I spent the morning in the museum of independence.

The seeds of Albanian national identity were planted in the mid-15th century when for 25 years George Skanderbeg successfully led a military alliance of feudal lords against the invading Ottoman empire. After Skanderbeg’s death the Ottomans took control but the national identity never died and from 1833 a series of revolts against the Ottomans occurred.

With the Ottoman empire weakening throughout the Balkans, it was in Vlorë on the 28th of November 1912 that Ismail Qemali waved a flag proclaiming Albania’s independence.

The Principality of Albania was formed but this fell apart when WWI broke out and parts of the country were grabbed by Greece, Italy, Serbia, France, Bulgaria and Montenegro.

Following WWI the US intervened to protect Albania’s independence but numerous governments failed to create stability in a predatory environment with Serbia and Italy both wanting to take power. The country failed to advance economically or socially and by WWII many Italians had taken key positions in government. Mussolini invaded in April 1939 and Italy held Albania until September 1943 when Germany invaded.

A communist army fought against the Germans and had liberated Albania by November 1944. Albania is one of only two countries that defeated the Germans without help from allied forces.

Emerging from WWII, Enver Hoxha of the Communist party seized power, which he wouldn’t relinquish until 1991. Read tomorrow’s blog to find out what he did to the country in that time.

As I left my hotel, I met a Polish guy who laughed when I told him where I’d paddled from, thinking I was joking. ‘Why do I come to Albania mate? Because it’s cheap. Have an easy life mate’ he said to me.

Do I want an easy life? What even is an easy life? Perhaps this guy dreams of winning the lottery and cruising through the rest of life. But would it really be a cruise? With no adversity there’d be nothing to fight for each day, life would be meaningless and by no means easy.

I loaded my boat on to the trolley and headed for the beach. I think he saw I was serious about my trip and he shuffled off, realising an easy life isn’t what I’m after.

Past a industrial port and some sandy yellow cliffs, I came to the Narta lagoon where on a small island is a 13th century monastery, St Mary’s. I wanted to visit, but couldn’t face wading through mud to launch, so carried on across a dull sandy bay.

Eventually I came to the mouth of the river Vjosë, said to be Europe’s last wild river. Flowing 280km from the Greek mountains, the river and all of its tributaries are relatively unpolluted and free flowing, although plans for hydroelectric dams threaten this status.

I paddled against the cold stream of mountain water entering the Adriatic and slipped underneath some huge nets suspended by poles on the river bank to make camp on the shore of the river a few hundred metres from the sea.

The shore was covered in a thick bed of driftwood and rubbish. I scooped up a handful of pencil thin sticks and made a big fire as the sun set. To the south was the faint glow of Vlorë and I imagined the busy streets, a world away from the comfort of this inky darkness, only the lapping of the river and crackle of the fire to keep me company.