May 2024. Gjirokastër. Albania.
You left us sitting on piles of sand on the side of the SH72 road on the edge of Lushnje, where we’d now been for 3 hours.
praying silently for the 13:38 to turn up to take us to our third Albanian city of the trip in what sounded like Gyropasta.
If that bus failed to tip up I’d have attempted to walk across the dual carriageway to Hotel Kresco. which had rooms with a hot tub for £28, and headed back to the craft beer mecca of Tirana in the morning.
A low point, but don’t feel sorry for us; feel sorry for 27Bumblebees on Mumsnet.
I agree with F***OffTom. Incidentally, visit Mumsnet (or RetiredMartin Mansions) for proof that women swear more than men (except in Chelmsford).
At 13:32 that bus did turn up; good job we left that bar a few minutes early too. It looked awfully full, so getting the last two seats was a win. Albanian buses double up as courier services; this IKEA box took up the whole aisle.
Two hours in a 50 year old bus with an open door for air conditioning, but it was OK. Honest. We had a young guy the age of our lads from Quebec (wherever that is) called Simon for company, comparing notes on New Zealand and Albanian buses. Don’t believe what you read about young people; wherever I go they seem happy to chat to Old Codgers like us about anything.
The bus pulled up at a roundabout seemingly miles from the centre of Gjirokaster, so we stayed on for a minute before being dumped near the football ground at the foot of the hill, near a café called, appropriately, “Boho Beautiful People”. We gave that a wide berth.
It was immediately obvious why the bus doesn’t go any further as we climbed up a steep cobbled lane to rival Porlock Hill or Blake Street.
But at the top, it suddenly became all worthwhile.
And Mrs RM’s budget hotel choice had fantastic views to the hills and the castle.
But sadly, Hotel Sofra had no electricity.
We found this out as the elderly lady who showed us to our room said two words. “No current“. Over and over and over again. We had no idea whether she expected us to stay, or wanted us to leave, and Mrs RM’s Albanian stretched to “We cannot say, need to charge phones” over and over.
And then she tried to stop us leaving.
Embarrassingly, I had the room key in my pocket and was about to leave with it. While this unravelled Mrs RM went on Booking.com and found a replacement.
Actually, she booked Old Town far quicker than we found it, tucked away up steps behind the swimming pool of the neighbouring hotel, with directions pointing us only to a construction site.
Safe to say we were relieved to get a room key and WiFi code (12345678) an hour after arrival in town.
But what views ! And a joy of a cobbled town, reminiscent of Rye but with more German tourists. Once again, a surprising number of young couples and families in the old bazaar, more a collection of tourist tat and trattoria.
Mrs RM might have had a good look first; I just plonked down at the first outside table I saw.
I made a good choice, if I say so myself. Edua had a traditional platter for two with the best food of the trip, a half litre of Albanian red (£20 all in), and entertainment from two gurgling babies on both sides of the lane.
As I’m sure I’ve said before, you should NEVER have beer after wine.
retiredmartin 