It gets dark around 5 now, so I’ve tried writing the blog in my long evenings, but I keep falling asleep at around 8 o’clock. Normally we fight the seasons, stay indoors longer and longer as it gets darker and colder outside, become disconnected from the world around us. Living outside I feel so connected to the seasons, warming myself by the fire under the starry sky and snuggling down in my sleeping bag for a long sleep.

The wind has a pattern of picking up around midday so I set off at sunrise, grudgingly packing up my tent still wet, sand sticking to the condensation. Starting early is no problem, after my early bed time I wake naturally around 5.30 with sunrise at 6 o’clock.

It was another uneventful day. My shoulder was sore for the first couple of hours and then pain free – I must’ve just rolled off my thermarest and slept on it funny.

I arrived in Spille, a town with one street of mostly shut shops and lots of tired looking resorts along the beach front. Huge disappointment that there was no byrek in the bakery. The locals gave me searching looks, clearly confused as to why I was there.

I camped on the beach and woke up the next morning, my tent picking up in the gale force winds, lifting me up with it. I quickly unzipped it and stuck my head out, ready to peg it down, except, that’s weird, there wasn’t a breath of air. A policeman appeared out of the darkness, dressed in smart uniform and a hat, and we both yelled out. I’m not sure what he trying to do, remove my tent I guess, but I’m lucky it didn’t break the poles. As soon as he realised someone was inside, he walked off.

I decided to stay the day in Spille and my encounters with the locals continued. A bear like man with huge, pudgy hands saw me sitting on the beach and beckoned for me to follow him. He took me back to his house like a (friendly) ogre to it’s lair, and he set down on the table some hunks of bread, a bony fish, some rice and a couple of big tomatoes. I politely started cutting up my tomato and eating it with a fork but he grunted and gestured before taking a bite out of his, juice exploding all over his beard. A bottle of ouzo came out, and as much as I tried to finish my dose, he kept refilling my glass. Another guy pulled up in a car and they started arguing intensely, shouting at each other like things might come to blows. Anything to do with me I wondered?

Later on I went to buy a loaf of bread, but as I took out my wallet the baker insisted I take it for nothing. And the next morning, as I launched from the beach, a fishermen handed me two large prawns, still alive.

What incredible generosity from three kind people. I may be young and poor, but they know and I know that just having a British passport gives me the potential for far greater wealth than the ceiling that living in Albania creates.

From the BBC this week: The median net annual household income in Albania was just €1,997 (£1,720) in 2018, according to the latest available figures from Eurostat, while in the UK it was €21,464.

It’s no wonder that Albanians are coming over to the UK then, 12,000 of them in 2022. But read the headlines saying Albanian’s are running the violent drug and sex trafficking gangs and you’d be forgiven for thinking this country is dangerous. I’m not denying the Albanian’s are doing those things, but it’s just a side of the country I’ve not encountered at all, so those headlines feel very disconnected to my experience and it’s strange to read them.

I look back to Sarandë, when I first landed in Albania, and was scared to leave my boat on the beach or wander the streets at night, purely because of the reputation this county has.

A few weeks on I feel safe camping in towns, leaving my boat on beaches, walking the streets by night. Albania feels safer than many places I visited in France, Italy and the UK. In my experience the people are kind, unfussy and honest, in spite of the hardships their past has presented them.

We’re advised not to travel to many other countries, are they as bad as they say?