Our induction into tree-planting comes from Pietro, an Italian hydromorphologist charged with overseeing our group of 20 or so volunteers for the week. We’re standing in a makeshift nursery full of spindly willow and poplar saplings just above the Vjosa River, a graceful, meandering waterway that cuts east to west across southern Albania from its source 169 miles away upstream in Greece.
Expertly extricating an infant willow from the clay-rich soil, Pietro holds up the plant for us all to see. Its earthy tendrils look oddly exposed and vulnerable. “The trick is not to accidentally snick the stem or break the roots,” he says. Message registered, we take up our hoes and head off in pairs to follow his instructions.
The volunteering week is the brainchild of EcoAlbania and the Austria-based Riverwatch. Back in 2023, these two conservation charities succeeded in persuading the Albanian government to designate the River Vjosa as Europe’s first “wild river national park”. It was a timely intervention. According to new research co-funded by Riverwatch, Albania has lost 711 miles (1,144km) of “nearly natural” river stretches since 2018 – more, proportionally, than any country in the Balkans. Now, the question facing both organisations is: what next?
On our first evening, Riverwatch’s chief executive, Ulrich (“Uli”) Eichelmann, gives a presentation setting out his answer. But before he does, we have a dinner of lamb and homegrown vegetables to work through. The traditional spread is a speciality of the Lord Byron guesthouse in Tepelenë, a small town in the heart of the Vjosa valley and home to EcoAlbania’s field office – our base for the week.
Today, Tepelenë houses a slightly dilapidated castle and little else, but two centuries ago it formed the political centre of Ali Pasha, a local potentate in the early 19th century. Under the then Ottoman empire, Pasha administered a large swathe of what is modern-day southern Albania and mainland Greece – hence, the visit (in 1809) of the guesthouse’s eponymous namesake.
Uli makes for a fitting heir to the famously belligerent Ali Pasha. Armed with slides and statistics, he offers a hard-hitting overview of the threats facing Europe’s embattled river network. His opprobrium is particularly reserved for the thousands of dams now stymying the continent’s once free-flowing rivers, which he blames for causing irreversible damage to fish stocks and freshwater ecosystems.
As one of the last wild rivers in the Balkans, the Vjosa in Albania has been spared a similar fate, he asserts. But that’s not the end of it. “Although the river looks beautiful,” he says, “there are critical things missing.” High on his list are trees, a large proportion of which have been lost to fires, logging, road building and aggressive grazing. The result: high levels of erosion and, as a consequence, greater risk of flooding.
Buoyed up by Uli’s presentation, we approach our replanting the next day with redoubled efforts. Our number includes a London-based book illustrator inspired by David Attenborough’s Ocean documentary, a US geospatial analyst with the noble hope of creating an “Albania where Albanians might want to stay” (a reference to the country’s 1.2 million emigres now overseas), and an Italian university student interested in eco-tourism, to name a few.
Over lunch on the second day, I get chatting to Aida, a tour guide from Tirana who wants to better acquaint herself with the Vjosa region. Visitors rarely come to this part of Albania, she says. “Perhaps they might pay a quick visit to Gjirokastër,” referring to a historic honeypot town on the neighbouring Drino River, “but, otherwise, they drive straight through.”
Looking out over the river, with its braided islets and rugged mountain backdrop, we both agree that such oversight is a shame. The region has a rich cultural and religious history (Albania became officially atheist in 1967), an interesting gastronomic tradition (“perhaps not that sophisticated, but somehow tasty”), and a genuine surfeit of natural attractions, she tells me.
That night, it starts raining. Proper rain. Torrents of water pour down from angry, thunderous skies. The next morning, word comes from Pietro that the planting zone is now several feet underwater. With our planting temporarily suspended, I join some of the volunteers on an impromptu sightseeing expedition. Equipped with a list from Aida, we head upstream, stopping first at the slow-food town of Përmet (“Except for the Sea,” the town’s cocksure slogan reads, “We have Everything”). Next up is the delightful Orthodox church of St Mary, a gem of a place hidden up in the hills, where the local shepherd doubles as the doorkeeper. Last, we go for a hike up the Langarica canyon, which, despite the dreadful weather, we achieve without troubling the widely advertised emergency services (“ambulance”, “police”, “fireworks”).
The next day, it’s still raining hard. Briefly, I consider going rafting or kayaking, two popular options on the Vjosa, but the river has now grown into a swollen torrent. Instead, I take a soggy hike up the nearby Peshtura gorge to see a noted waterfall, which, drunk on so much rainfall, is positively bursting from the hillside. In the afternoon, I decide to see if Gjirokastër is all it’s cracked up to be. A visit to its illuminating ethnographic museum and imperious clifftop castle persuade me it very much is.
Later that night, I share my joys at discovering what the Vjosa region has to offer with Olsi Nika, executive director of EcoAlbania. Happy as he is at my enthusiasm, I can see he’s also concerned. He is not against tourism, he wants me to know, but, as a conservationist (he recently won the prestigious Goldman Environmental prize), the prospects for the park worry him. Albania’s coastline is already busy with package holidaymakers and an airport is being built in the river’s delta despite it being a designated protected area. And so, while he is happy that a spangly new visitor centre is being built in Tepelenë, he is anxious to see the government fulfil its own management plan for the park – something it has so far been slow to do. “Tourism is like fire,” he says. “You can prepare your soup with it, but it can also burn your house down.”
Olsi’s words are still ringing in my ears the next day as I drive back towards Tirana. I stop just to the north of the river’s mouth at the archaeological site of Apollonia, an ancient Greek trading community later colonised by the Romans. The hilltop spot is entirely devoid of other tourists, allowing me a magical couple of hours to wander alone among the extraordinary ruins.
If Herodotus is to be believed, Apollonia used to sit on the Adriatic coast, but centuries of silt from the Vjosa have seen it retreat miles inland. Over the same time, the river’s route has also altered. But nothing stays still, especially hydrology. Change is once more coming to the Vjosa. What it will bring remains uncertain, but, as a national park, she will hopefully continue to flow, untamed and unbroken.
The trip was funded by Patagonia, which supports EcoAlbania. EcoAlbania will arrange hotel, food and transport from Tirana to Tepelenë for about £700 for the week. Volunteers need to arrange their own transport to Tirana. The next volunteering week is 16-21 February
