We’re on the Sarandë express! A 30 minute small fast passenger ferry from Corfu Town to Sarandë, Albania. We loved exploring the inner mountainous spine of Corfu and the rocky northern coastline. After a sunrise wake up on the beach and a dip in the sea we’d ridden back to the main town via a beautiful mountain road. We’d been offered figs by a man and his daughter. I’d managed to squeeze in a final Corfu ginger beer.

Now I was braced against the splashing waves and sea spray at the back of the boat looking back at the island.

Arriving in Sarandë we queued up for customs at the port taking in the bay of this new country, such a short stretch away from Corfu, Greece but with a radically different history. Cut off for over 40 years due to a strict and brutal communist regime under dictator Enver Hoxha, Albania has only recently been open to tourists. I wondered what it was like for the fisherman on the coast of Sarandë and Ksamil watching all the yachts and ferries full of holiday makers pass through the narrow strait to Greece.

There’s a fervent opportunistic feel to this stretch of coastline. A ramshackle looking police boat was moored next to a small boat optimistically named “Bora Bora” offering trips to parasol and sunbed covered beaches. 

The leopard print sofa in front of the passport control office was also a nice touch. 

Once through customs we went and bought a “Tourist pack” SIM card strategically placed at the exit of the port (Albania, not in the EU has astronomical roaming charges) and took cash out, trying to get our head around the euro conversion to Albanian Lek. 

We rode a little further south along the coast overtaken by flashy cars with number plates we’re less used to seeing in France: Poland, republic of Kosovo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Romania, Czech Republic, lots of German and even more Italian, all making the most of the booming Albanian Riviera. 

Arriving into Ksamil we were expecting a small fishing village as stated in our guidebook. Well our guidebook (2019) needs a little updating- Ksamil is now a concrete construction site sprawl, or “the wannabe Ibiza for those who can’t afford it” according to an Italian we met. Buzzing, we took in the hustle bustle and flashy dusty chaos, a little overwhelmed and wondering where we were going to stay. We identified a couple of “camping” site options. It turns out the campsite is someone’s dusty back yard or rooftop. 

A man named Alexander, came up to us clearly identifying our bewilderment, asking modestly if he could help us. In an impeccable English he offered his rooftop which we politely declined. He told us how he had worked in England in the 90s helping construct the Old Stafford stadium commercial centre in Manchester and what a nightmare it had been working in inches and feet. He waited for my response about where I came from and if I’d ever been to Manchester (I haven’t!) before stating flatly “Well don’t [go]. The weather was terrible”. He then kindly gave us an address to eat good mussels and fish before seeing us off.

The fish restaurant was tucked away from the tourist babble. It was more like a fisherman’s open air diner: freshly caught produce cooked on a large grill. It was absolutely delicious and incredibly cheap. 

We found another campsite option but further out of the town, hoping to get away from the noise. 

Elvira’s back garden was delightful. She lived with her multigenerational family in a tiny old white cottage where the biggest part of the two room property was taken over by a mini market shop selling the essentials. The shower and toilet and washbasin was on the opposite side of the garden, made up with recuperated tiles. I loved it. They’d spruced up the garden with hanging lights and some tables and chairs for the campers. Unfortunately, just as we were settling into our sleeping bags, music from a nearby house (or club?) started blaring. All the errand dogs from the whole valley took this as their cue to start up their chorus of relentless barking. Needless to say it wasn’t our best nights sleep.