Lake Koman Ferry: Cruising Through Albania’s Fjords
The road from Shkodër to the ferry wound through deep valleys and cliffs that dropped straight into the river. We stopped once at a viewpoint where the water below curved like a green ribbon through the mountains. The air turned cooler as the road narrowed and twisted.
At Koman, our minibus joined a queue of vehicles inside a tunnel cut into the rock. We waited nearly half an hour before it was our turn. It was dim and echoing, with headlights bouncing off wet walls and the smell of diesel hanging in the air. When the ramp finally dropped, we drove straight onto the ferry and were told to get off and find a seat.
Most people rushed to the top deck, so we wandered off instead. We found a quiet spot on the port side, away from the noise, and stayed there for most of the journey.
When the engines started, the sound filled the air like a heartbeat. The boat shuddered once, then slid forward, pulling away from the dock into a corridor of green water and white cliffs. The light was soft and gold at first, skimming over the ridges. Mist hung in the folds of the mountains, then burned away as the sun climbed higher.
We could walk up and down the deck freely, hardly anyone around. The water changed colour with every bend, deep jade in the shadows, glassy turquoise where the sun hit. The cliffs rose sheer on both sides, streaked with grey and rust, dotted with small trees growing straight out of stone. Sometimes the ferry passed so close you could see moss clinging to cracks or hear a trickle of water falling somewhere unseen.
Around one curve, a cluster of stone houses appeared high on a slope, Berisha, one of the few villages still holding on here. A man waved from a small wooden jetty, his figure tiny against the mountain. Then the ferry drifted on and he vanished from sight.
Further along, a flash of bright turquoise split the green, the Shala River, spilling into the lake from its own hidden gorge. The contrast was startling, the water almost glowing where it met the darker lake. We leaned on the rail and watched the colours blend as the wake rippled through them.
The mountains never let up. They folded and refolded around the lake, each turn revealing another ridge behind the last. Eagles circled high above, catching the currents, and sometimes goats appeared on impossible ledges, small and sure-footed against the cliffs.
The ferry carried on for hours, the world narrowed to water and stone. The air felt heavy with silence, broken only by the engine and the slap of waves. It was a journey that did not need words, only stillness and the slow passing of light.
When the cliffs finally began to open, the water dulled and the engine’s rhythm slowed. Concrete walls and power cables appeared ahead, the dam at Fierzë, marking the end of the lake. We disembarked quietly, still half caught in the calm of it all.
From Fierzë, the road wound north to Bajram Curri, a small town that serves as the gateway to the Albanian Alps. We stopped there for a break, sat outside with bottles of Coke, watching traffic pass and the mountains sharpening in the distance. Then we carried on toward Valbonë, where the air turned crisp and the peaks rose close enough to touch.
