Hotel California, Berat

After a good nights sleep, surviving Ben's smelly feet (which is probably the most hazardous event of all my travels to date - bar the Israeli gun in my face in Nablus) and a hearty breakfast of cheese, grape jam and savoury doughnuts 'a la casa Tomor' we set out on a trudge up the many cobbled and winding alleyways of Berat, not unlike the winding paths and steps my Gran would lead us up and down in the Welsh valleys when I was a boy. If we had only glanced at a map for an instant we would have known none of these winding alleyways we were exploring would end up at the castle but it did make for excellent exercise for the buttocks.

Barat is a little gem tucked neatly into a deep valley. Its traditional houses climbing the steep hillsides on either side of the river and its newer suburbs drifting up and down the valley with its stark socialist architecture, squares and promenades. Crowning the town is an Ottoman castle which still hosts a thriving neighbourhood within its fortified walls.

The mountain top presented stunning views of the valley beneth us, byzantine churches, socialist monuments, a sheep on a leash on its daily stroll and a very pretty cow enjoying the lush grass of the Kasbah.

Rain threatened so it was time to head back down the mountain and head to our next town. However, if you want to leave Barat you do so in the morning, which was one minor detail we had omitted to investigate beforehand so after bidding a confused Tomor goodbye (and watching him ride around town on his bicycle looking for his next guests) grabbing a bite to eat and scratching our heads at the bus stop, we found ourselves on our way back to the distillery which is 'la casa Tomor'.

Being blissfully unaware of the bus timetables did ensure we got to see some real life here, including kids playing football (or Soccer as every Englishman knows its really called) and aged women nimble as mountain goats in high heels making their way up the cobbled steps to their houses in the sky. It's on this walk one such aged old lady clad all in black (and funky runners) take great amusement at watching Ben take one of his many slips and trips... and it was with great pride that a local lad of about 7 or 8 practiced on us his only phrase in English, 'Fuck You!' - I was giggling too much to return the favour.


On our arrival back at the house, still protected by the all knowning all seeing Smurf, we were greeted with a plate of rich sticky grapes from the vine, laced with honey and moonshine; 'you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave'.