Chasing Sunsets Through the Balkans

Author: Nick Smith, Co-founder of Alpkit

From storm-lashed ferries to quiet coves and night trains — one slow journey from Corfu to Paris proves adventure still lives between the borders.

The Finikas ferry has spent half a century crossing the narrow straits between Corfu and Albania — a discreet back door into the Balkans. I love ferries, especially the rough crossings: the slap of waves on the hull, the crash of loose luggage, that delicious knot of anticipation in your stomach. As the boat rocked toward Sarandë and a thunderstorm split the sky, what was meant to be a holiday suddenly felt like an adventure.

That night, in a small taverna, we ordered Tavi Kosi and Albanian moussaka and fell into easy conversation with locals — English is common here. Sarandë itself may feel modest, but minutes away are untouched beaches and quiet coastal trails. We all dream of seeing a place before it changes; in Albania, that dream still exists along the Bregdeti Jon coast.

The next day’s eleven-hour drive across Albania to Montenegro revealed two truths: Albania is heartbreakingly beautiful and seemingly untouched, and everyone drives a Mercedes. Public transport might have taken three days, so we hired a car and guide — the best decision of the trip. We swam in the crystal water of Uji Ftohtë Tepelenë beneath Zagoria National Park, a moment so pure it guaranteed we’d return.

We reached Kotor, Montenegro, at sunset — our driver skipping an hour of border queues with Balkan audacity — and the cliffs above the bay glowed a fierce orange. Storms from the Ionian Sea curtailed our plans to hike Lovćen National Park, but we managed the vertiginous “Ladders of Kotor” trail before retreating to the town’s bars. Sometimes being forced to pause is part of the journey.

Croatia came next. The ferry to Hvar was calm, the sun dropping behind the Paklinski Islands as we docked. After days of constant motion, three nights in Hvar felt like an exhale — the perfect antidote to what friends had dubbed our “race across Europe.”

Hvar, another UNESCO gem, has softened its edges in recent years, embracing slower travel. Visit in October and you’ll find empty hiking trails to Milna, gentle biking routes, and bays where the only sound is the sea. Even as the season closes, it hums with quiet life.

A short hop to Split, a quick lunch, and we were back on the rails. I’ve done my share of roughing it on trains, but speeding through France on a sleek TGV feels worlds away from the hard seats of China in the ’90s. Yet I still crave imperfection — so when ZUG 1152, an Austrian night train with just the right amount of scruff, rolled in, it felt right.

That train to Vienna was our pause button. We slept, reset, and arrived to autumn light spilling across the platforms. There’s something magical about that slow crawl into a grand European station — the promise of a whole day ahead, coffee and Kuchen waiting.

By Saturday we were Paris-bound, a missed connection barely denting the excitement. We spilled into the 10th arrondissement as the city buzzed for the weekend. My favourite moment came the next morning, sitting near Gare du Nord, surrounded by ten languages in a tiny bistro, devouring a perfect croissant.

Travel makes you softer, more curious, more patient. Each border reminds you that people on both sides are more alike than different. In places like Paris or London, the whole world seems to coexist.

This journey was part adventure, part experiment — to prove you can halve your flights if you only fly one way. And somewhere between chasing sunsets and storm clouds, that felt like a small victory.