Walking the Upper Dove Valley

The River Dove from the Source (almost) to Beyond Beresford Dale

At 9 o’clock I met up with Brian near Barracks Farm at the end of Beresford Dale where he found a suitable place to leave his car. Despite cloud cover it was a still and surprisingly warm morning. I drove us north towards Flash, reputedly the highest village in Britain. At 463m (1,519ft) Flash hardly compares with Ushguli, but its modest claim is well attested.

We left my car in a pull-off beside the A53, several hundred metres from the village but at about the same height. In this more exposed position there was a breeze with a cutting edge.

The pull-off on the A53 near Flash

Not Quite Finding the Source of the Dove

Staffordshire

We did not have to go far to find ourselves looking down on the River Dove, and only a little further to make our first navigational error; coming out from the field onto the minor road a hundred metres below where we should have been. Our detour involved stepping over an electric fence; it was not, we found, live, always good news to those of us with short legs.

Brian looks down into the Dove Valley
He is moving to Devon at the end of the month, so is he thinking
a) This is my last chance to enjoy the Peak District countryside
b) Why doesn't that prat hurry up and take the bloody photograph
c) nothing at all?

Derbyshire

For most of its 72km the Dove [now universally pronounced to rhyme with 'love', though traditionally it rhymed with 'rove'] forms the boundary between Staffordshire and Derbyshire. At the bottom of the valley we crossed the river into the barbarian lands of Derbyshire and turned upstream through the area marked on the map as 'Dove Head'. Our path dipped to run briefly alongside the stream; clearly we had not quite reached the source, but we shrugged our shoulders and turned right up the other side of the valley. If Burton and Speke had taken that attitude with the source of the Nile, the whole history of exploration would have been different.

The source of the Dove is down there, somewhere

Between the Dove and Cistern's Clough

Over the top of the ridge we descended slightly to pick up a path contouring along the top of a valley above the oddly named Cistern's Clough which meanders its way south into the Dove. Tracing the stream back on the map it appears to be a more remote source than the official source of the Dove – I do not know what Burton and Speke would have made of that.

Cistern's Clough

Cistern’s Clough wandered off to the east and after a couple of pauses to study the map we found our way to Howe Green, where they have some fine Highland cattle.

Howe Green stands on the base of a triangle of flat, high ground between the Dove and Cistern’s Clough, now wandering back westwards . Our intended path was along the top of the narrow valley of the Dove, avoiding the track that drops into it, and meeting above the confluence with a path along the top of Cistern's Clough. We could not locate the right path, but while we paused, considered the map, walked on, paused again, reconsidered the map and walked on again (and repeat), we had time to notice that the meadow was carpeted with wildflowers.

Wildflowers, Howe Green

Eventually we stumbled upon a post with arrows pointing down the paths along the top of either valley, neither of which we had been on, and a third pointing down towards the confluence. It was a steep little descent to where Cistern’s Clough joined the Dove – though the tributary looked the larger of the two streams.

Starting down to the confluence

Beside the Dove to Hollinsclough

We turned south down the left (Derbyshire) bank of the combined stream. Having lost so much height so quickly, the path’s determined climb back up the valley side was a tad irritating.

Where Cistern's Clough (right) meets the River Dove

Eventually we reached an old road that runs down into the valley from Booth Farm, heading for the minor road to Hollinsclough. Well-made and of some antiquity, presumably a drovers' road, it descends to the river and crosses it on a fine old bridge. A modern road sign warns that the road is limited to vehicles less than 1.8 metres wide, so it is still in use, if only by quadbikes (in theory a Peugeot 208 would just fit - without its wing mirrors - but I have no intention of checking this out).

Looking back up the old road from Booth Farm

Now back in Staffordshire we followed the path along the valley side, or attempted to. It kept on petering out, and then reappearing twenty metres above or below us. When we set off I had thought that we might reach Hollinsclough too early for coffee but the village seemed to retreat down the road as we approached, and we finally arrived at midday. We had taken much longer than expected, mainly because of the time we had spent standing in fields pondering over the map.

The old road crosses the Dove

Hollinsclough

I wrote about Hollinsclough on the Crowdecote walk (Cowpat 6) so all I will say here is that it once used to be a much larger village where people worked on silk weaving, sending their produce over the hill to Macclesfield. The village was also important in early Methodism; the Methodist church still functions and the church hall kindly provides a bench for wanderers to sit and drink their coffee. Down in the sheltered valley it was warm, and the sun even put in a brief appearance.

The Methodist Chapel, Hollinsclough (photographed March 2013)

Hollinsclough to Crowdecote and a Glass of Lunch

Crowdecote is 4km from Hollinsclough, and as we intended to have lunch in the Pack Horse at Crowdecote we did not linger over coffee. Fortunately our onward path was largely level and presented few navigational problems. As the Dove approaches Hollinsclough the valley widens considerably and we set off across it to re-find the river. Ahead of us was the jagged outline of Chrome hill and the strange triangle of Parkhouse Hill, the remains of a tropical reef formed before shifting tectonic plates put this piece of land at its current height and latitude.

Across the Dove Valley towards Parkhouse Hill

We again crossed the Dove – we chose the footbridge rather than the ford – and back in Derbyshire we followed the flat bottom of the valley all the way to Crowdecote. On Cowpat 6: Crowdecote we climbed Hitter Hill en route, but as we were late we carried straight on down the valley, completing the 4 km in an hour.

Alison faces the footbridge/ford decision in Cowpat 6, March 2013

I like the Pack Horse Inn at Crowdecote, indeed I wrote a whole post on their pies. Today's pie was chicken and mushroom, but as Mick the landlord admitted, they are filling, so we settled for 'light bite'gammon steaks and a couple of pints of the Cottage Brewing Company’s ‘Sunset’. The brewery (in Castle Cary, Somerset) calls it 'a golden summer ale...with cascade and nugget hops...a refreshing, easy drinking session ale.' I was thirsty, it had been a warm morning, particularly marching along the flat valley bottom, and the beer winked seductively at me through the condensation on the glass – the first pint disappeared quickly. I can thoroughly recommend CBC’s Sunset; it is a beer that hits a spot and keeps hitting it most pleasantly.

The Pack Horse Inn, Crowdecote (photographed Feb 2012)

Pilsbury Castle

In the afternoon we continued along the grassy valley to Pilsbury Castle, an earthwork sitting on a natural rocky promontory. A motte and two baileys were built in Norman times either to control the area after the 'Harrowing of the North' (1069-70), or during the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Matilda (1135-54). Either way, the function of the castle is obscure – why guard the upper section of a remote valley which goes nowhere? Despite its apparent uselessness, its doubly tautological name (pils being a Celtic word for fortified place, bury being Saxon for the same thing) suggests ‘Castlecastle Castle’ might have pre-Norman origins. The setting was pleasant on a summer’s day, but in winter it is the sort of place only a madman would care enough about to defend.

Pilsbury Castle and a look back down the Dove Valley

At the castle the path climbs up the valley side, giving good views of where we had been, before continuing along the flat(ish) top.

Along the rim of the Dove Valley

Hartington

To the south the valley widens and the river wanders off to the west, leaving us deep inside Derbyshire – an experience not for the faint hearted. After a couple of kilometres along the valley’s grassy rim we hit the minor road that descends into Hartington. With its village green, duck pond, ....

Hartington Village Green
There were too many parked cars around the green to get a proper photo, but this is what it looked when Francis (not on this walk) and Brian sat beside it in Feb 2012 (no tourists in Feb!)

....mellow grey stone buildings, hanging baskets and flower filled gardens, Hartington is the classic Peak District village and was appropriately full of tourists. Despite its apparent size - and its industry (cheese making) - Hartington has fewer than 400 permanent inhabitants. Brian headed straight for the ice cream shop, an idea so brilliant I would have liked to claim it as mine. Bradwell's ice cream has been made in the village of that name some 25 kilometres to the north for over a century, and a scoop of their cherry-bakewell flavoured ice cream was (almost) as good as a pint of Sunset ale.

Hartington in more summer-y mode

To and Through Beresford Dale

Continuing south from Hartington we descended gently across a limestone plateau....

South of Hartington

...and then entered an area of deciduous woodland; a sign said it was planted in the early 1990s, though it already looks splendidly mature. We re-met the river after its westward wander at the mouth of Beresford Dale where we crossed a bridge back into Staffordshire and civilisation. After flowing down an ever widening valley, the Dove changes character and dives into a series of narrow limestone canyons on its way to the prime tourist spot of Dovedale. Beresford Dale, the darkest and narrowest of these defiles, is less than a kilometre long, and at its end, just before it transforms into Wolfscote Dale, we turned up the lane towards Barracks Farm and Brian’s car.

The River Dove in Beresford Dale

The End of the Walk - and the End of a Chapter

We finished about 5.30, later than intended, but a long morning had required careful navigation. Sunshine had been only an occasional visitor, but it had been a pleasant day and as warm as you want for walking. On our way back to Flash, Brian regretted that we had ventured out on fewer such walks since retirement than he had hoped, and with his imminent removal to Devon there would now be even fewer opportunities. He was right, getting together during busy retirements has proved harder than expected, but I have photographic records over the last 7 years of 19 such walk (though previously only The Limestone Link has been on the blog), not to mention Cowpats, Chip Walks, the annual South West Odyssey, and several more outings of which there is no record.

This was a good walk to finish a chapter, but there will be more…..

approximate Distance: 18 km

Debar and Back to Skopje: Part 15 of The Balkans

Skanderbeg, a Cherrywood Cannon and a Parking Violation

03-Jun-015

North Macedonia

Following the Crna Drin North from Ohrid

On our last full day in Macedonia we had to return from Ohrid to Skopje, but with no time pressure we chose the scenic route, along the valley of the Crna Drin to Debar and then through the Mavrovo National Park.

This time we took the main road to Struga before turning north up the river valley. North of the lake the land is flat, mainly agricultural though we saw a couple of small factories and some heavier industry. The intense development along the roadside included many new houses and a large hotel, though the area had few obvious attractions.

Further north the valley narrowed and became much prettier. We followed the corridor of land between the river on our right and a range of hills on our left, their summits marking the Albanian border.

In this post we travel from Ohrid to Debar and then to Skopje

Debar

Debar

After 25km the valley widened where the town of Debar sits above a small lake. From a distance Debar looked more eastern than other Macedonian towns, reflecting its overwhelmingly Muslim population. Three quarters of its 14,000 citizens are ethnic Albanians, which is unsurprising given its location but in every other city in the country Macedonians are either the largest or second largest ethnic group; here they are outnumbered not just by Albanians, but also both Turks and Roma.

It was coffee time so, eschewing the by-pass, we drove into town. The centre was busy and traffic disrupted by the work of turning the main shopping street into a pedestrian precinct.

Central Debar

Skanderbeg

We managed to park and took a short stroll. The prominent statue is of Skanderbeg, the Albanian national hero (see also our visit to Tirana). In 1440 he was appointed the Ottoman Sanjakabey (military and administrative commander) of Debar district. Rebelling in 1443 he spent the next twenty-five years leading a largely itinerant army of 10,000 Albanians, Slavs and Greeks to a series of unlikely victories over the Ottomans. He never succeeded in setting up a viable Albanian state, but his actions seriously impeded Ottoman plans to expand into Europe.

Skanderbeg, Debar

We drank our coffee on a terrace overlooking, if not the town's main square, at least its largest traffic intersection. Lynne was not quite the only woman but, as usual in Muslim areas, the clientele was overwhelmingly male. They were, by and large, the sort of elderly men who have the time to sit drinking coffee on a working day – just like me. It was good coffee and very cheap (30denar - 35p), as is often the case away from tourist centres.

Lynne has coffee, Debar

The Monastery of Sveti Jovan Bigorski (John the Baptist), Mavrovo National Park

We continued north through the Mavrovo National Park following the valley of the River Radika which flows southwards from Mavrovo Lake to Debar Lake and thence into the Crna Drin.

Village in the Mavrovo National Park

After a few kilometres we detoured up the valley side to the monastery of Sveti Jovan Bigorski (St John the Baptist).

From the higher ground on a hot sunny day we had a fine view across the valley where, despite the heat the mountain tops were still streaked with snow. We were about to enter a Christian monastery, but judging by the minarets the villages on the far side were mainly Muslim.

Village across the Radika Valley from Sv Jovan Bigorski

As we walked up the drive to the monastery we were accosted by the guardian who collected the entrance fee and ensured we were properly dressed. Apparently my shorts were acceptable, but Lynne’s long trousers were not, so he provided a wrap-around skirt.

The monastery was founded in 1020 by Ivan I Debranin (John of Debar) who had been a bishop under Car Samoil (see Ohrid post), but accepted the post of Archbishop of Ohrid after Samoil’s Bulgarian Empire fell to the Byzantines (no distinction between Bulgarian and Macedonian existed between the arrival of the Slavs in the 6th century and the mid-20th century). The monastery was destroyed by the Ottomans in the 16th century but restored two hundred years later and vastly expanded in the 19th century. Sadly many of the older buildings were lost in a fire in 2009, though much else survived. The monastery has a church, a traditional priest’s tower, exactly like the tower we had seen at the Popovo Kula (Priest's Tower!) Winery and monk’s dwellings.

Sv Jovan Bigorski, Mavrovo

A Cherrywood Cannon

Outside the church is a cherrywood cannon. In the April Uprising of 1876 the Bulgarians attempted to throw off the Ottoman yoke and, being short of conventional materials, resorted to constructing cannons from cherrywood. Although the first to be fired (predictably) killed the gunner but no-one else, this did not deter the manufacture of many more though few were ever fired - and even fewer were fired twice. They became symbolic of the heroic but doomed uprising and were subsequently incorporated into several civic coats of arms and parked outside places of national importance like Sv Jovan Bigorski.

Cherrywood cannon, Sv Jovan Bigorski, Mavrovo

There are impressive, though recent, frescoes in the church portico (where photography is permitted) and inside the church (where it isn’t). Various relics have also survived include fragments of the True Cross and body parts of John the Baptist, Lazarus and various other saints, some well-known, others deeply obscure. It is wondrous how these things have been neither lost nor damaged. Holy icons (including one with mystic healing powers) have also miraculously reappeared after being destroyed in fires or when the monastery was sacked. You may belive that, if you like.

Frescoes in the portico, Sveti Jovan Bigorski, Mavrovo

Inside, behind the relics and the icons, is a magnificent 19th rood screen carved by masters Makarie Frckovski and the brothers Petre and Marko Filipovski. Three of their fabulously ornate and detailed screens survive and we had seen another at Sveti Spas in Skopje. There is a photo of that in the Skopje post, though it is not mine, there as here I was too closely watched by those policing the no photos policy.

Sv Jovan Bigorski, Mavrovo

Back to Skopje

Returning Lynne's borrowed skirt we continued up the valley pausing for a picnic lunch by Mavrovo Lake. Then we left the national park and found our way to the Mother Teresa Motorway (yes, really!) which took us back to Skopje. We re-entered the city by the same route as we had left it a week before, found our way back to the same hotel and parked the car roughly where the hire company rep had parked it in a ‘dead end’ beside the hotel.

I parked the car where the green Volkswagen is in this picture

It was a hot day, and after checking-in a cold beer seemed appropriate so we strolled back down the 'dead end' road to a café.

A Parking Violation in Skopje

We had been sitting on the café’s deck behind a low hedge for some twenty minutes when I saw a white car moving down the road. ‘That’s a white Chevrolet like ours,’ I said to Lynne as I realised it was on the back of a truck. Even when I noticed it had a small dent on the passenger door 'just like ours' I did not immediately twig that it actually was ours and it was being taken away by the parking authorities.

Back at the hotel the receptionist suggested that we should have put it in the underground car park. ‘What underground car park?’ I asked. They had not told us about it as they had not known we had arrived by car, I had not asked about it as I could not see anything wrong with where I was parked - and the car had sat there for 24 hours a week ago without problem. It was, apparently, something to do with resident’s permits, and there was a sign on a lamppost, not an international No Parking sign, but a written notice in Macedonian. Ignorance, of course is no excuse, but in my defence I could point out that the sign over what I subsequently learned was the underground car park does not mention the hotel - the unlikely named 'Hotel Duvet Centre'.

The underground car park. Nowhere does it mention the Hotel Duvet Centre.

The reception team were helpful. They phoned the authorities, found out where the car was, did some special pleading so we only had to pay the £35 towing fee and not the fine and then called a cab.

The pound was not far away, under the railway arches by the station. As we arrived the clouds that had been gathering since we arrived in Skopje decided to spoil what had hitherto been a perfect summer day by unleashing a downpour. Retrieving the car was as painless as handing over that much money can be and we drove back to the hotel. This time I did put it in the car park. Behind those gates is a creaky lift which takes car and driver to a subterranean vault in which the hotel had half a dozen marked spaces. Well who knew that?

Later we went out (on foot) for out last Macedonian dinner and last bottle of Vranac - I should seek out a source when I get home.

04-Jun-015

A Long Walk to the Wrong Railway Station, Skopje

We had an afternoon flight so in the morning we decided to visit the railway station. The clock stopped at the instant of the 1967 earthquake and the station has been left as a memorial to those who died.

Lynne said there was a sign to it by mother Teresa's house, which was not far away. I pointed out that we had been there the previous day to collect the car and could walk there relatively quickly as, unlike a taxi, we would not have to detour over the river and back to avoid the pedestrianised area. It was so simple I did not even bother to look at the guide book.

After a longish walk on a hot morning we found the bus station easily enough and could see the railway station sitting on top of the embankment but could find no entrance.

Skopje Railway station, this one is not a memorial to anything

Eventually we discovered a small passageway between two ticket booths in the bus station that led into the railway station. It was largely a building site, indeed I am not sure whether it was open or if we should have been there at all, but we had a look round anyway and walked up to the empty platforms. There was no memorial, indeed nothing remarkable, except for us being entirely alone in a capital city railway station.

Pausing en route for a riverside coffee we trailed back to the hotel. Only then did I look at the guide book and discover that Skopje's old station, the earthquake memorial, was somewhere else entirely; the railway does not even go there anymore. Lynne’s words were a little harsh – but justifiably so.

Riverside walk and the Archeological Museum, Skopje

To Skopje Airport and Home

After a light lunch we drove to the airport. Despite the poor sign-posting, driving in Macedonia had been easy, indeed a pleasure, as there was so little traffic. This does not apply to central Skopje, which is busy, though the quality of sign-posting is no better. Signs that did exist were often late and required last minute manoeuvring across several lanes of fast moving traffic.

By luck or skill we reached the airport without mishap and toured around looking for the car hire garages. With the aid of a friendly policeman we realised there were no garages, just offices inside the terminal. Lynne went in while I sat in the car - I had no intention of being towed away twice. Failing to find the relevant office she asked the nice man at the Sixt desk. Our company’s only office was in the city centre, he told her but kindly offered to phone them. ‘No problem,’ said the woman on the phone. ‘Leave the car unlocked in the main car park, and place the keys in the boot.’ And so we did. I presume we would have heard if it had been stolen.

Despite the minor problems at the end we really enjoyed our first trip to Macedonia and second to the Balkans. I finished the final Croatia post three years ago by saying it was a region we hoped to return to. I finish this post with the same feeling.

The Balkans

Bosnia and Herzogivina (May 2012)

Part 1 Sarajevo (1): The Old Town, The New Town and That Assassination
Part 2 Sarajevo (2): The Seige
Part 3 Mostar

Croatia (May 2012)

Part 4 Dubrovnik (1): Around the City Walls
Part 5 Korčula
Part 6 Dubrovnik (2): Inside the Walls

North Macedonia (May/June 2015)

Part 7 Flying into FYRoM
Part 8 Skopje
Part 9 The Matka Canyon and Stobi
Part 10 Prilep and Bitola
Part 11 The Mariovo and Lake Prespa
Part 12 Ohrid, the Heart of Slavic Macedonia
Part 13 Ohrid to Albania The East Coast of the Lake
Part 14 Struga and Ohrid Trout
Part 15 Debar and back to Skopje

Struga and Ohrid Trout: Part 14 of The Balkans

Round the North of Lake Ohrid to Struga, then back for an Ohrid (Style) Trout

Struga

North Macedonia

Struga

After a leisurely breakfast we set off for Struga. The town, about half the size of Ohrid is 15km away at the northernmost tip of the lake. We could have followed the main road, but despite the by now expected lack of signs we managed to find the minor road which hugs the coastline for most of the journey.

Ohrid to Struga and on round the western shore to the Albanian border

The Beaches and the Source of the Crna Drin

Struga is considered a down market resort in comparison with Ohrid. Its main attractions are what are described as its two ‘sandy beaches'. The cafés certainly struggle to give the right impression…..

One of Struga's beaches

…and the water is reputedly clean and undoubtedly warm, but on close inspection the beaches are neither sandy nor particularly attractive. Over 40% of Struga's residents are Albanians, and in accordance with their Muslim sensibilities the two beaches are called the 'male beach' and the 'female beach.' My photographic evidence suggests they are not actually (or no longer?) segregated, though for a warmish morning in early June there were surprisingly few people about.

'Sandy' beach, Struga

Between the two beaches is the official source of the Crna Drin (Black Deer) River. We had seen an alternative source the day before on the other side of the lake but although there are claims of a discrete flow through the lake, I find it hard to believe that the stream from springs thirty kilometres away is really the same river. There is a marked drop in level between the lake and the river and the water rushes through in dramatic fashion.

The waters of Lake Ohrid pour into the Crna Drin River, Struga

Literay Struga and the Miladinov Brothers

Struga was not always a down at heel backwater. In the 19th century it was the birthplace of the brothers, Dimitar and Konstantin Miladinov, poets who thought of themselves as Bulgarian but jointly created the modern Macedonian literary tradition. Konstantin Miladinov wrote Tăga za Jug (Longing for the South) in 1860 while in exile in cold, dark Russia. It is one of Macedonia's best known and most loved poems and one verse name checks both Struga and Ohrid.

No, I cannot stay here, no;
I cannot look upon these frosts.
Give me wings and I will don them;
I will fly to our own shores,
Go once more to our own places,
Go to Ohrid and to Struga.

Since 1966 an annual poetry festival has been held in Struga in memory of the brothers and has attracted an impressive guest list that includes Seamus Heaney, Pablo Neruda and Ted Hughes.

Coffee on Struga's Main Pedestrian Thoroughfare

We walked beside the river which is lined with cafés to the main pedestrian thoroughfare through the town. This, too, offers plenty of places to pause for a refreshingly cheap espresso, so pause we did.

Pedestrian street, Struga, looking modern and western (despite my lurking presence on the edge of the picture)

It is surprising how different the same street can look depending on the people you catch in the photograph.

Pedestrian street, Struga. The same street from almost the same place a few moments later looking distinctly eastern

There was little else to see in Struga so we strolled back to the car which was parked near the War Memorial. It is an extraordinarily ugly piece of concrete that looks unloved and uncared for. War memorials in the Balkans are problematic: though happy to celebrate the defeat of fascism, Macedonians are less happy to celebrate the victory of Marshall Tito's partisans which ensured Macedonia remained a part of Yugoslavia until the country unravelled a decade after Tito's death.

War Memorial, Struga

The Church of St Michael the Archangel, Radožda

From Struga we drove south and west, keeping to the minor road that hugs the coast until we reached the sizable fishing village of Radožda, the last settlement in Macedonia and the end of the road.

'Sleepy' is an overworked adjective for such places, but it seemed to fit here. Old men dozed on benches outside their houses or chatted with their neighbours across the street, raising their voices above the honking of frogs in the lake. Women busied themselves with a little desultory sweeping using brooms shaped like garden rakes.

The village sits between the lake and a rocky cliff up which a set of metal steps leads to the Church of St Michael the Archangel, the finest of several 13th century cave churches in the area.

Lynne starts up towards the Church of St Michael the Archangel, Radozda

The climb was hard work in the warm sunshine, but we were rewarded with a good view over the village. The headland on the right of the picture is well inside Albania.

Radozda from the steps up to the church

The church, like many others in Macedonia, has some impressive frescoes. Sadly it was locked, but paintings on the outside have survived several centuries of Macedonian weather remarkably well. It was a peaceful place, though even up here we could still hear the frogs in the lake below.

St Michael the Archangel, Radozda

There was also a small external chapel where Lynne lit a candle. Payment for the candles, 5 or 10 dinars depending on size, is left to trust, as is the tray containing the money. I find this a refreshing sign of people’s expectations in this out of the way place.

Lynne lights a candle, St Michael the Archangel, Radozda

Ohrid

Ohrid (style) Trout

A candle lit, we retraced out steps to Ohrid. The sun had been pleasantly warm, but as we drove back the clouds began to gather, the temperature fell and the windscreen became sprinkled with rain.

Salmo Letnica is a species of brown trout endemic to Lake Ohrid and related rivers. Unfortunately (for the trout) it is delicious and overfishing has brought it to the edge of extinction. Fishing is now banned in the breeding season in Albania and completely in Macedonian waters, but this protection is not enough and stocks continue to dwindle. Ohrid trout no longer appears on menus, but Ohrid-style trout does, though this seems to mean little other than grilled brown trout - which is a fine thing in its own right. We decided to dedicate lunch (and most of the early afternoon) to the bounty of the lake.

We chose a restaurant on the lakefront in the old town, sitting on the terrace over the water, behind a perspex screen to shield us from the by now unnecessarily chilly breeze. Lynne ordered the trout but I went for plasnica, tiny lake fish dusted with flour and gently fried - in other words whitebait.

We started, as had become our practice, with a glass of mastika. Lynne's trout was simply grilled and served with chips, a lettuce leaf, some beautifully sweet onion slices and a couple of pieces of shredded carrot - mainly for decoration. Macedonians are keen on salads but appear to have little interest in vegetables. My plasnica came just with lemon and high quality chunky bread, which was all it required.

Trout and small fishes, Ohrid

The wine list was confined to the produce of a single winery and at the waiter’s suggestion and against my better judgement we opted for a Chardonnay/Riesling blend. For the second day running we had encountered a waiter who knew his stuff, it was a fine match.

Lynne likes her fish 'not messed about with' so the trout was exactly how she likes it. The plasnica was good, too, treated much more sympathetically than the heavy handed ‘batter and deep fry’, the fate of whitebait in pubs at home.

At the end we had room for dessert and both chose baklava. The simple nuts and honey in pastry lacked the texture and subtlety of Greek/Turkish baklava, but it was still very enjoyable.

After lunch we poked around the market buying presents to take home and a picnic for our travels tomorrow. We had enjoyed our four days in Ohrid - it is a town which was well worth that much time, if not more.

Ohrid at dusk

We felt no need to eat again that day, but we did wander out in the evening to sit in a café, sup a beer and watch the world go by - and also to take a pleasing picture of Ohrid at dusk.

The Balkans

Bosnia and Herzogivina (May 2012)

Part 1 Sarajevo (1): The Old Town, The New Town and That Assassination
Part 2 Sarajevo (2): The Seige
Part 3 Mostar

Croatia (May 2012)

Part 4 Dubrovnik (1): Around the City Walls
Part 5 Korčula
Part 6 Dubrovnik (2): Inside the Walls

North Macedonia (May/June 2015)

Part 7 Flying into FYRoM
Part 8 Skopje
Part 9 The Matka Canyon and Stobi
Part 10 Prilep and Bitola
Part 11 The Mariovo and Lake Prespa
Part 12 Ohrid, the Heart of Slavic Macedonia
Part 13 Ohrid to Albania The East Coast of the Lake
Part 14 Struga and Ohrid Trout
Part 15 Debar and back to Skopje