Albania: Preseason

The Alps in Albania - Tourism is coming

On the terrace of Bec Villi, paradise is close at hand. Lush greenery surrounds, crowned by the rocky cliffs of the Albanian Alps, and a bright blue sky stretches above everything. Birdsong, of course, and a pleasant breeze. But from down in the valley below, the sound of a new era is already dawning, with hammers, with drills, with saws.

On a steep slope halfway above the mountain village of Theth lies the Bec Villi Guesthouse, named eponymously for the owner, who, along with his wife and three sons, looks after vacationers. From the terrace, you have a premium view of the majesty of nature and the dynamism of tourism.

In online forums, Theth is still touted as “Europe’s best-kept secret.” The Albanian Tourism Authority praises the mountain village as a “hidden gem.” But this gem has long since been polished, made to sparkle, while simultaneously deprived of its originality. Perhaps this is a lesson, perhaps just a piece of normality. It’s still preseason, but the signs are pointing to a rush.

Not too lang ago, Theth was nearly dead, extinct in its beauty. Daliano Villi, the 24-year-old son of the guesthouse owner, looks back on the old days from the terrace. He knows them only through hearsay, but the stories are fondly told - of roots that are so important, and also of

catastrophes that led first to darkness and then back to light. “When my great-great-grandfather built this house more than a hundred years ago, eleven of his brothers had just died of cholera,” says Daliano Villi with a friendly smile. “When my father was born, 28 people lived together in this house. He had to walk 14 kilometers to school—14 there, and 14 back.”

Theth was probably something like a microcosm of Albania: poor and isolated from the world. Here in the village, the almost 3,000-meter-high mountains were a natural barrier; in ancient times, they were referred to the “cursed mountains.” Beyond the peaks, the paranoia of dictator Enver Hoxha ensured the country’s total isolation in the heart of Europe. From 1945 until his death in 1985, he held Albania in his grip. He broke with the Soviet Union when Stalin’s successors seemed too lenient. He turned his back on China when Mao’s heirs came to power. What Hoxha thought of the outside world can be read on a display board in a museum in the capital, Tirana: “The People’s Republic of Albania is closed to enemies, spies, hippie tourists, and other vagabonds.”

The fortress that was Albania only collapsed in 1991/92 amid angry protests from the population. The revolution began in the north, not far from Theth, in the city of Shkodra. After that, there was no stopping it. “In the 1990s, my father went to work in Greece,” says

Daliano Villi. “All of Theth was suddenly on Mykonos.”

Of the 7,000 residents in the long valley of Theth, only 80 remained by 2010. Tourism then reversed the exodus. In 2011, the Villi family returned to Albania, and in 2014, they rented out guestrooms in their ancestors’ old stone house for the first time, for five euros a night. From then on, everything moved very quickly. The Bec Villi Guesthouse can now be found

on booking.com, like dozens of others in Theth. “It’s like a big explosion, a crazy explosion,” says Daliano Villi.

In 2022, the old gravel road leading from Shkodra over the mountains was replaced by a paved road. Word quickly spread, including among owners of camper vans and motorcyclists. In the village, you can now eat pizza and buy hiking provisions at a shop called Cheap Market. New guest accommodations are springing up like Hoxha’s concrete bunkers of old, but today they’re in Swiss chalet style, with wood and glass topped by a tin roof, because things must be quick and cheap.

On wonderful hikes you can still experience untouched nature and encounter more snakes than people. But you can also whiz down into the valley on a zip line, and the turquoise, waterfall-fed natural pool called the Blue Eye has long since become an Instagram hotspot. “If things continue like this, this will look like a city in five or ten years,” says Daliano Villi.

He’s already heard about a planned pedestrian zone between the bridge and the church, and about some clubs that might offer nighttime entertainment.

So Theth, which was almost dead, is blossoming into new life, at least in the summer months from June to September. “That’s good, but I’m also afraid that things are moving too fast,” says Daliano Villi. He certainly appreciates the new era. The guesthouse with its four rooms generates more in one night than a teacher’s monthly salary. Looking for a job in

the city isn’t worth it for him - and yet he drives a black BMW with tinted windows, parked on the hillside next to the guesthouse, which he dusts off every free minute.

But at the same time, he worries about what this spin cycle will do to the valley and the country. “We went from dictatorship to freedom very quickly,” he says, and even a young man like him can see freedom as not solely advantageous. He raves about the Kanun, Albania’s medieval code of honor, which once governed everything in the valley, from hospitality to blood feuds: “That was a good time; there were clear rules.” And even Enver

Hoxha’s time now appears to him in a more lenient light. “There’s a saying here,” he says. “Reawaken Enver.”

Much more could be said about that. But Daliano Villi has to get back to work. He has to take care of his guests. He has to polish his BMW.

Theth, June 2025

Translation: Lisa Kremer