What Living One Month in a Remote Albanian Village Taught Me

I’ve lived in Saranda most of my life.  

Sold apartments with sweeping sea views, guided couples through beachfront properties, helped investors secure beautiful homes across the Albanian Riviera. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for the quiet lessons I learned after spending a full month in a small, nearly-forgotten village, hidden in the hills above Borsh.  

It started as a personal challenge.  

What would happen if I unplugged from the rush of coastal life, stepped away from the buzz of building sites, viewings, and contracts… and lived how some of our ancestors still live? Off-grid, more or less. One market a week. No Wi-Fi. Goat bells instead of email pings.  

And so, with just a backpack, a notebook, and a stubborn curiosity, I headed inland.  

A Village Without a Name (Well, Almost)  

I won’t name the exact village—partly because it’s home to just 12 people and they probably wouldn’t appreciate becoming a tourist spot overnight. But I’ll tell you this: it sits somewhere between Kuç and Picar, nestled between olive groves, crumbling stone houses, and the kind of silence you don’t find anymore.  

The only way in is a narrow road that turns into gravel halfway up. I had to leave my car at the base and walk the last kilometer, which felt like a metaphor for the whole experience—leaving modern convenience behind, one rocky step at a time.  

Mornings with Mist and Turkish Coffee  

Every morning, I’d wake up to a thin veil of mist sitting on the valley like a blanket. The old man who hosted me, Leka, was up before sunrise boiling water over an open flame outside his stone house. His wife served coffee the old way—bitter, thick, in tiny porcelain cups that looked older than my entire real estate career.  

They didn’t speak much. But they said everything through action.  

One morning, I tried to help Leka with the goats. Total disaster. I stepped in something I shouldn’t have, slipped, and scared the poor animals halfway to Gjirokastra. He just laughed and handed me a chunk of warm cheese as a consolation prize. I swear it tasted better than anything I’ve ever had at a beachfront restaurant.   

Time Works Differently Up There 

Without internet or a packed schedule, I started noticing things I’d forgotten to look at. The way the fig tree behind the house tilted toward the morning light. The sound of the shepherd whistling from the opposite hill. The way the kids played with wooden toys they’d carved themselves instead of phones or tablets. 

It made me wonder: if simplicity is this rich, why do we fill our lives with so much noise? 

That said, I’m not romanticizing rural hardship. The water comes from a single mountain spring. There’s one shared oven for baking bread. And the nearest pharmacy is a 30-minute drive down a road that eats tires for breakfast. 

But the sense of community? The generosity with no agenda? You don’t see that much anymore. Not even in Saranda—though we try. 

Real Estate Tangents (Because I Can’t Help Myself) 

About two weeks in, I started thinking: what if someone bought one of these old stone homes and restored it? 

I’ve helped clients purchase Saranda apartments for sale with glass balconies and infinity pools—don’t get me wrong, I love that lifestyle too—but there’s something magical about these mountain ruins. A few smart renovations, a small pool overlooking the valley, and boom: you’ve got a boutique guesthouse or private escape. 

I actually have a listing for a village-style villa in Borsh that captures this blend. Secluded, full of character, with just the right mix of traditional charm and modern comfort. It’s not for everyone, but for the right buyer? It’s priceless. 

Sundays Meant Something Again 

Every Sunday, the village gathered under the fig tree. Everyone brought something—homemade wine, roasted lamb, pickled vegetables, and stories. Oh, the stories. 

There’s an older woman, Merushe, who remembered walking to school barefoot in 1961 and said her teacher wrote with coal. Her hands shook a bit as she poured raki into mismatched glasses, but her eyes were sharper than anyone’s I know. 

We talked about everything. Property taxes. The changes on the coast. How tomatoes taste different now. I mentioned a beachfront development I’m working on and someone scoffed, “Who needs a sea view when you have a mountain that sings?” I didn’t know how to respond. But I wrote it down. 

 

Coming Back to Saranda

After 30 days, I returned home. Saranda looked… shinier. Bigger. Noisier. The sea was still stunning, of course, and my clients were still eager to explore the best affordable properties. But I came back with new eyes.

I took one client to see a seaview apartment last week—an elegant unit at White Residence. As we stood on the balcony, admiring the endless Ionian blue, I told him about the village. He asked, “Why would anyone live there?”

I smiled and said, “Because sometimes, peace is the most luxurious thing you can buy.”

So, Would I Do It Again?

Yes. A thousand times, yes.

Living in a remote Albanian village reminded me why I fell in love with this country. Not just for the beachfront properties or the seaview apartments or even the growing demand for Saranda apartments for sale—but for the stories hidden in its hills, its people, and its slow, quiet beauty.

You don’t need to spend a month to feel it. Sometimes a single day away from the coast is enough to shift your perspective.

But if you ever get the chance? Pack light. Leave your phone behind. And bring an open heart.

Trust me, the goats will appreciate it.

(The photo on this blog is captured in Zoe Hora, Albania)