The spirit of Albania

We've just left the great harbour of Durres. The sun rose red as we pulled away from the quay, and a dog which I thought of as 'The Spirit of Albania' came to see us off. She was a sweet-faced bitch running on three legs, her teats enlarged and her manners perfect.
She greeted us with yelps of welcome and supplication as we arrived at the port yesterday afternoon after a calm day motoring up from Orikum - the swell wasn't too bad, and we had the mainsail and even the foresail up for part of the voyage, not so much for assistance with speed and passage but to steady the vessel as she worked her way up along the flat marshy Albanian coast.
The contrast between Orikum and Durres is almost hilarious. Orikum Marina may have been a naval base though there's little to see now - a new floating pontoon, some smart buildings, an attractive green layout of marsh and riverbank (if you push through a wire fence topped with spikes), and Audis and BMWs racing down the road. In a lane between fields a goat chomped at a hedge, watched by an old man with a stick. At a junction a little further along, a car crumped into another, and a small crowd gathered to watch. No-one hurt. Rough stalls by the roadside were selling fruit, bread, beach-toys, and the pathway led to a series of smart cafes and restaurants with large terraces, and suites of sun loungers protected by thatched sunshades, all low key, low level. These were nearly empty during the fierce heat of the afternoon, filling up with groups of teens, or families, around 6pm onwards. All sleepy, happy, a country producing a new middle class, with the old peasant rural life just about visible.
We crept along this marshy landscape all day - slipping out from our berth at quarter to six, the engine purring away, the sea shining calm. Eight hours motoring over a calm sea, where the waters changed from chalky green to postcard blue, and the day passed sleepily enough till we approached Durres. This great harbour is marked with buoys and beacons, marked out as a 'fairway' for the ferries and cargo ships which are constantly on the move. (One fine vessel was called Claudia Gas, a name I shall incorporate into a sequence of stories I am writing which already features a lady called Saskia Pants. Claudia can be one of her sisters).
Our skipper was radioing ahead: 'Durres Port, Durres Port. This is yacht Lady Olivia... '   Even the printed guidebooks say you may not get a response. We came into the lea of the headland where the waters were shining smooth, and eventually a torrent of words came back from the radio. 'Grundooa dellari speely tonka craddio ferthi passtipop grelling intardlio cappidock pesto!' 'Durres Port, this is Lady Olivia. Can you repeat please?' This went on for a while as we slid in on the left hand side under a huge line of quay-cranes. Eventually we made out the words 'by the tug' and came alongside the vast empty quay, tying up with springs and lines. After ten minutes the port agent arrived with his briefcase, sorrowfully explaining we were near a fishing boat, not a tug, and further for him to walk. The sun was fiercely hot now that we were stationary. The little dog was yelping, looking for love (or water, or food). Her left hind leg did not touch the ground. Her grizzled coat was rough and not in great shape but she was so glad to see us.
The agent came aboard, opened his briefcase, and our skipper had to go through the paperwork. Pages of it. Names, ages, boat details, engine, home port, destination, colour of hair - God knows - all filled out by hand on his dossier. He took our passports, said he'd be back in 30 minutes ... He had to go and see in another motor boat which had followed us in. We could hear that they were equally baffled by their instructions about where to berth - probably even more difficult for them as they were Russian.
Andrew and I set off in the scorching heat to explore - walking under the giant deserted cranes, making acoustic tests of a huge empty and rather beautiful concrete warehouse by calling out and listening to the echoes. Five seconds of reverb at least. It was a fine deco building in three great vaults.
It took ten or fifteen minutes to walk out of the docks.
We found the little Venetian tower, the old city walls, the Roman amphitheatre complete with Byzantine church inserted into its centre. We saw the oldest mosque in Europe.  We saw another bridal shoot (there had been one at Orikum). My phone/camera packed up - wouldn't work. We strolled on to the long promenade lying north of the harbour and had orange juice, used the wifi, waited for K&A who eventually arrived having waited for the agent yo return our passports.
How pleasant. A wide promenade, gradually filling with happy holidaymakers and families as the temperature and the light slid down. We had a drink, and watched a wedding party. We strolled and admired the architecture, the great white marble steps on a rock, which look like a low cruise ship and made everyone climbing onto them look marvellous - like statues silhouetted against the sky.
Then we sought a meal - all the restos were ready to serve now and we had a lot to choose from.
A youngish man in a green shirt lured us in to his very smart terrace, offering us a free raki. This was his restaurant. He'd spent 12 years in Belgium, Antwerp, a culinary capital. He'd decided to come back and help launch his country's economic revival. His ingredients were superior to the fish in Belgian restaurants. He found it hard to get staff. The notorious Albanian mafia mostly operate outside the country which gives Albania a bad reputation abroad but means life is pretty safe and content in the country itself. They want to join the. EU and think we' re mad to want to leave. He comes from Buron (?), a lovely unspoiled medieval city. He had run two marathons. There are no cyclists in Albania, no cycling culture. He said you could live entirely on the fruits grown in Albania. He said twenty years ago they had ten days of frost which killed lots of orange trees and palm trees. He thinks no-one grows avocados in Albania.
A young woman - a girl - wandered in holding a sleeping child on her shoulder. A beggar. He chased her away, saying these beggars all work for a man 'over there', and see nine if the money. The baby was patently drugged.
The meal was lovely - a rich seafood antipasto, then fishy pastas and salads. With wine and water it came to just over fifty euros....
We wandered back to the docks along that broad promenade, which like the slightly older one in Sarande was filled with people. Among the dozens, hundreds, of happy children out with their loving families, I saw a few more if the Dickensian waif-girls, carrying those tiny immobile babies. A man (looking as dark as an Indian) sat on a scrap of blanket with a fat baby in front of him on the ground. The baby moved a bit. He massaged it? Hit it? It was hard to know.
No-one paid any attention to any of this. Children everywhere in nice clean clothes, in Disney costume, holding hands, being joyfully carried - all moving forward, with an old, dark, desolate life going on beside them - fading away as the population makes more money, we have to hope.
The little dog ran along in front of us as we came back in the warm dark air back to the yacht.
She was there again to wave goodbye as we left our moorings just three hours ago, ragged, thin, optimistic.
That's why I called her 'The Spirit of Albania'.