Macedonia's hidden gem: Lake Ohrid
Why do so few Brits visit this beautiful lake? A tale of a lake, its fish, a drunken boatman, a monastery and cold beer.
Why do so few people visit Macedonia?
This former republic of Yugoslavia seems to be missing out in visitors where its northern counterparts, such as Croatia, Slovenia and even Montenegro go from strength to strength. Macedonia was my 95th country. JC, who I met on the airport bus, beat me. It was his 106th. Given that its capital Skopje is only a two hour flight from the UK, and Wizz Air has been offering budget flights for a while, it seemed to me it had to be one of two things. Was it a case of Macedonia having nothing worth visiting, or, if not, it did and we just didn't know about it in the UK. Most people's reaction to my telling them about my trip was firstly to ask "where?" in varying states of incredulity and then mention Eurovision, and not in a good way. It turned out that international tourism had collapsed during the inter-ethnic conflicts a decade ago and hadn't yet recovered. Time to help them out, then...
First signs were good. My ageing Eastern Europe on a Shoestring guidebook (I must replace it!) stated categorically that there was no airport bus to the city, yet the desk was fairly obviously located by the revolving door and the ticket was a much more budget-friendly fare than the thirty or so Euros quoted for a taxi. JC occupied the other front seat and a rag tag group of Brits took up some of the back. Spirits were high. Most of the other passengers from our plane were either locals or married to locals, judging by the number of reunions taking place in front of the coach and the number of small children being held up for inspection. Soon we were off into the city and, not long after, deposited outside a restaurant on the opposite bank of the river to the Holiday Inn, which, I had been told, was very close to my much more low key guesthouse. JC and I got out to investigate. Our hunch was correct, as we were at the Restaurant Anja and needed the Hotel Anja. The bus driver was mortified at his error, though we reassured him that we were all enjoying the unscheduled guided tour of Skopje. When we retraced our steps to the Holiday Inn, the driver was so keen to ensure we didn't get lost, he accompanied us down the pedestrian precinct and delivered us to the front door on foot. This was to be typical of Macedonian hospitality.
JC and I were the only guests checking in, and were warmly welcomed with a cold beer whilst check-in formalities were completed. Each of us presented a confirmation and a passport, which were duly studied and taken off to get us registered. One cold beer turned into another and then a convivial dinner swapping tales of countries we recommended, but finally we decided it really was time to check out the rooms and say goodnight. Alas, the hotel manager had misunderstood our situation and brought us a single key. We had been familiar but not that familiar! Unfortunately, my room had a broken shower and was the last room left, but the manager relocated me to their sister hotel and, the following morning, was waiting in a taxi to bring me back for breakfast.
Unlike JC, I hadn't come for Skopje, and instead was heading three hours' west on the bus to Lake Ohrid, a UNESCO world heritage site for its lake and cultural heritage. I had booked a bargain room in a small hotel in Ohrid's old town, which according to the ancient Lonely Planet, was a short walk across the port. Or rather, it would have been, had they not relocated it (probably years ago) to the other side of town. I'd like to say the hour's walk was pleasant, but UNESCO surely hadn't listed the part of town between bus station and hotel. It looked a mess! Eventually, after I'd almost lost all hope of ever seeing the lake, I stumbled upon the port and up a steep flight of steps to the street the hotel was on, courtesy of the man from the handmade paper-making shop who took pity on the poor English girl who had clearly had enough of being lost. The hotel receptionist took one look at me and pointed me in the direction of the only ground floor bedroom - in her opinion, she said, I'd had enough steps for one day.
After a wash and a lie-down, I was ready to explore Ohrid, though decided to start with the flat bits. No sense in overly-exerting myself, I thought, eyeing the lakefront cafes. The lake is one of the oldest and deepest in Europe and has many endemic species, none of which I'd recognise. Before long, I found myself settling back into a most cosy armchair with a cold beer in hand, watching the tiny little Ohrid fish wriggle about in the harbour waters and an exuberant young golden retriever pup having a refreshing swim nearby, muzzled so he didn't munch on them. One beer led to another and then to a plate of tasty pork fillet (why do we settle for the dry, hard meat in our own supermarkets?). Eventually, having let that go down, and feeling the sun burning my face, I figured it was time for a wander.
Ohrid Old Town's lanes are perfect for aimlessness. Full of beer and pork, I was perfectly happy to wander without a map or any real sense of purpose. I pottered across cobbles, waved to the builders patching an old wreck, explored the frescoes in the beautiful Sveti Sofija church and watched the children dart in and out of the churchyard sprinklers. Gradually, I made my way uphill, past three tiny Fiats in red, white and green, parked up to form a perfect Italian flag and reminding me of the chase around Turin - this, I chuckled to myself, was the Macedonian Job - too hot and cobbly to be bothered chasing anything. One or two people were out and about and called out a friendly greeting. Most wanted to know if I was Dutch. I reached the top of the hill and one of the gates to the Old City. I ceremoniously exited and entered but had one eye on the Citadel a short way up the hill. Puffing and panting, I was the only visitor and, once breath would allow, I climbed up the steps to the castle walls and took in the view of the lake. That was the breath gone again, then!
Downhill was definitely easier on the lungs if not on the knees. I felt obliged to call in at the Sveti Kliment church because my guesthouse was named after that particular saint. To be honest, I was all churched out, but very happy to explore the back alleys on my way back to the port. As it was now early evening, holidaymakers and locals alike were congregating for a drink and a chat back at the harbourfront cafes. Boatmen called across halfheartedly offering rides but seemed happy to chill under their canopies.
The following morning, I set off for the small village of Sveti Naum, 28km around the lakeshore. I had toyed with the idea of taking a boat, but it left at 8am and I was still ploughing through my enormous guesthouse breakfast long after that. So, after haggling for a taxi, I set off in the company of an excitable septugenarian driver in a straw hat. Undaunted by the language barrier, he chattered on for most of the drive, pausing only to park up at a viewpoint to a museum on stilts and refusing to move until I'd admired it and taken its picture. At Sveti Naum, we pulled up in the gravel car park and then I headed into the village on foot. "Village" was a bit of an exaggeration, for Sveti Naum was more of a straggle of shacks selling tourist paraphernalia intermixed with cafes. A bridge crossed the point where springs fed the lake. At the end of the path was the monastery, the reason for my visit.
Sveti Naum monastery was established in 905 by Saint Naum who came from Ohrid. It was acquired for a short time by Albania, situated today right on the border, but after 13 years King Zog gave it back to Yugoslavia. Arriving before the tourist boat (it may have left at eight but the car was considerably faster), I paid my entrance fee and studied the frescoes inside the tiny chapel without company, marvelling at the effort that had gone into painting every inch of the ceiling and walls. Various portraits can be seen, most dating from the 19th century, but there are also other paintings that tell the tales of Saint Naum and his miracles, with names such as "The petrified monk who tried to steal the body of Saint Naum from his tomb" and "The bucket leaves a hole in the stone". The artwork was magnificent, but I am none the wiser as to what the stories are all about.
The tourists had disembarked their boat, after being instructed in French, German, Dutch and Italian to be sure to return not later than 2.30pm, and were starting to wander into the monastery. I left them, and the courtyard peacocks, to potter back down to the cafes and enjoy a cold juice by the beach. Small boats touted for passengers, though one unfortunate managed to tangle his rudder in some plastic and was stranded for a time, while he fixed the damage. Given that the lake was reasonably clean, he was rather unlucky. The lack of customers in the cafe, just one, and the gentle lapping of the lake onto the shingle, meant that once again I was lazing around in the sunshine doing nothing. What a great place! I dragged myself away eventually to catch a bus back to Ohrid, watching a taxi driver convince three Americans to take a ride with him due to the lack of public transport just five minutes before the bus departed. They may have had the right idea, however, as the bus driver was more than a little reckless on the curves, took a detour to the border to chat to his mate and blew cigarette smoke down the bus all the way back to Ohrid. Local colour, I think they call it.
All that sitting around was exhausting, so as soon as I got back to Ohrid I headed back to the harbour cafes for a late lunch. The boatmen were persuasive and I found myself in the company of Christopher, charmingly clad in white slacks and white patent shoes, with a jaunty captain's hat to top off the ensemble. He fired up the engine and we headed twenty or so metres out into the lake. He then cut the engine and proceeded to swig from a half-empty bottle of grape brandy. I'd read a warning about careless cigarettes but hadn't thought to smell his breath. Despite (or because of) the fact that he was more than a little drunk, he was good company, telling me lots of facts about the lake and periodically taking us a little further along the shore. At one point, he pulled in towards a small cave. Near the shore, stood a rough looking man paddling in the shadows with a can of beer in his hand. This, it turned out, was Christopher's friend and the cave was their den. He invited me in, though I thought it prudent to decline, as there was no access to the cave by land should I have needed to leave them to it. Christopher looked disappointed as we waved goodbye and headed back to town. As I disembarked, he wished me a good day and implored me to return, this time with a girlfriend for him. I said I'd do what I could.
From the boat, I'd spotted a walkway at the foot of the cliff that led to a beach. It was full of people having fun and there was a cafe with an upper deck that had a great view of the lake. Once again, I found myself relaxing with a beer. Tomorrow, I was off to Albania, I thought, but I would definitely return. This Macedonian life of messing about on boats and watching the fish from an armchair was pretty addictive...
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