Hiking in the Balkans: The Lost Paradise

T he mountain basin looks like an otherworldly paradise. Narrow streams gurgle through the valley, lush meadows stretch up to the slopes, and even in August they are still deep green. Blueberry bushes also grow on the slopes, and you can sometimes see people with sacks harvesting them. Otherwise it's quiet.

It's midsummer and Western Europe is burning. But up here, at around 1,500 meters above sea level, in the national park in the border region between Kosovo, Montenegro and Albania, there is no sign of it. The world seems incredibly okay. Myriads of wildflowers sprout around us, in white and yellow, blue and violet, red and purple. We are surrounded by never-ending humming and chirping. I imagine it was the year 1800 and wonder how many parts of the world looked like that. We lie down on the grass, we're in no hurry. I never want to get up again.

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We're not the only ones who are amazed. “I can’t get enough of the meadows,” says an English woman we meet. Then we'll talk again about the forest fires in Wales.

The beauty here is otherworldly and at the same time strangely familiar. Many herbs remind me of how they felt when I pulled them apart as a child, as we called them back then. They are words that I haven't used for a long time. Because at some point these herbs and flowers must have disappeared.

The meadows in Germany became building land or monotonous grass. I hadn't noticed that. Species loss is abstract. Only when I see the meadows in Kosovo do I remember what we have lost with a force that surprises me. It is infinitely beautiful and infinitely sad. My friend calls these places paradise lost.

The Balkans are considered less progressive and in need of development. I think how bad GDP is at measuring real value. And in times when rivers are being restored and moors are being made wet again, it is overdue for these meadows to be models for the future instead of just relics from the past.

A group of men come along the path, they attract attention. Without expensive equipment, cheering instead of reverently. You speak to us. I ask about her story. “We grew up here,” says one. “We’ve known each other since we were little.” Those in front are already running enthusiastically up the next mountain; only one gasps afterwards.

Where are they going? “Nowhere,” the man laughs. “We want to refresh our childhood memories.” And us? I tell him our destination. But actually, I think we do the same thing. We just have to travel for it.