, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated on the 28th June 1914. Princip’s bridge, across the river Miljacka, recalls the name of the assailant rather than the unfortunate victim. It was Gaurilo Princip, a student of seventeen years, an ardent Serb Nationalist, who raised his arm and fired the shot that gained the freedom for his people.
On the way back to the coast we stopped at Mostar, determined not to miss seeing the Neretva River at close quarters. 
The name Mostar means ‘old bridge’, the original one having been built in Roman times. The Turkish bridge that has replaced it rises steeply from solid towers on either side of the river in a single span. Although several people were sunbathing at the water’s edge, the old part of the town was almost deserted. The unusual colour wash in mauves and browns on some of the outside walls of houses gave us the impression that we were observing a stage set.
Near the estuary of the river, we crossed what seemed to be a temporary floating, wooden bridge. A little later an old woman, clothed from head to foot in black, came vigorously paddling a black canoe-like boat over the water. She stood with a slight stoop on some straw, her basket of green vegetables wedged just in front of her. Confidently balanced, she struck at the water with a simple, wooden stick, and the frail craft responded easily. She did not look up, but her determined and wrinkled face spoke of a lifetime of hard, healthy work.
When we arrived back at the Adriatic coast, we began to look for a suitable place to stop. Having tried one or two possibilities, we soon realised how restricted we were going to be as a result of not having the four-wheel drive. Some tracks undoubtedly led to fine beaches, but we dared not drive down them for fear of getting stuck. One place, however, appeared to be reasonably suitable. We bedded down in the Land Rover just after dark, a crescent moon shimmering between the olive trees. A few minutes later it seemed, we were awake in the brilliant morning light. It was so warm that we decided to have a swim before breakfast then, having eaten, we packed the Land Rover ready for travelling. It was just as well that we had taken the morning leisurely because we had plenty of hard work in store for us.
Starting the engine, we moved forward a few yards and then came to an incline. It was not steep, but the front wheels began to spin and I was forced to stop. Letting the Land Rover roll back a short way, I made another attempt. It was useless, the wheels continued to spin, all the weight was over the back, and there was not even room to turn round and approach the road in reverse. The next move was to transfer as much weight as possible to the front. Heaving out all our belongings we tried again, with Audrey sitting on the bonnet, but it was still no good.
The only solution was to build another surface on which the front wheels would be able to grip. Slowly we formed two tracks by carrying boulders and smaller stones to the site Each wheel was jacked up three or four times in an effort to place flat stones beneath them, but, at every attempt, the stones were thrown backwards as the wheels spun. After working for three hours we had gained a further six feet.
A German car pulled up close by, and the occupants prepared a picnic lunch. As we sweated, they drank cool, tinned beer, watching us all the while, intrigued by our efforts. Now I admit that I was hot, sticky and uncomfortable, but I was not, in any real sense angered by our predicament. We had, after all, as much time as was necessary. If it was going to take ten hours at our present rate of two feet per hour to make the road, then I, for one, was determined to stick at it. However, as the couple continued watching, I did begin to resent their presence. Just as this was beginning to show, the husband came over to see if he could help, bringing with him two small wooden chocks. I knew that they would be useless, but he obviously thought otherwise, and put them behind the vehicle. Each time the chocks flew away, sending with them a shower of small stones. Somewhat dejected he returned to his Mercedes. As he did so a lorry approached and he instinctively hailed it down. A steel towing wire was produced and we were pulled out within ten minutes.
The road from Metkovic to Split is one that affords some wonderful scenery. Steep, grey mountains sweep down to small villages and delightful beaches and the blue waters of the Adriatic are sprinkled with islands.
Split boasts the most important architectural monument in Croatia, the mighty palace of the Emperor Diocletian. It is incredibly large, covering over thirty thousand square yards, and is surrounded by a massive wall. Another prominent feature of the old town is the splendid bell tower of the cathedral, which marks the position of Diocletian’s mausoleum. Immediately outside the Golden Gate, the principal entrance to the Palace was a colossal black statue sculpted by Mestrovic. The figure is of Bishop Gregory of Nin, the priest and the patriot, who fought for the right of the Slavs to speak their own language in church. Half-hidden by trees, the cloaked figure looks stern, almost menacing. His large sinewy hand clasps the text of the Slavic Liturgy that, with an expression of unyielding intensity, he appears to be reading.
From Split we continued to Trogir, a medieval town, set on a small island once called Goat Island, which can be reached from the mainland by a bridge. It was very hot when we were there, the fierce sun shone brightly on the grey stonework of solid towers and city walls, and we instinctively sought shade by the Cathedral of St. Lawrence on the northern side of the market square. The carved portal of this cathedral carried out by Radovar, is considered to be the most important example of Romanesque sculpture in Dalmatia. Two lions, projecting from each side of the door, immediately catch the eye. Above one is Eve, above the other, Adam. The carving is astoundingly intricate, and depicts various scenes from the life of Christ, as well as many of the seasonal occupations of village life in Yugoslavia in the thirteenth century.
As a hotel, with the finest outlook across the Adriatic, our Land Rover could not be bettered. That night we stopped near Primosten, where we had a wonderful view of some offshore islands, set like gems in the tranquil bay. The sun began its gradual descent as we whiled away the evening watching the shimmering sea.
After shopping in the market of Sibenik early next morning, we walked along the quayside, hoping to get someone to ferry us to the island of Zlarin which is known for its sponge divers and coral fishermen. The normal ferry service, which called at several other islands, was not due to leave until half-past one, but we noticed several people climbing down into a small motorised boat. We called out to the young man in charge, asking if he was going to Zlarin and, as luck would have it, he was. One of the passengers had spent some time in the United States. Consequently, he could speak the English quite well. He had retired to Zlarin, considering that his life would be prolonged by at least ten years with the clean air and quietness of the island as opposed to busy city life with all its worries.
An hour and a half later we stepped out on to a deserted quayside. The young man who owned the boat would not accept any payment from us, nor did he charge the local inhabitants for the journey. He lived on Zlarin, and, whenever he had to travel to and from Sibenik, he welcomed anyone else travelling his way.
As we walked along the harbour wall, we passed an old, stone well, with ropes hanging over the side. The coping stones were deeply grooved, and had been polished smooth over the years by the continual wear of the ropes, as bucket after bucket had been pulled up.
An old man walked towards us and tried to converse for a while in German, before leading us to another man who was busily painting a gate. After we had been introduced, we were pleased and surprised to be greeted in English.
“Come inside my house – said the man, whose name was Antoni – we must have a drink.”
On the way up the path, he pointed out his grapes and early figs. Over a friendly drink of homemade wine and some biscuits, Antoni told us how he had spent much of his time in America.
“My son and daughter are still there now. Here are some photographs of them. Now I have retired and I have a good pension.”
We imagined that his pension would probably be far in excess of what he could use. His house was certainly the most modern on the island, with up-to-date equipment, including an electric cooker, a washing-up machine, television and a bath.
“Over recent years the population of Zlarin has dropped from two thousand, eight hundred people to nine hundred. The younger generation prefer to work in the towns where they can earn more money”.
“What about coral fishing?”– We asked.
“Not so many men do it now”– he answered.
“You see? The work is very dangerous. A man has to dive to a depth of about three hundred feet to find the coral. It is not the diving season now, but perhaps you would like to see how the coral is processed. I will take you to the house where you can see the people working.”
The workshop was not far from Antoni’s home and was in the upper part of an old house. On a balcony were strewn great mounds of white camomile flowers.
“They will dry here in the sun – Antoni explained – then they will be used to make a special tea: camomile tea. It is very good for the stomach.”
A pure white cockerel, with scarlet comb, stood regally on a window ledge, surveying us as we entered. There were only two people working, a man and a woman, although we were told that in the summer there would be enough for ten people to be kept busy. The man was painstakingly drilling small holes into the hard, red limbs of coral, using a primitive bow and string to turn the drill. In front of him on the bench was a small wooden barrel, slightly tilted forward to give a continuous trickle of lubricant that cooled the drill. Completely absorbed in his work, he stopped only to sharpen his tools. The girl sat at another bench, filing small pieces of coral to fit necklaces or bracelets. After filing about a kilo of the coral it was put into a canvas bag with some abrasive powder, then rubbed and rolled about by hand for several hours. This was a very laborious process, but when highly polished, the coral had a beautiful colour.
As we returned to the quayside we passed beneath a white mulberry tree, and Antoni picked us a handful of the fruit. Outside a nearby house sat a group of women. Antoni introduced us to his wife who was among them and asked how we liked her costume. It was, indeed, an attractive one, consisting of a long black skirt and a white long-sleeved blouse, over which she wore a black bolero piped with red. A kerchief covered her head.
“It is the costume of Zlarin”– said Antoni.
We sat talking with him for a while as we waited for the ferryboat to arrive. It was on time with many school-children aboard, who got off at the different stops we made at other islands, no doubt having completed a day’s schooling on the mainland.
Next morning we awoke to the sound of the cuckoo, a sound that we had heard nearly every day over the last week or two. Once again we had been sleeping in the Land Rover, which we had parked on a very convenient level stretch of old road. While we were having breakfast, a couple of men appeared from the scrub on one side of the track. They knelt down and proceeded to lift up what looked like a manhole cover. I went along to see what they were doing, and found that they were tapping into a main water supply pipe that followed the course of the old road.
A short chat with them disclosed that they were from Rijeka, but were living away from home to tend their beehives, which were nearby. They invited us along to see them and soon we were making our way through the rough, gorse-covered scrubland. The older man, Pavao, continually struck the ground ahead of him with a long stick to disturb any lurking snakes, and was most concerned because we were wearing open sandals. Glancing at his feet, we noticed that he had very tough, thick-soled boots.
Set amongst a profusion of wild flowers was their small shack, which was only just large enough for them to sleep in. Around it two or three-dozen hives were scattered, which for ease of identification were painted in two colours, Pavao’s in red, and Ivan’s in green. Pavao led us directly to one of his hives, took off the lid and lifted out one of the honeycombed sections for us to see. Then he provided Audrey with a wide-brimmed hat, which had a protective net to cover the face and invited her to inspect any of the other hives. Of course, Ivan’s hives had to be admired also, so as not to give the impression that we favoured one more than the other.
We spent some time talking with them both, commending them on their workmanship, for they had made all the hives and the shack themselves. They made us understand that the area they had chosen was a very good one, and that they enjoyed their life out in the country. This we could see for ourselves, but it amused us when they jokingly implied that they were glad to get away from their wives. Their parting gift to us was a very large honeycomb, which lasted for weeks, even though we had some each day. It was a perfect food and absolutely delicious.
Rijeka is an important shipyard and port. We spent a morning there, which we felt quite sufficient, looking around a huge, covered market place and strolling beside the harbour. Out at sea ships invariably look insignificant, but as we walked along the quayside beneath giant rope and steel hawsers, and gazed up at the massive hulls, we realised their immense size.
Passing through Postojna, where the famous caves are, we continued to Ljubljana. Capital of Slovenia, it presents an attractive number of buildings, particularly in the old quarter where the baroque style predominates. An arcaded porch and clock-tower of the city hall, the fountain with its tall obelisk, the square bell-towers, and even the castle on the hill give an air of Imperial luxury. One began to sense the groundwork of the Austrian State.
It was quite delightful by the Ljubljanica River, but the reflections of the balconied houses and cascading willow trees sent us into a pensive mood. We knew that we were nearing the end of our venture and would soon be arriving at more conventional holiday resorts. Already we had noticed an increase in the number of cars on the new wider roads and, as we approached Maribor there was a continual stream of traffic. Quite suddenly we felt caught up in the tourist rush, and realised that we were all but home; the unexpected would probably not happen to us again. There was so much beautiful scenery ahead of us, yet the sense of adventure was somehow lost.
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