Ignore Conde Nast Traveller. Ignore The Times. Ignore Ivanka Trump (always generally a good idea imo). Albania is not “Europe’s best kept secret” (I quite strongly suspect it might be its worst kept one). It is also in no way whatsoever “the Balkans’ answer to the Maldives”. Whoever wrote that has never been to the Maldives. Or, in all likelihood, to Albania. 

Charlie and I, on the other hand, have been here for several weeks - and despite everything I just said, we’ve been having a lovely time. Still, it did take some getting used to. On arrival to the resort town of Ksamil, we were greeted not - as advertised - by the white sand and blue water of a desert island, but instead by a landscape reminiscent of the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan (if you replaced the allied troops with teenagers on jet-skis and party boats shaped like pirate ships). 

Even the quieter spots posed a problem. Being somewhat straight, the Albanian coastline lacks any significant shelter, meaning that when you drop anchor you’re likely to get pummelled by strong winds and swell. Also, there are lots of fish farms, which it’s really not advisable to swim near (unless you’re into fish faeces - no judgement here). And that’s just the tip of the shitberg. After anchoring off the small town of Himarë, we bumped into a guy who lives full-time on a 40ft boat with his wife and kids (aged five and two, god help him) - and he advised us against swimming altogether given the volume of sewage he’d seen siphoned into the sea. Just like being at home!

Still, I’d heard that wonderful things awaited us further inland - such as the Ottoman fortress of Gjirokaster, an hour or so’s drive away. So, we rented a Toyota Yaris and headed for the hills. The journey was heavenly - featuring mountains, goats and highly confident road users who thought nothing of overtaking around corners with a sheer drop on one side. Mercifully, we made it to Gjirokaster without any major incidents - and very much enjoyed strolling around its cobbled streets and impressive castle (well, I did. Charlie doesn’t really understand “strolling” as a concept. He just marches on without looking at anything, then says “right, castle done - where’s lunch?”). 

Feeling optimistic, we returned to the Toyota and ventured forth to the Blue Eye, a magical-looking natural spring and Albania’s #1 attraction. The surrounding infrastructure was highly impressive: enormous car park, shiny concrete footpath, myriad vendors selling fridge magnets - and even a little train for those who don’t fancy the mile-long walk to the spring. Tempted though we were by the choo choo, Chazzle and I decided to brave a hike in the 37C heat - both excited to reward our efforts with a dip in the crisp blue waters of the sparkling lake. We arrived, however, to discover that it was really more of a small pond. And - to add insult to injury - swimming was forbidden (we may or may not have jumped in anyway).

Undeterred, we booked bus tickets - there being no trains in Albania - to the capital, Tirana, a few days later. Having endured two steamy coach rides, we raced to the Luara bakery to replenish our sugar levels with a slice of trileche - a type of Albanian sponge soaked in cream and milk, then slathered in caramel for good calorific measure (which imo is reason enough to visit). 

But before I go off on a tangent about baked goods, it is, I think, worth a quick Albanian history lesson (stay with me here ppl). Ruled by those pesky Ottomans for 500 years, Albania only became independent in 1912 - before being promptly occupied by the Italians, then the Nazis during WWII - afterwards becoming a communist state. However, dictator Enver Hoxha was quite possibly even more of a lunatic than his neighbours - executing any Albanian caught trying to leave the country and banning car ownership. This meant that - until the fall of the regime in 1990 - Albanians existed in a sort of open-air prison, knowing little to nothing of the outside world. 

Fearing imminent nuclear attack, he also built a lot of bunkers (like literally 750,000 of them), which are still scattered across the country today. We visited one - BunkArt, in Tirana - which has been turned into a museum (albeit quite a chaotic, cramped and whiffy one). After a swift Charlie-style “stroll” through its corridors, we promptly made a break for it, before climbing up the city’s famous concrete pyramid (literally a concrete pyramid), then wandered past the national art gallery and museum - both closed for renovations - before hopping on the bus back to base. 

So, perhaps Albania didn’t deliver the cultural hit we’d been hoping for - but at least, we thought, the supermarkets would be cheap. A trip to Big Market - the nation’s premier food retailer, in the coastal town of Sarandë - quickly set us straight. Price-wise, Albanian food shops are en par with the artisan deli in Camberwell that sells jars of beans for £6.50 (miss u London). Except, instead of rustic displays featuring sourdough boules, Big Market skews more towards strip lighting and deli counters which almost exclusively serve spam. And yet! A packet of approximately three almonds sets you back €7(!). Appalled though I was, I bought several, as I’m on a self-imposed crisp ban until I’m able to exercise portion control. Also, we had VIP guests to feed. 

Our mates Alice and Tom were hotfooting over the boarder from Greece (where we had originally hoped to meet before Schengen rules scuppered our plans). Eager to give them an authentic Albanian experience, we met up at Sarandë’s one true gem: Lezet Halal Restaurant, where two can feast on okra stew, fried bream, stuffed aubergine, spinach pie and a fat wedge of trileche for €20. But they’d already had a sarnie at the airport, so we wrestled back through the crowds and returned to the Turtle.

Back on deck, we cracked open a beer and enjoyed the light shows kindly provided by the armada of pirate ships circling the bay - blasting Dua Lipa (a local, apparently) on top volume. Then, just we hit the hay, we were awoken by the sound of enormous explosions. Given that Albania is Europe’s shooting capital (they don’t put that bit in the brochure), I assumed we’d been caught in the crossfire between two rival gangs. But it turned out just to be a nearby megayacht letting off fireworks (as one does at 2AM off the coast of Sarandë).

Desperately seeking solitude, we returned south the following day - dropping anchor in a quiet bay near Butrint - a Roman city turned UNESCO World Heritage Site - which we somewhat miraculously had entirely to ourselves. A celebration was in order, so Charlie whipped up a batch of pinas and we drank them watching the sunset over Corfu (which cruelly sits opposite Albania, yet is very much claimed by Greece). Then, as if our day couldn’t get any better, we tasked Tom with picking a film and he plumped for the second greatest story ever told (after Troy starring Brad Pitt) (by which I obviously mean Gladiator) (but the three-hour-long extended edition). 

The following day - with the Gladiator soundtrack on full volume - we sailed north to Porto Palermo - a picturesque bay with a small dock, overlooked by a castle. Charlie and I had actually visited a few days prior to scope out the area and ended up becoming quite enmeshed within the local boat-owning community - even partaking in a quite extensive beach clean (I found a wing mirror and a pair of pants).

Key characters included The Captain - a burly man of few words, who proved immensely helpful in fixing our broken water maker and repeatedly invited me for a ride on his jet ski (I regretfully declined). Meanwhile, Simon, an intimidatingly self-assured 17-year-old, revealed to me his dreams of becoming a megayacht captain - and yet looked completely perplexed when I asked him if he’d seen Below Deck. There was also The Judge, who we are 99% sure was in fact a local crime boss, given that he’d frequently pull up in a blacked-out Bentley looking generally displeased, before hopping on a megayacht (ngl we did our best to avoid him).

We returned with Alice and Tom expecting to be welcomed like royalty. However, an enormous megayacht had taken up one entire side of the dock, meaning there was no room for the lowly Turtle. Mercifully, Alban - a friendly local guy we’d gotten to know the previous week - allowed us to tether our boat to his - even inviting us on board for a taste of his Albanian home-brew. He also gave us a quick update on the state of the Mafia (everywhere apparently - even using the adorable little cafe on the beach as a front) (which did make sense when we visited: v poor chips).

Still, we remained in Porto Palermo for a couple of days - swimming, snorkelling - and even creating our own special boat version of the Olympics. Categories included No-Arm Front Crawl, Floating (in which I dominated, although Alice - with her baby bump - was hot on my heels) and Swan Diving (Tom vg. I was graciously given three attempts after my first two resulted in belly flops). There was also Squidding (swimming like a squid) and - the most contentious of all events - Safety Diving (jumping in without letting your head go underwater: deceivingly difficult). Tom was fuming because the official technique he was taught during his Paddy diving course proved completely ineffective. Meanwhile, Charlie’s method of stepping out sideways and flapping his arms about yielded results every time. 

We spent our final evening with Al and Tom anchored off the town of Himarë. Feeling humbled by my poor performance in the Boat Olympics, I put on some club tunes and did some squats, while the others lay at the front of the boat and watched the jet-skiers zoom off into the sun set. To my delight, when Dario G’s Sunchyme (undisputed party banger) came on, the baby began quite violently thrashing about in Alice’s tummy, which we interpreted to mean he is a fan of trance classics (phew). Maybe if he’s lucky we’ll bring him back here one day - and if we do, I will 100% take him on a pirate ship party boat.