Lake Ohrid, Macedonia

I took a stroll on my first morning around the rim of Lake Ohrid, photographing the sun as it filtered through the reeds. A local fisherman, fluent in English and pushy in business, tried to sell me a 50 euro boat ride to Albania. I thanked him and kept walking.

Around the headland the path dipped to the rocks below and a controlled stumble brought into view a half-moon of sharp white stones; a hidden beach! I came back each morning, slowly building a tan.

Ohrid’s beauty is characterized by a single church; St. John Kaneo; set high above the lakefront. The spare beauty of this 13th century church & the power of its position have made the site famous across the Balkans. I walked this way just after dawn, in the heat of the day and then in twilight, just to see the church and lake in different lights.

I bumped into the Ohrid fisherman again. “Albania, 40 euros” he said. I spread my arms in a “why would I wish to leave here” gesture. “No problem” he smiled and I brushed past.

Ohrid was a tourist hotspot but also an architectural town. Layers of history were woven into the fabric of the place; A classical amphitheatre, Byzantine churches, an Ottoman bazaar. On the waterfront were pizzerias, ice-cream parlours and tourist tat shops. The Cyrillic language developed in Ohrid but since Yugoslavia broke up the young people have schooled themselves in English and spoke it better than I did.

I stayed longer than I intended, relaxing on my beach, planning the next step to Kosovo and enjoying the lazy days. On my final night, I photographed the church in moonlight and headed home to pack. A recognizable figure barred my path. This time it was 30 euros, “final offer.” “I really don’t want to go to Albania” I pleaded.

Pristina Newborn

The Republic of Kosova isn't universally recognized but it winked at me from across the Macedonian border and represented the final piece of my Yugoslavian jigsaw.

I boarded an old diesel bus which crunched up the hill from Skopje, joined at the border by KFOR-trained dogs, who sniffed and snapped at my rucksack but found nothing more dangerous than dirty underwear.

My highly visible Kosovan passport stamp virtually rules out any further visits to Serbia, it's non-acceptance of the succession territory pivotal to the Serbian Government. So be it, Belgrade. Once into Kosovan territory, the green border hills looked stunning and alive in the November sunshine.

The bus dropped to a dusty plateau, a countrywide construction site as Kosovo rebuilds. The capital, Pristina was a typical Balkan mixture of Ottoman market and Soviet slab-blocks. I walked through graffiti heavy streets as traffic noise competed with the call to prayer and followed Bill Clinton Boulevard, flanked by giant posters of Tony Blair; "Leader, Friend, Hero". You won't see these in England. In the centre of town sits the National Library, a boxy defensive building, dressed with chainmail. Perhaps the weight of history has forced Kosovans to protect their literature or maybe it's just another architectural adventure in post-modernism from central planning.

Although never too far from a bullet-scored wall or a weed-filled plot of blasted masonry, Pristina was full of life. Half of its population is under 25. The cafes and bars were full of smart teenagers, talking into phones on borrowed mobile networks and able to flip to fluent English in an instant. A concrete sculpture spells it out; NEWBORN. Pristina is finding a new voice and the young carry it.