A TASTE OF ANCIENT LEGEND

if the city could speak

The bus was going smoothly up the winding road.
I stared at the mountain scenery and got a bit nervous.
It's always like that when I'm exploring new cities.

What was my surprise when my hostess appeared as soon as I stepped onto the cobblestone street. How did she know where to wait for me, since there were no addresses, and I didn't know where the bus would stop either.

How would Kruja meet me?
Will she deign to talk to me, or will she hide her story from me?
I will find out soon enough.

Oh, those little tricks of ancient cities. I don't want to say old, because I couldn't call her old.
In her eyes, sad but lively and very kind, I could read the joy of meeting a guest. A bright, well-dressed woman was looking at me. Her once-black hair fell in strands of silver across her face.

I proceeded up the road to a large house, where many traditional Albanian dishes awaited me.

Welcome, dear guest!

Good morning, Mrs. Kruja.

Just Cruja. Come with me, you must be hungry from the road.

I'd love to!

Have I come to my grandmother's village?
Such a warm hospitality, as if she were welcoming a grandson

After lunch, Kruja took me to demonstrate her possessions. We walk along a cobbled road, slippery from the millions of feet that have walked on it. We headed straight for the fortress itself.

While we're walking, do you want me to tell you a story about these places? Guess for yourself where it's fiction and where it's true.

Of course I do. That's why I came here.

Once upon a time there lived an Albanian duke, John Castrioti.


He had three sons, like in a fairy tale. He owned the land of Kruja. The Turks took a fancy to these lands, and from time to time they raided them. This made the prince very sad, but he could not do anything about it, so he had to give his three sons as hostages to the Turkish sultan. It grieved me that my grandsons left home so early.

The youngest, George, was 18 at the time, and I grieved for him more than the others. The Turkish sultan ordered the conversion of the orthodox Giorgi to Islam, sent him to a military school, and made him a soldier. He became a warlord, the talent of which all the Turks envied. He fought very successfully in the Turkish army, and was never defeated. And so his glorious name was born.

Soon Skanderbeg's father died and the sultan immediately sent a Turkish army to seize my lands. This irritated Skanderbeg and he thought up a cunning plan (he is, after all, my grandson, a good boy).


In one of his battles, Skanderbeg sided with the enemy. He captured a Turkish official, forced him to write a paper for the possession of Kruja. He gathered a small army and headed for home.

He banished Turkish soldiers from his homeland and raised a red flag with a double-headed eagle over the roofs of the houses. His native countrymen were delighted with Skanderbeg's return. He became orthodox again and soon married a beautiful girl, Donika (to my delight).

The grandson's army was stationed outside the walls of the fortress. The fortress survived many attacks, but the battles were not spared its walls. And only the watchtower and ruins remain from those times. It makes me hurt. If you get close to the tower, you can see the Adriatic Sea.

The Turks tried again and again to capture me, but Skanderbeg defeated their attacks with various tricks. Once the Turks chased my grandson into the mountains and starved him to death. He tamed a mountain goat and fed on its milk. The mountain goat's head, as a sign of gratitude for salvation, was henceforth painted on his helmet.

I still cherish the memory of my boy. A miniature of the former fortress was built near the tower, and a museum of Skanderbeg has been opened there.
On the way there is a monument to my grandson. He's sitting on a horse and looking down proudly (he was a handsome man, wasn't he?). And next to him the red flag with a black eagle is fluttering, almost the same as the Kastrioti family had.

Kruja lowered her head sadly and sighed, a single tear running down her swarthy, wrinkled face

After a few minutes, Kruja looked up at me, took my hand, and led me down the street, where a bazaar spread out in colorful patches under the tiled roofs.

I could hardly stop to look at the rugs with their distinctive patterns, the wooden utensils, the silverware, the books that had been shabby for years, the antiques, even the antiques. Everything was so interesting and colorful. And Kruja was greeted by every merchant at the bazaar, be sure to ask "Si jeni?" (how are you?) and invite you to enter his shop.
It was as if they were all members of a large Albanian family, no strangers among them, and even I was accepted as one of their own.
I could not resist the nice old lady who was selling wool socks with leather insole, I bought them. I hope I'll be warm in winter, not only from the memories of Kruja, but also from the socks))

After walking through all the market stalls, Kruja showed me to the top of Mount Sari-Saltyki.

She put her frail but strong hand on mine, squeezed it, and said the traditional "mirupavshim!" which means "good-bye!
And I tilted my head back, looking at the mountain I was about to climb.

Здравствуйте, госпожа Круя.

Walk to it; from there you will see me from the other side. The way up is not too difficult for your young legs, and I can't take such a journey anymore.

Well, let's try it...