Amazing Albania: Not Just Another Riding Holiday

 By Justine Fourny

Freshly framed and sat on my nightstand is a picture from my most recent horse riding holiday, the Sea and Mountains of Albania. It’s a photo of my horse Dori and I at Borsh Castle —aptly positioned so I can look at it every day.

I’ve been put off writing a blog about the trip, partly because I was worried that words just wouldn’t be enough to capture the myriad of emotions I felt during that week of gallivanting around Albania. You see, it wasn’t just another European adventure or horse-riding holiday. It was a mind-blowing experience, and I’m still feeling the comedown from such a high.

On the first Saturday of May, I’m at Tirana airport, dragging my heavy suitcase behind me like a limping dog. There’s already a girl standing close by, leisurely smoking a cigarette while having a loud conversation on the phone. I can feel drops of sweat trickling down my spine and my hair is set in a tight bun. I can’t lie, I’m not looking my best. I’m tired from travelling, exhausted from the past week at work and most of all I don’t know if I can summon the strength to engage with strangers.

I try a timid “hello”.  She’s off the phone, suddenly looking at me and smiling. We exchange our first names and confirm with each other that we are both heading on the same trip. By the time the others arrive, we are deep in conversation about Parisian life.

There are eight other guests coming with us, including a group of seven middle-aged British and American friends who’ve previously been on numerous rides together. The other “solo” traveller, Hannah, is another girl of a similar age to us. We’re split into two cars, and the second half of the day is spent traveling to Gjirokastër, a UNESCO World Heritage Site located about three hours south of Tirana. During the drive, we get to learn a bit about everyone’s reason for coming on this trip. I can’t help but feeling a bit anxious overall—I’ve not ridden in a while, my most recent experience of riding being in an indoor arena, going around in circles. So many factors are contributing to my stress levels—I don’t know if I’m fit enough to stay on the horse for an entire week, I don’t know if I’ll get on with the other guys, and I’m also low-key worried that I didn’t bring the right equipment. You see, I packed at the last minute, and I can’t remember exactly what I decided to bring in the end.

The first night is spent at a medieval-looking hotel, tucked in the town centre of Gjirokastër. The rooms are shared, and I’m paired up with Amandine, the other French girl. We get a few hours of free time before dinner, during which three of us (the single ladies) wander around the streets of the old town and explore the castle, until we settle for an iced coffee at the restaurant with the best panoramic view over the whole valley. It turns out the first group dinner is booked at the same place, so we don’t have to go far.

This is our first encounter with Aurel and Kristina, the owners of Caravan Riding Holiday. Aurel is a charming man with good manners, while Kristina, our guide for the week, commands attention. One by one, she asks everyone around the table about their riding ability, and what type of horse they are looking for. She will try her best to find the ideal teammate for all the guests, which shouldn’t be too difficult a task knowing that they have a fleet of over forty horses. When she listens to you, you can tell she’s really interested in what you’re saying. She looks at you with her piercing blue eyes, swallows the information, dissects it in her brain, before she replies with a straight-to-the-point answer. A journalist by background, her English is close to perfect. She’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, with a strong personality. An inspirational woman, who’s decided to forge her own path despite many obstacles. Over the course of the week, she’ll share with us some fascinating stories of communist times, regional battles and political wars—all of them true.

The plates keep coming out of the kitchen, the wine is kept free-flowing, and by the end of the night we’re already well acquainted with each other. But the main event is for the next day, when we finally get to meet with our respective horses. As such, we go to bed with a mixture of excitement and anticipation.

When we arrive at the headquarters of Caravan Horse Riding, all the horses are already tacked up. There’s no time to waste, so once everyone is in the saddle, Kristina leads the group off to a trot—except there’s a problem. My horse is lame! I get off almost immediately, and Aurel orders the rest of the staff to tack up another horse. “Same pace, less grumpy”, he tells me with a smile. The horse that I’m now going to ride is called Dori. He’s a dark bay gelding, well-proportioned, with kind eyes and expressive ears—right now they’re saying something like, “You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought I was going to rest, what’s going on?”. I’m a little apprehensive, but he seems like he’s got a good heart.

I’ll learn from Kristina that “dori” is an ancient Albanian word meaning “brown horse”. Years ago, she found Dori on the side of the road, hanging onto life by a thread. She bought him and brought him back to shape until he could take part in the trail rides. Most of her horses have been bred on-site, but there are a few others like Dori, whom she’s rescued. Now that he’s in good form, Dori’s favourite pastime is organising escapes—if we’re having a break, he loves leading the other horses off the beaten path, while nobody’s looking.

Dori is shorter than the horses I’ve been riding recently, and it takes me a few hours to adjust my position, but the saddle is the most comfortable thing I’ve ever sat on, with a padded seat. We all ride in a line, with Kristina at the front, and Olti, the second guide, at the back. Olti is a man of few words. It’ll take some time to crack the surface, but after learning some of the Albanian lingo, we’re like best friends. He’s riding at the back to keep an eye on the group and to chase off unwanted guard dogs, wild horses, and anything that could threaten the peace of the environment we’re in. If I wasn’t on his team, I wouldn’t risk confronting him—I would know that there’s no chance of winning.

And so, we set off at a good pace, even for the first day. The first canter is across a field of flowers, with the mountains in the background. I’m holding on to the reins for dear life, until I realise that there’s no need. Dori is sure-footed, he’s not going to trip, and he’s not going to spook. What I would deem as “unexpected”, he doesn’t even look at. We pass flocks of sheep, goats, donkeys, cows, and he doesn’t care. None of them do. Little by little, I let go of my anxiety. I’m in a safe space. Yes, this is still a living animal, and I can’t anticipate all of his reactions; but I can let myself breathe and really be in the present moment.

Going forward, every day had a surprise in store. We usually woke up with the sound of the rain tapping on the windows, only to leave space for brilliant sunshine. I’ve still not recovered from the fact that our fastest gallops were on concrete roads, sometimes uphill. Everything I’d learned not to do in riding schools was swept away in an instant. Our horses were like mountain goats, scrambling over rocks and stones to reach almost nauseating heights—if you have vertigo, this is definitely not the trip for you—and I forged a bond with Dori like no other before.

You can’t control mountain horses; you have to let them evaluate the terrain and analyse the situation to make the best decision. So many times we walked a path so narrow that there was barely enough space for one horse, with a cliff on either side. You could see their tiny feet—protected by tailor-made shoes—testing each step. They seemed confident in their own ability to navigate the adverse conditions.

I’m not going to tell you what we did every day—I will let you find out for yourself. What I will tell you, though, is that the best part of this trip was staying with the local families, who welcomed the group of riders with open arms. Their houses were usually ornated with different trinkets to ward off the “evil eye”. Most of them didn’t speak a word of English; so we resorted to the use of Google Translate, miming and pointing at things. After months of eating Tesco ready meals, it was a blessing to be fed fresh food from their garden—usually a mix of vegetables, feta cheese and home-made “crepes” or omelettes—along with a heavy pour of “raki”, a type of alcohol made with grapes. Each meal was like the last supper, with an extravagant buffet of entrees, mains and desserts. In Lazarat—a town ravaged by the consequences of the marijuana trade commandeered by the state in the nineties—we even took part in a cooking class delivered by Lori, our lovely host.

I discovered during this trip that a lot of my assumptions about things, from the country to my own abilities, were wrong. For example, I’d always considered myself bad at dancing, but with a bit of liquid courage, and a steady hand to guide me, here I was, twirling with our hosts and the guides on “Valle Treshe”, having the time of my life. Aurel’s words from the first night resonated in my ears, “to dance, you need to drink, because when you’re drunk, you’re being honest”.

I will always remember our first glimpse of the sea, as we were descending from Borsh Castle in the mountains, towards Piqeras on the coast. Some days, I close my eyes and try to picture the yellow flowers of the Jerusalem sage all around me. I try to taste the saltwater between my teeth, and I picture the waves crashing on an empty beach. You can try to hold on to a moment, but once the moment is passed it’s gone forever; only the memory of it remains. And memories are not set in stone; they evolve and change each time we revisit them, or tell someone about them. The story you tell yourself is the one you’ve created out of the multitude of memories you’ve manufactured for the keeping.

On the last day, when we arrived back at Caravan Horse Riding, there was no stopping the tears. I couldn’t believe that after so many months spent thinking about this trip and planning it, it was well and truly over. As I undid the girth and removed the saddle from Dori’s back, I felt a mixture of sadness and gratitude. I was grateful for the sense of community I had felt with the rest of the group. These people were now more than friends, they were life companions. I was grateful for the generosity of all the people we’d met throughout the week—from our hosts, to our guides, to the people we’d passed on the streets of villages, all waving at us. Grateful for my horse, who’d carried me safely from the mountains to the shores and back, in one piece.

In the evening, we all went back to that same restaurant, Kodra, for dinner. Despite a strong feeling of “déjà-vu”, this night couldn’t have been more different than the first one—I felt like I had reconnected with my deeper self, and I was safe in the knowledge that everything, eventually, would be alright. If I could go on a solo trip to the remote countryside of Albania, survive the testing nature of the wilderness, and come out the other side with a new-found confidence, and friends for life, then I was sorted. As a surprise, Aurel talked the resident musicians into sharing the stage with me—as I played the guitar and sang in front of my friends, I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet.

I understand now why they deemed that ride “The Impossible Ride”. Kristina and Aurel based this adventure off King Skerdilajd’s expedition 2,300 years ago, and it took them several years to carve out the path for the horses and cherry-pick quality hosts who could accommodate a group of riders. What they’ve created is a very special experience for travellers—it’s a tugging feeling at your heart, a warm embrace. The next day, as we say our goodbyes, it doesn’t feel like an “adieu”, but more like an “au revoir” or “see you again”. I don’t think I’ve seen the last of Albania, and I certainly don’t think Albania has seen the last of me.

To find out more about our rides in Europe, please visit our website.

You can also contact us directly at info@equus-journeys.com or +44 (0)1905 388 977.

Want to see some of our best riding holiday photos and videos?  Please follow us on Instagram or Facebook, where you can also find more information about new rides and upcoming departures.