The bunkers are like concrete carbuncles. With little slits for their long-gone occupants to peer through, they sit in fields, on the edges of roads, in hollows, on top of hills. Some are partially hidden, some glaringly obvious. Some are preserved untouched, some broken and many totally destroyed, but thousands remain. Grey, ugly and depressing, they litter Albania. They are the most visible remnant of the last Communist regime in Europe.
Under the paranoid rule of Enver Hoxha, these bunkers were the eyes and ears of the state. Day and night, within them sat observers taking note of everything spoken or done by Albania's citizens. In a country of more than 3 million people, neighbour spied on neighbour. There was one bunker for every eight people.
We travelled by coach from Montenegro on this day trip to Albania, heading eastwards and away from the Adriatic coastline. The border at Sukobin-Muricani has been open for about three years. Before crossing it, we pass through mountain villages peopled by settled Albanian Muslims, the older women wearing the traditional white headscarves. When we crossed the border, our guide Marianna gave way to Venera, a young Albanian. She gave us a quick account of her country's recent Communist history, which included the closure and/or destruction of churches and mosques, a ban on foreign travel, on religious observance and on news from abroad. Democracy now prevailed, she told us, but enormous economic problems remained.
Our destination was the ancient city of Shkodra, which dates back to nearly two centuries before Christ and was an important centre of culture and trade in the Middle Ages, with an enormous bazaar housing over 3,000 traders. Shkodra had always been a democratic city but its economy was effectively ruined by Ever Hoxha's long and harsh dictatorship. The increasingly marginalised ruler, who despised other Communist leaders as deviating from the strict path of Marxism-Leninism, died in 1985 and the Communist regime lasted just another five years.
On our way to Shkodra we passed through tiny villages. A man was trimming the road verges with a scythe. A horse and cart trundled by. This could be Ireland of the 1950s, but when we reached the outskirts of the city, one traveller compared it to Bombay, with its rutted roads, its marks of poverty, a series of ugly apartment blocks and the bustle of street trade.
Main street, Shkodra is busy and noisy. Despite the bad state of the roads, there is plenty of traffic (and no traffic lights). Most surprising is the great number of Mercedes saloons shooting by with their drivers shouting into mobile phones. These are not the latest Mercedes models, and most are covered with the dust of the city, but neither are they bangers. How can this be in a country where the average income is €150 a month?
We put the question for Venera. She could not explain the flocks of Mercedes, but she told us that Albanians "like to party". We could well believe this when in the space of an hour in the city we saw four noisy wedding car processions, with the ceremonial car in all cases preceded by an open-top Mercedes with a video camera operator standing on the back seat filming the cavalcade. All the brides and grooms looked very young.
Trade in Shkodra is fairly aggressive. To put it mildly, there is an entrepreneurial spirit about - no doubt essential when few people have secure employment, state jobs are at a premium and infrastructure is painfully lacking. At almost every shop and restaurant, cables snake outwards to portable electricity generators. Nevertheless, there are plenty of people at leisure in the many cafés - or at least plenty of men, because there is not a woman to be seen in any of these establishments.
Meanwhile, bargains were to be found at the street stalls, and though the local currency is the lek, the euro is never refused. I picked up a pair of shoes for €15, and though there is no indication of where they were made, they haven't fallen apart yet. The people seemed friendly, open, gregarious and eager to sell.
Leaving the city, we climbed to the fortress of Rozafa, the ancient Illyrian castle, now mostly ruined, which stands on a rocky hill outside the city. From here we could see the vastness of the lake - one of the largest in Europe - from which Shkodra takes its name. Part of a huge national park, the lake region is a haunt for anglers and birdwatchers, containing 40 different types of fish and 260 identified bird species, some to be found nowhere else in Europe.
Our trip ended with a late lunch in the Restaurant Lejgenda, which sits on its own grounds in a pretty garden with a shady terrace where a giant stone turtle spouts water. In this idyllic outdoor setting we were treated to a simple but tasty meal impeccably served by black-aproned young waiters. The atmosphere was relaxed and charming in an old-fashioned manner - with prices to match: beer and wine were only 50 cent a glass.
As I left, an older waiter approached and asked apprehensively if everything was OK. I assured him it was more than all right and he was delighted: "Welcome to Albania!"