Guillaume Funck's Alps-Pakistan Diaries, Part 2. Montenegro – Albania – Greece
10-04-2026
#Team
Hello everyone,
It feels like it’s been six months since I last wrote anything, but in reality it’s only been about ten days!
After a more relaxed day in Dubrovnik, I continued south through Montenegro, past the magnificent Bay of Kotor and the Serpentine – those endless hairpin turns overlooking the southern-style fjord. I left late that day, so unfortunately I ended up driving through the night, but I found a great camping spot overlooking the bay by following a trail along the side of the road. It was still a bit windy, so I made sure to secure my tent really well so it wouldn’t blow away while I was setting it up! When I set off again the next day, I took the trail back to the road. It’s lined with wells 5–6 meters deep. I peeked inside. Yuck, that doesn’t make me want to step in there!
I hopped on my bike and finished the climb. After 1 or 2 km, I realized I didn’t have my glasses. I look everywhere. Nope, they’re not on me. I head back to the campsite. Still nothing. Damn it!! They must have fallen into the well I was leaning over. Sure enough, there they are, right at the bottom. I hesitate for a moment, then notice that a few bricks are missing from the well, which might let me climb down. Come on, I really need these glasses. It’s not very pleasant to put my hands on the moss-covered ledges, but it’s an easy climb down. A few minutes later, I’m out of that slimy hole again. All right, we can go now!
I continue south along Lake Skadar, on the border with Albania. I’d already been here almost 10 years ago while cycling through the Balkans, and it’s just as beautiful as ever! This time, I’m following the advice of my WarmShower hosts who are putting me up tonight, and I’m entering Albania illegally by taking a small road that runs along the lake to Shkodër. There’s no border checkpoint, but apparently they’ve already hosted over 300 cyclists who’ve passed through here and had no trouble leaving the country, so I’m taking their word for it. I arrive at the home of this American couple who spent their retirement on their bikes before finally settling in Albania. This is my first time using Warmshower, the app that lets cyclists on the road find lodging with one another, but I have several friends who’ve already stayed at this particular place, which is apparently almost legendary. When I arrive at Chuck and Susan’s place, I’m greeted by Nyam, a nomadic Mongolian cyclist, who opens the door for me. I step into a room filled with bikes beneath a spiral staircase leading upstairs, with handprints painted all over the walls by everyone who’s passed through here.
We go up and enter the apartment. I meet the two characters: Chuck, who must be in his seventies and has trouble walking; he wears lots of earrings and hasn’t lost an ounce of his humor or enthusiasm; and Susan, who makes sure everyone feels comfortable and knows the house rules—pragmatic at first glance, with a slightly mischievous air, and who quickly reveals her own share of madness. Tonight, in addition to Nyam, our guests include Fred and Baaska—an Italian man and a Mongolian woman traveling from Italy to Mongolia on a tandem bike—and Garance, who left Bordeaux five months ago for a bike tour of Europe. We have a great evening. Everyone tells their stories; we share tips and tricks, our mishaps... It feels good to meet such nice people like this. Our two hosts don’t take long to go to bed, and we keep chatting before finding a place to sleep. There’s no dorm or guest room, so we just settle wherever we can—on the floor or on a chair. I linger a bit in the morning to soak up the atmosphere a little longer, then I finally head out around noon, recharged and ready for what’s next!
To cross Albania, I follow the route Chuck recommended—it’s stunning, right in the middle of the Albanian Alps. We tend to forget just how mountainous this region is! People here are much more curious than in the previous countries, and I chat with several people every day—well, “chat” is a big word, but in any case, we communicate as best we can, mumbling a bit of English or German (which I don’t speak, haha). The kids in particular are super intrigued and regularly call out to me, “Hello, where are you going?”—they even step into the middle of the road to stop me and chat. Surprisingly (or not), they speak better English than their elders. I let them try out my bike and my glasses and hand them the GoPro. It’s the highlight of the day! The weather forecast had been pretty mediocre these past few days, but luckily I’ve managed to avoid the rain, even though it’s cooler than before. I ride through Macedonia for a few dozen kilometers before heading back into Albania along the beautiful Lake Ohrid, with its peaks freshly dusted with snow. I finally arrive in Greece. A few kilometers past customs, I feel like having my morning coffee, which I usually have after a good hour of cycling. I see it’s already 11 a.m. It’s crazy—I left a little before 8 a.m. and have only ridden 20 km. There was a bit of a line at the border and I took some forest trails, but still. I’m really dragging my feet this morning. I grab my coffee quickly and hurry a bit.
It’s only a few hours later that I realize there’s a one-hour time difference between Albania and Greece. I just gained an hour—yes! And on top of that, the clocks change tonight, so in just one day, the sun will set two hours later from my perspective! I’m really happy about that because the sun rising at 5:30 a.m. and setting at 6 p.m. wasn’t very practical. I tried to adjust on my own, but it wasn’t exactly a success, so it’s easier when everyone around me is doing it too.
Greece is just as beautiful as Albania, with a little less trash along the roads. And it’s very hilly, with snow-capped mountains always in the background. It’s been over three days since I left Chuck and Susan, and tonight I really need to recharge my power bank and everything else. So as night falls, I stop in a remote village and set out in search of a kind soul who might let me charge all that stuff overnight—or even offer me a shower? Oh yeah, a hot shower would be absolutely amazing. I approach the first person I see, but they aren’t very receptive to my request. I’ve had a long day; I’m exhausted and damp. I quickly start to feel the cold as I walk through the hamlet, which seems completely deserted. This really isn’t my favorite kind of moment. I picture myself back home, warm and cozy with my friends. What the hell am I doing here? I push that thought out of my head. I try to trust whatever life has in store for me. I knock on an old lady’s door, and she sends me to the bar; she tells me a story about school... Hard to follow. I walk into the bar, which, like everywhere around here, is filled almost entirely with older men. I feel a bit like I’m in that movie scene where the door opens, the conversations stop immediately, and everyone stares at the newcomer. And in this case, that’s me. I start explaining the situation in English; a slightly younger guy speaks a little. I tell him I’m going to Pakistan. Everyone starts whispering to each other in Greek. “He’s going to Pakistan!?” There’s a commotion, then they offer me a seat, a drink, and tell me they’re going to get the key to the old school so I can sleep there. I chat a bit with the guy in question. He even knows Grenoble for its soccer team, which surprises me because as far as I know, it’s really not very good. “It’s good for betting—they lose all the time!” Haha, okay, good to know. Someone comes back with a key, and they take me to see the school, which has now become a community hall. That’s all I need: a warm place with an outlet. No hot shower, unfortunately, but a sink with cold water. That’ll be enough to freshen up a bit and wash my clothes. I spend a little more time in the overheated bar chatting, but since there’s only one guy who speaks English, I head straight to bed.
The next day, a visit to Meteora is on the agenda, accompanied by quite a bit of pedalling. It’s true that the place is pretty wild, with those cute little monasteries perched on top of these monoliths. I visit the one at Varlaam. What a life it must have been back then, before there were stone bridges to get there. I imagine setting up communities of climbers and paragliders with a bunch of friends in a place like this—it would be wild!
On the other hand, these tourist spots are always a bit of a clash of travel styles. I don’t feel at all out of place amidst these crowds coming from all corners of the world, pouring out by the dozen from tour operator buses so everyone can take the same photo, in the same spot. “Okay, I’ve done Greece.” I kind of get the impression it’s exactly the same crowd as in Venice or Dubrovnik. I have a hard time understanding the concept. The upside is that everyone crowds into the same spots, and the rest of the country—at least during this season—is deserted.
I continue on my way across the plain south of Meteora. The following evening, I arrive at Yiannis’s place, another Warmshower host at the foot of Mount Parnassus, who lets me stay in his small, freshly renovated garden cottage—it’s super cozy. This time, I get to enjoy a real, hot shower, and I linger under it for a long time. The night before, I slept under the covered area of a municipal soccer field. It’s contrasts like this that I love about traveling. They add so much flavor to the simple things of everyday life.
When I wake up, I’m treated to a little guitar session by Yiannis and a friend of his. I’d love to stay much longer in this little paradise, but it’s the last day of good weather before several days of bad, and I prefer to rest when it rains, so I head to Athens where I take a day off—my first full rest day since Venice, after 17 days of cycling, 1,830 km, and 22,500 meters of elevation gain. A welcome rest—my legs were starting to feel like they were on fire.
I was supposed to take the ferry to Chios and then on to Turkey that very evening (last night), but it was postponed until this morning due to bad weather, so I’m even getting a second rest day on the ferry from which I’m writing to you, and my little legs are thrilled!
Photos: Guillaume Funck
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その他のニュース
It feels like it’s been six months since I last wrote anything, but in reality it’s only been about ten days!
After a more relaxed day in Dubrovnik, I continued south through Montenegro, past the magnificent Bay of Kotor and the Serpentine – those endless hairpin turns overlooking the southern-style fjord. I left late that day, so unfortunately I ended up driving through the night, but I found a great camping spot overlooking the bay by following a trail along the side of the road. It was still a bit windy, so I made sure to secure my tent really well so it wouldn’t blow away while I was setting it up! When I set off again the next day, I took the trail back to the road. It’s lined with wells 5–6 meters deep. I peeked inside. Yuck, that doesn’t make me want to step in there!
I hopped on my bike and finished the climb. After 1 or 2 km, I realized I didn’t have my glasses. I look everywhere. Nope, they’re not on me. I head back to the campsite. Still nothing. Damn it!! They must have fallen into the well I was leaning over. Sure enough, there they are, right at the bottom. I hesitate for a moment, then notice that a few bricks are missing from the well, which might let me climb down. Come on, I really need these glasses. It’s not very pleasant to put my hands on the moss-covered ledges, but it’s an easy climb down. A few minutes later, I’m out of that slimy hole again. All right, we can go now!
I continue south along Lake Skadar, on the border with Albania. I’d already been here almost 10 years ago while cycling through the Balkans, and it’s just as beautiful as ever! This time, I’m following the advice of my WarmShower hosts who are putting me up tonight, and I’m entering Albania illegally by taking a small road that runs along the lake to Shkodër. There’s no border checkpoint, but apparently they’ve already hosted over 300 cyclists who’ve passed through here and had no trouble leaving the country, so I’m taking their word for it. I arrive at the home of this American couple who spent their retirement on their bikes before finally settling in Albania. This is my first time using Warmshower, the app that lets cyclists on the road find lodging with one another, but I have several friends who’ve already stayed at this particular place, which is apparently almost legendary. When I arrive at Chuck and Susan’s place, I’m greeted by Nyam, a nomadic Mongolian cyclist, who opens the door for me. I step into a room filled with bikes beneath a spiral staircase leading upstairs, with handprints painted all over the walls by everyone who’s passed through here.
We go up and enter the apartment. I meet the two characters: Chuck, who must be in his seventies and has trouble walking; he wears lots of earrings and hasn’t lost an ounce of his humor or enthusiasm; and Susan, who makes sure everyone feels comfortable and knows the house rules—pragmatic at first glance, with a slightly mischievous air, and who quickly reveals her own share of madness. Tonight, in addition to Nyam, our guests include Fred and Baaska—an Italian man and a Mongolian woman traveling from Italy to Mongolia on a tandem bike—and Garance, who left Bordeaux five months ago for a bike tour of Europe. We have a great evening. Everyone tells their stories; we share tips and tricks, our mishaps... It feels good to meet such nice people like this. Our two hosts don’t take long to go to bed, and we keep chatting before finding a place to sleep. There’s no dorm or guest room, so we just settle wherever we can—on the floor or on a chair. I linger a bit in the morning to soak up the atmosphere a little longer, then I finally head out around noon, recharged and ready for what’s next!
To cross Albania, I follow the route Chuck recommended—it’s stunning, right in the middle of the Albanian Alps. We tend to forget just how mountainous this region is! People here are much more curious than in the previous countries, and I chat with several people every day—well, “chat” is a big word, but in any case, we communicate as best we can, mumbling a bit of English or German (which I don’t speak, haha). The kids in particular are super intrigued and regularly call out to me, “Hello, where are you going?”—they even step into the middle of the road to stop me and chat. Surprisingly (or not), they speak better English than their elders. I let them try out my bike and my glasses and hand them the GoPro. It’s the highlight of the day! The weather forecast had been pretty mediocre these past few days, but luckily I’ve managed to avoid the rain, even though it’s cooler than before. I ride through Macedonia for a few dozen kilometers before heading back into Albania along the beautiful Lake Ohrid, with its peaks freshly dusted with snow. I finally arrive in Greece. A few kilometers past customs, I feel like having my morning coffee, which I usually have after a good hour of cycling. I see it’s already 11 a.m. It’s crazy—I left a little before 8 a.m. and have only ridden 20 km. There was a bit of a line at the border and I took some forest trails, but still. I’m really dragging my feet this morning. I grab my coffee quickly and hurry a bit.
It’s only a few hours later that I realize there’s a one-hour time difference between Albania and Greece. I just gained an hour—yes! And on top of that, the clocks change tonight, so in just one day, the sun will set two hours later from my perspective! I’m really happy about that because the sun rising at 5:30 a.m. and setting at 6 p.m. wasn’t very practical. I tried to adjust on my own, but it wasn’t exactly a success, so it’s easier when everyone around me is doing it too.
Greece is just as beautiful as Albania, with a little less trash along the roads. And it’s very hilly, with snow-capped mountains always in the background. It’s been over three days since I left Chuck and Susan, and tonight I really need to recharge my power bank and everything else. So as night falls, I stop in a remote village and set out in search of a kind soul who might let me charge all that stuff overnight—or even offer me a shower? Oh yeah, a hot shower would be absolutely amazing. I approach the first person I see, but they aren’t very receptive to my request. I’ve had a long day; I’m exhausted and damp. I quickly start to feel the cold as I walk through the hamlet, which seems completely deserted. This really isn’t my favorite kind of moment. I picture myself back home, warm and cozy with my friends. What the hell am I doing here? I push that thought out of my head. I try to trust whatever life has in store for me. I knock on an old lady’s door, and she sends me to the bar; she tells me a story about school... Hard to follow. I walk into the bar, which, like everywhere around here, is filled almost entirely with older men. I feel a bit like I’m in that movie scene where the door opens, the conversations stop immediately, and everyone stares at the newcomer. And in this case, that’s me. I start explaining the situation in English; a slightly younger guy speaks a little. I tell him I’m going to Pakistan. Everyone starts whispering to each other in Greek. “He’s going to Pakistan!?” There’s a commotion, then they offer me a seat, a drink, and tell me they’re going to get the key to the old school so I can sleep there. I chat a bit with the guy in question. He even knows Grenoble for its soccer team, which surprises me because as far as I know, it’s really not very good. “It’s good for betting—they lose all the time!” Haha, okay, good to know. Someone comes back with a key, and they take me to see the school, which has now become a community hall. That’s all I need: a warm place with an outlet. No hot shower, unfortunately, but a sink with cold water. That’ll be enough to freshen up a bit and wash my clothes. I spend a little more time in the overheated bar chatting, but since there’s only one guy who speaks English, I head straight to bed.
The next day, a visit to Meteora is on the agenda, accompanied by quite a bit of pedalling. It’s true that the place is pretty wild, with those cute little monasteries perched on top of these monoliths. I visit the one at Varlaam. What a life it must have been back then, before there were stone bridges to get there. I imagine setting up communities of climbers and paragliders with a bunch of friends in a place like this—it would be wild!
On the other hand, these tourist spots are always a bit of a clash of travel styles. I don’t feel at all out of place amidst these crowds coming from all corners of the world, pouring out by the dozen from tour operator buses so everyone can take the same photo, in the same spot. “Okay, I’ve done Greece.” I kind of get the impression it’s exactly the same crowd as in Venice or Dubrovnik. I have a hard time understanding the concept. The upside is that everyone crowds into the same spots, and the rest of the country—at least during this season—is deserted.
I continue on my way across the plain south of Meteora. The following evening, I arrive at Yiannis’s place, another Warmshower host at the foot of Mount Parnassus, who lets me stay in his small, freshly renovated garden cottage—it’s super cozy. This time, I get to enjoy a real, hot shower, and I linger under it for a long time. The night before, I slept under the covered area of a municipal soccer field. It’s contrasts like this that I love about traveling. They add so much flavor to the simple things of everyday life.
When I wake up, I’m treated to a little guitar session by Yiannis and a friend of his. I’d love to stay much longer in this little paradise, but it’s the last day of good weather before several days of bad, and I prefer to rest when it rains, so I head to Athens where I take a day off—my first full rest day since Venice, after 17 days of cycling, 1,830 km, and 22,500 meters of elevation gain. A welcome rest—my legs were starting to feel like they were on fire.
I was supposed to take the ferry to Chios and then on to Turkey that very evening (last night), but it was postponed until this morning due to bad weather, so I’m even getting a second rest day on the ferry from which I’m writing to you, and my little legs are thrilled!
Photos: Guillaume Funck