The Bunny’s new alias: Bella Historica!

Hello readers! I want to tell you about another page I’ve recently started, to try and focus on the aesthetic beauty and emotional resonance I find in historic sites and artefacts. The account will be mostly based on Instagram and Facebook and specialise in small, digestible bites of content (alas, the digital age!) rather than my more rambling, in-depth articles.

If you’re interested in beautiful pictures accompanied by insightful quotes, apropos poetry, or interesting facts, then please feel free to follow Bella Historica on Instagram, and/or on Facebook! But I’ll be doubling-up those posts here as well, so you’ll get them anyway – and hopefully you enjoy them!

Many thanks for being my faithful fans for over five years now as I continue to explore and be puzzled by this crazy world!

Much love,


Travel to Scotland for a Conservation Adventure!

Adventures In Preservation, a leading heritage conservation non-profit, is pleased to announce its upcoming session – restoring a historic greenhouse in the north of Scotland!Burgie Poster 2 Corrected
Participants will help repair and restore the 1912 glasshouse of the historic Burgie Estate, learning traditional craft and building skills in the process. The project will include hands-on training in window glazing, glass-cutting, and cast-iron conservation, as well as introductions to the gardening and arboriculture practiced on-site. The project not only benefits a beautiful historic structure, but also supports the effort of its owner, Hamish, who has dedicated his life to the environmentally-sustainable cultivation of trees, which he nurtures in the glasshouse.
The project takes place in two week-long sessions: September 24-30, and October 1-7, 2017. Participants can attend both consecutively, or just one.
The participation fee includes:
  • Transportation to and from Inverness airport
  • Accommodation in a house in the Scottish countryside
  • Catered meals
  • All work and safety equipment
  • On-site training and supervision by a specialist in Scottish conservation
  • A 2-day tourguided excursion to the Isle of Skye (during the second week)
For registration and further details on a truly unique opportunity to travel, learn, and help preserve a piece of history, please visit
You can also follow the project on Facebook by liking Adventures in Preservation and The Burgie Glasshouse and Arboretum Restoration Project. If you can’t attend but would like to contribute, donations are greatly appreciated, and will go directly toward the material costs of the restoration. Adventures in Preservation is a 501(c)(3) and all contributions are tax-deductible.
To register, donate, or for any enquiries, please get in touch at, or call our trip director Judith Broeker on (303) 444-0128.
And watch our new project trailer!

‘This blessed plot, this earth:’ The UNESCO World Heritage Register

Survived Week 2! Turns out life isn’t so bad when you’ve not got a cold – this whole crazy commuting thing might turn out alright after all!

After our Week 1 crash course on history and theory, we have finally gotten to the fun bits: actually getting our hands dirty with the real work of conservation. My first attempt to survey the dimensions of a room using a ruler, a compass, and a technique called “triangulation” was pretty comical, but we’ll leave aside tales of me on my hands and knees crawling under antique furniture and poking my nose into really really dirty corners of staircases to examine their construction for another post, when I have a better sense of what I’m actually doing.

This week was also our first taster of elective courses, and mine – World Heritage – is totally awesome. By now pretty much everyone has heard of the UNESCO World Heritage sites – if you’ve ever seen the Statue of Liberty, the Great Wall of China, Notre Dame de Paris, Westminster Abbey, visited Yosemite or Yellowstone or the Grand Canyon, or set foot in the city of Edinburgh, congratulations! You’ve experienced a monument of “outstanding universal value” to the entire race of mankind. Really the list is quite extensive – now over a thousand entries – and growing every year. Here’s a version from the World Heritage Centre’s own website, grouped by country:

But the rationale behind the list might be surprising. Okay, the sights I listed above – you might think the Statue of Liberty, how *yawn* very American (even though it’s French) – seem like an obvious “who’s who” of tourist destinations, almost to the point of being trite. But really the list (which you should totally spend a couple hours poking about and getting lost in), is a lot more complex in its composition. Even though lots of people turn it into a kind of to-do list, the “attraction” of the site, or the ability to take a selfie in front of it, takes a backburner to the significance of the site, which might not be that instagrammable, or even suitable to visitors. If the list were all just castles, cathedrals, and national parks, it would hardly be a comprehensive representation of globally valuable heritage. No, the scope is so much broader, and encompasses, for instance, sites that illustrate progress in human development. Yes, the Golden Gate Bridge is very impressive, but think of the power of a site that tells a story not just about one nation at one time in history, but actually links in with our evolution as a species. For example this site near Mount Carmel in Israel, contains an unbroken record of human habitation, stretching back over 500,000 years, leaving archaeological remains that actually trace our development from pre-human species, to hunter-gatherers, to settled cultivators of the land. But pictures won’t tell you that, and millions of tourist feet tramping over the site would only damage it. (This is one of the unfortunate consequences of the list. Inclusion on the list does not come with funding for maintenance, but it does usually come with hordes of tourists who use UNESCO as a sort of hit list)

Apart from including sites important to humanity, UNESCO also tries to include a diversity of types of sites, that can be representative or typical of some particular aspect of nature or culture. This includes sites of colonization or settlement, such as L’Anse aux Meadows, the site of pre-Colombian Viking settlement in Canada, as well as testaments to human technological and industrial achievements, such as the Wieliczka Salt Mines outside Kraków, Poland.

Natural sites are fair game as well, and are selected for inscription based on their extreme aesthetic beauty or remarkability, for their perfect illustration of geologic phenomena, or by representing phases of the earth’s formation. The Grand Canyon seems a no-brainer judging by its listing description as “the most spectacular gorge in the world.” The Galápagos Islands were the very first site to be listed, based on their clear evidence of the volcanic processes that formed them, and on their status as a “living museum” of evolution.

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More recently, the focus has shifted to sites that span both the human and the natural worlds, under a category called “cultural landscapes,” that illustrate ways in which spectacular natural formations have interacted with outstanding human settlement or achievement. This encompasses sites such as Thingvellir National Park in Iceland, where the medieval Norse settlers used the dramatic rift between the North American and European tectonic plates as a titanic ceremonial stage for their sophisticated and participatory system of law.

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The spectacular and dramatic formations of South Africa’s Drakensberg Mountains are littered with prehistoric human settlements and contain the largest concentration of cave paintings south of the Sahara. And the Tokay Wine Region in Hungary is remarkable for its centuries-old tradition of a very specific, highly regulated viticulture, making use of the landscape and traditional methods to make [really really delicious] wine. In an otherwise unremarkable region of Sweden, one large hillside is littered with the remains of an ancient people, who carved tens of thousands of images into the rocks of the landscape, over a period of several thousand years. The Tanum Rock Carvings depict an amazing variety of very human images, such as two lovers embracing, or a woman mourning a man, and they interact with other archaeological features in these hills, such as enormous chambered cairn tombs.

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Here are the 12 sites that comprised the very first list published in 1973, and from which the present list has grown:

Check it out, and prepare to be surprised – given what we think of as the world’s great tourist sites, the ones that made the list of the dozen most important sites in the world as of 1973 are probably not what you’re expecting… 🙂

The Beauty and the Beast – Conservation Contrasts at Edinburgh University

If you’ve known me recently, it’ll come as no surprise that I’ve recently begun an MSc in Architectural Conservation at the University of Edinburgh. I mean, historic buildings, Scotland, and my continuing reluctance to let go of the University lifestyle – it ticks all my boxes! It’s been pretty grueling commuting in from Glasgow every day, but we’re all still here at the end of week one, so so far so good!

I’ve spent the past year and a half totally immersed in the history and theory of conservation for my last thesis, so in some ways I’m still just doing what I’ve always been doing: reading articles and books about conservation, and going to castles and historic sites not only to revel in their beauty and atmosphere, but to silently make snarky judgments about their conservation decisions and historic interpretation. This master’s course is going to take me way beyond what I’m able to master myself, and teach me all the things I wish I knew about how buildings work, how to read their layers, and about the actual physical work of preserving them.

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The crew in front of Stirling Castle

But the single biggest change is that now finally I’m not alone. I’m not going to lie, spending two years writing a massive thesis with no classes to attend, and nobody in the department working on anything even remotely related, was actually a bit of a lonely process. My world was rocking: I’d discovered a whole discipline that seemed to synthesize all my interests, I was engaging with philosophical debates, applying them to what I saw at castles and historic sites, and trying to draw meaningful conclusions out of all of it – but there wasn’t really anyone around to share it with, bounce ideas off, help refine my thinking, etc. But now, besides the actual faculty of the Edinburgh department, there are twenty other people all doing the same thing, with roughly the same goals: to learn and understand as much about the field of conservation as possible within these nine months. Let the geeking-out commence! 😀

What’s more, I’m not the only one in the class sharing my experiences with the internet! Taylor Dickinson has a blog, which you should definitely check out, particularly as she’s done an impressive recounting of the details of our trips to Stirling Castle and to Newhailes House. She also has lots of great photos that show the details of the two sites – I’m terrible for forgetting to take pictures!

The first week has been spent getting acquainted with the history and theory of conservation, how it began, developed, and where it stands today. The gist of it is that conservation efforts as we recognize them really developed in the Renaissance as part of the nascent understanding of history as a thing separate from the present. The rediscovery of ruins like the Roman Forum and classical sculptures like Laocoon not only inspired artists, as we were all taught in high school, but also forced questions of how to care for these historical relics that were suddenly being valued, rather than used as quarries for new building material, as the Coliseum had been for over 1,000 years. As the Renaissance gave way to the Enlightenment in the 17th and 18th centuries, and finally to industrialization in the 19th century, the modern idea about history being a thing different and separate from the modern day solidified, as did appreciation for the specialness of historic places as places that evoke and hold evidence of the past. But opinions differed about how to care for them, with some championing lavish restorations that often played fast-and-loose with historical accuracy, and others preferring to leave things more or less in their current state, just keeping them from deteriorating further. Finally, after massive destruction during WWI and II, a trend began for international agreements ratified by many nations, in effect agreeing upon a “global” ideal standard for conservation. Today restoration is generally unacceptable according to the standards of the charters, and the preferred method is a conservative approach of small-scale maintenance and repair. In reality though, conservation policies run the entire gamut from restoration to preservation and everything in between.

As a kind of taster for the first week, Glendinning (our programme supervisor) arranged for us to see two cases in Scotland that exemplify the two extremes of conservation policy: Stirling Castle, and Newhailes House.

Stirling Castle used to be a spectacular Renaissance palace complex built by James IV and V, but in the 17th century the monarchy departed and the military moved in, and all the elegant buildings were converted into barracks, storerooms, and other more utilitarian defensive structures. Since the military vacated in 1964 and the castle came into state care, the later alterations to the major buildings were stripped away, and the buildings restored to their 16th century appearances. Now Stirling has a bright, lavishly decorated great hall, chapel, and palace, populated by costumed interpreters bringing the spaces to life and engaging with the millions of tourists that Stirling attracts annually.


Not pictured: 50 visitors all trying to squeeze into the same room.

Now Newhailes House, a 17th/18th century suburban mansion outside Edinburgh, you’ve probably never heard of. Although begun in the 17th century, the greatest building phase dates from the early 18th century, when the Dalrymples, new owners, extended it and refurnished it in the latest Rococo fashion. Part of what makes the house unique is that, since the Dalrymples bought it and began redoing it in 1709, the family continuously inhabited it and changed almost nothing, until the final owner gave it up to the National Trust for Scotland in 1997. Now for a house that’s over 300 years old, it looks pretty good. But as far as something that’s been continually lived in and hardly updated, by the measure of other historic properties it looks pretty shabby. The furnishings are a bit threadbare, the external render is sloughing off in sections, and the interior wallpapers and paint are in rather poor condition. Rather than renewing and refreshing everything, the NTS has kept it almost precisely as they found it, preserving all the shabbiness, even the watermark from an old leak in the ceiling, just stabilizing everything – to the tune of 4.5 million pounds – to keep it from deteriorating further. In contrast to Stirling, where visitors stampede through the palace at will and shuffle for a place to stand, Newhailes is only viewable by small-group guided tours, in which a volunteer guide will carefully explain the complex, and controversial, conservation policy.


I suppose this is what they have in mind when they say “gently mouldering…”

Giving the Past a Future: Historical Preservation at Kulla Isuf Mazrekaj – Drenoc, Kosovo

Like anything that’s been around for several centuries, the Isuf Mazrekaj kulla is finding that it needs to adapt in order to survive. These stone towers, potent symbols of traditional Islamic Kosovar culture, were particularly targeted during the recent war, and now only a couple dozen survive. The Mazrekaj family has survived warfare, regime changes, and economic instability, and so has their kulla, but now that Kosovo has found independence and relative stability, helping the kulla participate in modern tourism is the surest way to ensure the survival of the historic structure, and the prosperity of the family who have held it for three centuries. Adventures in Preservation, an American company partnering with Cultural Heritage Without Borders Kosovo, brought seven volunteers to spend two weeks working on the kulla alongside the Mazrekaj family, guided by conservation architects and local craftsmen. The result? A historically-minded rehabilitation of the 18th century building.


Our master craftsmen, Smiley and Hasan. Smiley (behind) was our plastering guru, a quick frenetic presence, while Hasan, about a foot and a half taller, was the gentle giant who led us in woodworking.

1. Reconfiguring doorways

  • One of the first orders of business has been to increase the privacy of the three bedrooms by giving each its own doorway onto the entrance hall (and thus access to the bathroom). On the first couple days this meant knocking open one door  while bricking-up another.

Our master craftsmen, Smiley and Hasan. Smiley (behind) was our plastering guru, a quick frenetic presence, while Hasan, about a foot and a half taller, was the gentle giant who led us in woodworking.

The Bunny tries out her bricklaying skills…! As far as possible, we reused the bricks from the doorway we had just knocked out.

2. Building a partition wall

  • Meanwhile, one of the bedrooms had a doorway opening directly onto the outside, so we built an entirely new wall closing off the bedroom and creating a hallway leading from that external doorway straight to the entrance hall. We built the wall of interlocking pine panels, filled with insulation and covered on the opposite side in lathe, chicken wire, and plaster.

The external side of the new wall, with lovely pine planking and a custom-made door.

And on the other side, plastering over the lathe and chicken wire.

3. Reflooring the kitchen

  • This small room with its charmingly crooked fireplace would historically have been the kitchen. A rotting framework of later flooring covered the original floorboards, still impressively intact, while in between was a packed layer of soil which aided insulation, but made for a pretty dirty uncovering process. As awesome as these old boards are, for purposes of structural integrity and to avoid a major trip hazard, they needed to be replaced. So we stripped back the original boards to the joists, laying then aside with an idea of repurposing the most, perhaps as furniture, which would preserve them while also being of continued use to the kulla. We laid some basic planking perpendicular to the joists, then built a framework over them, slotting it here and there with bits of wood to make it (mostly) level. Then, just as historically it was filled with soil, we filled the framework with sand for insulation. Over this, in an epic four-hour flooring sesh that lasted well past quitting time and was fueled by hilarity and a few beers, three of us nailed in the new tongue-and-groove pine flooring.

The original floorboards in situ, preserved under a layer of dirt.

It took quite a few trips of the bucket brigade to bring all that sand up to the second floor from the courtyard…!

Repping my college acapella group while Julia, Meris, and I power through the flooring, while Master Hassan supervises and we all, erm, “hydrate” 😅

4. Plastering the kitchen

  • Although the kitchen and second bedroom had all historically comprised one open room, at some point in the kulla’s history partition walls had been built dividing the space into two smaller rooms. Rather than tear down this wall, it was decided to keep it, but plaster over it to give the room a tidier appearance. Plastering was a story in layers: First went a splattered coat of very rough-grain mortar to give the wall better texture to which subsequent layers could adhere. Then we nailed segments of chicken wire over the bricks – and let me assure you that driving nails into crumbling old brick mortar was the most fun – to give the next coat something to adhere to. The next bit was the messiest, and therefore the funnest: in order to get the mortar to pass through the chicken wire we had to fling it at the wall, then smooth it over once we had built up a sufficient thickness. After leaving it to dry a few days, we applied a second, much smoother coat for the final layer. We sifted the sand through a screen to give the lime plaster a much finer grain and the wall surface a smoother finish. The last step, which had to be completed after we left, was painting with repeated costs of lime wash to achieve a bright, white-wash effect over the grey plaster.

Splatter stage: Master Smiley had this incredible skill for distributing the plaster evenly over the whole surface with just a flick of his wrist. Our attempts ended up mostly on the floor…

Twisting nails into the spiky wire and then tapping them into a crumbling surface – that’s my “fun face.”

More splattering was required after the chicken wire – I think we were starting to get better at it!

5. A new ceiling for the kitchen

  • The ceiling boards in the kitchen, though original and very cool looking, were not in a condition to serve the purposes of a modern guesthouse. In an ideal world, a professional wood conservator would be able to document and analyze the beams for information about their age and manufacture, and then could stabilise and consolidate them – perhaps arresting the processes of age and rot and insect damage. Unfortunately neither AiP, CHwB, nor the Mazrekajs have the funds for such a step at this stage. Until proper conservation can be done, the best solution was to install a new ceiling over the old one, this shielding the historic fabric and and also making the room more usable and appealing.

Shiny new ceiling leaving the support beams exposed. Each plank had to be custom fitted to the uneven contour of the beams.

6. Retouching the kitchen

  • As evident from the photos above, the old kitchen required the most work to rehabilitate. This included details like plastering gaps between the walls and the floor, plastering the fireplace to protect the original stones, and covering over holes in the walls, such as the one added over the mantle to vent a stovepipe sometime in the room’s later history. The mantle of the fireplace had seen some damage as well, so we applied a new layer of plaster to approximate its historic contours and give it a nicer appearance for use by the Mazrekaj family.

That detail work though…

The final product (still needing white-washing)

The Mazrekaj’s kulla presented some interesting conservation dilemmas. The aim of the project was to further its conversion to a functioning B&B so that it can remain an asset to and help maintain the livelihood of the family who built it three centuries ago and have called it home ever since. Although it would undoubtedly be awesome to see a kulla in its original state, the goal was never to restore the space to its original 18th century appearance.  It will never be a museum; it was necessary to balance concerns of historicity against the need for the space to function. Best practice does not permit the removal of features added later in the building’s history – for example, all the brick partition walls. So we did the best we could to preserve historic material while making the space habitable, the guiding principles being reversibility – almost nothing we did could not be undone at a later date if desired – and aesthetic integrity – all new additions (new wall, new ceiling, new floor) were executed in traditional materials using human muscle and elbow grease.

It would be fair to say that occasionally the details and the rationale behind some decisions suffered in translation from Albanian to English – sometimes our architect-translators weren’t on hand, so between Master Hasan’s school Italian, Master Smiley’s smattering of German, and our ability to mime various hammering and sawing actions, we got quite good at understanding one another on site. But this really only made things more fun, and enhanced our relationships with our two “Masters.” Its amazing how much you can pick up about someone’s personality, when you don’t have to worry about listening to their words.

The Rhythms of Life: Drenoc

As I write this I’m sitting in the communal living room of an 18th century kulla, a traditional Ottoman-Albanian tower-house, in the small historical village of Drenoc in the west of Kosovo. The “guest room,” as they call it, is a large elegant space in the top floor of the tower, with a perimeter of sheepskin cushions for sitting on. The floor is covered in red woven carpets, while the datk wooden beams of the ceiling add to the cozy atmosphere.

The shoes come off at the door, so we’ve all padded softly up here in socks and house slippers. Our hosts have explained that this room was the traditional cultural hub of village life – the place where disputes were settled, business deals struck, and marriages arranged – while Turkish coffee stimulated the mind and eased conversation.

This is where we’ve come to work for two weeks. The magnificent top floor was refurbished in 2006 by a USAid project, but the second floor, the less formal domain of women and children, still needs work.

Hey, those floorboards look pretty good for being almost 300 years old!

But a walk through the village yesterday afternoon showed that Drenoc’s traditions extend beyond the seven historic kullas that make the village a significant cultural site. I got a taste of how life operates in a historic village, in the foothills of the mountains, far from any public transit link, in a region still recovering from a war that touched every family less than a generation ago.

The village is wonderful. From a certain spot you can stand and see nothing in either direction that postdates the 18th century, giving you a chance to visualize, if you can, what the world looked like centuries ago when every village looked like this.

Dog: I could swear I left some sheep around here somewhere…

Our walk took us past a local mosque, which stands in the middle of the village cemetery. Overgrown with an abandoned air, the best-kept graves are of those who died in the recent wars and ethnic attacks of the late 90s. A boy of 19 stands dressed in his dugs holding his kalishnikov while an Albanian flag flutters brightly over his grave.

A husband and a wife lie next to each other, dead on the same day in 1998. The graves of the war victims generally have a more kempt appearance, local communities ways of commemorating their fallen and working through grief. As we wander quietly through the weeds, we notice that all the stones share the same half-dozen surnames. Nita, one of our hosts, stops at a worn unmarked stone to light a candle, which sits beside several others.

“She is a person who used to live in the village,” she explains. “She had no arms or legs, so she was very good.” Nita doesn’t know when she lived or died, but people from the village come regularly to light a candle and make a wish at her grave.

Once we leave that solemn place and shut the gate behind us, the village takes on more life than I’d previously noticed. Two men escort a line of five or six reluctantly obedient cows down the street and into a dirt lane.

Every spare patch of land is cultivated in its small way, with a few rows of potatoes or onions, and perhaps a few fruit trees. The courtyard of our Kulla has fig and plum trees, and stands selling fresh strawberries line the roads between the village and the capital.

We stick out – were as conspicuous as can be in our practical work clothes (everyone here seems impressively well-dressed all the time, even in the countryside), with our backpacks and our wallets (comparatively) heavy with euros, snapping photos of the most mundane sights with our iphones. But the locals seem pleasantly intrigued. They invite us into their homes for coffee even though we don’t speak a word of each other’s language, and don’t seem to mind us poking around their village taking pictures of their houses, their cows, or even them.

Everyone I see seems to be out-and-about doing something, from the woman out hoeing her garden with a tool straight from the 18th century to the man mowing his lawn with a sickle. Perhaps people with few possessions take care of them all the more diligently: boys out riding bikes stop at a roadside fountain to wash the dust off their bikes; men hand-buff the hubcaps of their ancient cars; and the living room of our host’s house – even though the entire family has been living and sleeping in this one room since we’ve put them out of their own bedrooms – is immaculately spotless.

So I’ve painted a picture of a pastoral paradise – and I hope these depictions don’t come off paternalistic or condescending: “Oh look at these charming poor people who live such simple but wholesome lives, aren’t they charming!” No, it’s obviously much more complex than that.

But there’s no doubt that a different attitude governs the speed of life here, and it’s refreshing. Because we’re here to complete a project – there is work that we must complete before we leave – it’s very tempting, particularly to some of us who are used to a more intense pace, to focus on the job – wanting the work to move efficiently, to begin on time and for breaks to be for strict lengths at specific times. But so often we show up at the time were told, to find that despite our supervisors being present and all of us being assembled, another 45 minutes might elapse before we head up to start working. Then in the middle of the day, the work might be suspended as by some unspoken agreement everyone drifts outside to spend a few minutes chatting and sitting in the sunshine. The workday ebbs and flows to a natural rhythm as people pay attention to their bodies and the weather instead to to the clock. In the evenings we all sit in the same room – Albanian-speaking family with hopelessly English-speaking guests – to pass the time however we please. Some play cards, some flick through faceook, some play around with face swap, and some try to expand their Albanian vocabulary through a combination of charades and pidgin German (which most people seem to have studied in school here).

Could the work get done more efficuently? Yes. But as someone has spent so long doing what I “ought” to do that I have trouble knowing what I actually want to do, this way of doing things is different… But nice 🙂

University of Decay – A View of Prishtina 

As anticipated, a further wander through the city yesterday refined at bit farther my views of Kosovo’s capital city. Let’s just say the realities are not as, um, nice as they appeared from the car. Unfortunately I was just on a wander about with a couple other Americans, and so don’t have the benefit of a local’s insight into what I was seeing: What’s the cultural significance of these structures? What do the local population think about their appearance? By western standards things looked pretty grim, but someone who has lived here through the growth of the city and the conflicts of twenty years ago could probably tell me a lot about how it’s evolved. Maybe things now are booming and blossoming compared to the past? Unfortunately, I don’t know. So the things I’m going to show you have little context, and that’s my disclaimer.

Our wandering took us first abouft a half mile down the high street to the University. Now I was a bit excited, because I’d actually heard about this place, how in 1971 the foundation of an Albanian-language university in the Serb-dominated region was a huge cultural triumph, acknowledging Albanian needs and legitimacy. And besides, my roommate had read that they had an absolutely extraordinary library building – like I was going to pass up a chance to see that.

So we were walking down the street, and through the telephone wires I got a glimpse of an abandoned Orthodox Church. And what’s my motto? “I love a good ruin!” So off we went to have a closer look, when we came upon this sign:

Well, it looked like we found the university’s main quad. That’s the ruined church in the background, quietly crumbling away in a park that looks more like an abandoned lot, complete with stray dogs that slunk about panting and growling.

Unfortunately, I had a growing suspicion that the building in the background was going to be the library I’d heard about. A closer look at the church showed it to be a burned-out shell of a once beautiful building. The entire porch was blackened and scorched, and what once must have been plaster and mural frescoes had been stripped back to the bare bricks. An opening in the bars of the door led me to duck inside for a moment for a peek (and now I can just see my mom putting her head in her hands). Inside was covered with graffiti and scattered with broken glass and the remains of dozens of fires. And no, I didn’t get attacked by any lurking hobos, but the thought was definitely there, so I didn’t linger.

As I’ve said, I know nothing about why this building was being treated and neglected this way in the middle of the capital. The best theory I can come up with is that because orthodox christianity is the religion associated with Serbia, the active mistreatment and desecration of an Orthodox church probably has strong political implications. But that’s just a guess.

And it turns out that that shocking building in the background was the National Library of Kosovo, doubling as the Prishtina University library. Holy. Mother. Of. God.

The underlying structure, if you can picture it, is the blocky, aggressive construction known as the Brutalist style, for obvious reasons. Then at some point, deciding they didn’t care for this ugly style any more, they added these grilles and bubble-domes to “beautify” it. I’m not kidding.

And although it looks like a falling-apart wreck, it is apparently open and functioning. That being said, we couldn’t spot anyone going in or out.

Look at that lovely Italianate campanile in the background… *sigh*

Walking back through town, we came up agains a political rally that was so loud we could hear it from our hotel.

As you can kind of see in the video, there were hundreds and hundreds of people rushing away down the street as the protest was disbanded, and the demographic is almost entirely male.

And finally we came across a statue erected in 2008 to celebrate the country’s new independence:

Ended the day with an evening editing photos while watching Eurovision in the hotel lobby.

With a foamy cappuccino 🙂

Pristina, Kosovo – Twenty minutes, a hundred first impressions

So approximately thirty minutes after picking up my bags from the airport, I find myself already sat down – armed with the foamiest cappuccino I have ever enjoyed – to write about this new place called Kosovo. Except it’s not new – but it is – but it isn’t. See, the Republic of Kosovo only declared itself in 2008, but many countries – in particular Serbia – still don’t recognize its sovereignty (much more on that later, I’m sure). But Kosovo the region has been a battleground for centuries, all the way back to the 1389 Battle of Kosovo, the definitive legendary battle of the Serbs against the Turks, which inspired myth and epic, and gave birth to Serbian national pride as, like, even a thing.

All I’ve done so far is grab my bag, send a few quick texts to let people know I’ve arrived, take a fifteen minute cab ride, and plop myself down in the restaurant of my hotel. You may think I’m exaggerating when I say that my hand way itching – literally twitching – to start recording everything I was seeing. That short ride was its own battle inside me – my brain’s desire to jot down every single thing I passed in the car, warring against the sheer unbearability of looking away. Even now my writing is all chicken scratching a because I just can’t get the words out fast enough and why oh why did I leave my laptop at home?!?!

Really the first impressions began before even landing. Flying from Istanbul had been cloudless, the sun shining down strong and uninterrupted on vast arid plains and the occasional ridge of lovely mountains. Beyween the flight map and GPS on Google Maps, I was keeping eager track of our progress, trying to pin down if this river was the Macedonian border, if that city was Skopje, and whether those mountains in the distance might actually be in Greece.

But then, as we crossed into Kosovo airspace and the pilot announced our imminent descent, I know it sounds extraordinary but the plane suddenly swooped down – no really, with a swoopy engine noise and everything! – into the only cloud bank we’d seen the entire flight. And suddenly the unrelenting sunshine gave way to a dull grey cloud through which we sank down, and down, and down, before breaking into a world of gloomy deep-green mountains below. Ominous. Omen-ous.

And really, if I could use only one word to describe Kosovo thus far, it would be green. I don’t know if it’s just that time of Spring, but from the instant I stepped out of the airport – no, even when we were flying over – which sits face-to-face with a sizable hill-slash-mountain, everything here is green, growing green. The grass is thick, velvet green, the trees are energetic and springy, and the mountains are a deep, mysterious green, entirely appropriate to their looming presence under the gloomy sky. I hadn’t expected this lush growth, this pervading impression of fertility. And actually, the earth does look sort of dry and crumbly, but you’d have to look pretty hard to notice it because it’s entirely covered in green stuff.

So Kosovo is solidly Greener Than Expected – what else? Well there’s the airport, apparently so new that it still smells faintly of construction. It’s filled with shiny, welcoming, cosmopolitan duty-free shops that are all eerily empty. It’s got that Sochi Olympics vibe of a place built to resemble the west but which ends up a ghost town. The Swarovski crystal display stands glittering hopefully and imploring passers-by, “Please, someone… Can’t anyone afford me?!” Sorry, buddy. I couldn’t afford you in Glasgow and I can’t afford you here. So I too pass on. The cab stand is populated enough though, so I check the price to the city – fifteen euros – and hop in.

And the whirlwind begins.

From the lines of cars two decades out of style, to the dude parked just outside he airport selling from the boot of his car what appear to be rusty antique landmines brightly painted with clock-faces. And the green – of empty grassy fields, cultivated plots, small groves of fruit trees, and garden centers apparently growing acres of decorative shrubbery – contrasts with the bright copper of new brick houses – new construction everywhere, it seems – topped with cheery terracotta roofs.

But sometimes it’s difficult to tell – is that house a bombed out shell, or still being built? Are things going up or coming down? Both, certaibly, but I’m thinking a bit more of the former. Kosovo is the new kid on the EU block, an up-and-comer with international sympathy on its side, trying to unshackle themselves from the specter of Serbia, which still officially claims the region as theirs. It’s just come on the euro, has a brand new “International Airport” and even a Mango going up in its new shopping mall. So it’s probably no accident that the route between the airport and the city is buzzing with construction projects of capacious, modern-style houses that any westerner would envy – I certainly do. Whether anybody actually lives in them, of course, is less certain. But they certainly look impressive, and that’s the point.

Further into the city the ghosts of communist-era housing still remain, and I’m reminded of the noxious 70s high rises that line the route into Moscow. You get the odd minaret and the Albanian flag here and there – the country is 99% Muslim and ethnically Albanian – but the people walking on the streets look like you’d find in any city in the UK (except perhaps a bit more tanned…).

And aside from the curious sites that conjure the past, like the dude selling landmines, or the “Association for Kosovan Prisoners of War” located across from my hotel, my first impressions are all of a place that is trying desperately to escape the mortifying past and catch up with the rest of Europe.

Maybe in a bit I’ll have some further thoughts, when I’ve spent more than twenty minutes in the place. But now perhaps a nice nap… Zzzzzzz.



The Allure of Castles: Dunscaith

The Western Isles of Scotland are a magical place. Although many were once heavily populated, famine, migration, and clearances have left them peopled mostly by ghosts, and the structural remains of past peoples.

For me, it is the archaeology of remote places that create that particular “magic of the desolate” that was so beloved of Romantic poets and painters. From undateable cairns to Iron-Age broch forts, all the way up to the roofless stone crofts of the past century, remote Scottish islands like Rum, Barra, Orkney, Shetland, and the world-famous St. Kilda are littered with evidence that for a long time these places were of great importance to a great number of people. Important enough to fight great sea-battles over, pitting Norwegian Vikings against fledgling Scottish kings; important enough to defend with castles and hill-forts and brochs, expensive and labour-intensive statements of dominance and power; important enough to erect cairns, stone circles, and massive burial mounds for figures whose long-forgotten names are commemorated only in the remains of structures that required an astonishing feat of labour, engineering, and social cooperation by the “primitive” peoples who build them.

For whatever they can tell us about history, to me such remains ask a question that thrums in the insistent western wind, and repeats with the waves that pound inexorably at the barren coast: Where did everyone go?

The Isle of Skye is hardly the remotest of the islands, and is by far the most visited by tourists (on account, I have always suspected, of its beautiful name), but its not difficult to find places on Skye that evoke that same feeling of poetic desolation, particularly if you can manage to turn off the well-traveled road that takes the ubiquitous coach tours from Kyle of Lochalsh to Portree.

At the very south of the island on the Sleat peninsula, a rough single-track with a constant obstacle course of sheep leads seven miles to a small cluster of houses called Tokavaig (in such places, a collection of three or four houses is enough to earn a name on a map), just past which, on an outcropping of rocky coastline, are the remains of a castle.


You knew there had to be a castle involved eventually, didn’t you?

Dunscaith Castle (or Tokavaig Castle, in honor of the village) was originally a stronghold of Clan Donald (or MacDonald), but there is no definitive beginning date for the structure, the earliest terminus ante quem being sometime in the 14th century, when the castle is already referred to as changing hands (ergo, already built in some form) to the MacLeods.

But it’s not the history of the castle that continues to fascinate me – it’s how little we know of it. Other than its capture by James I in the 15th century, its abandonment in the 17th century, and its designation as a protected scheduled monument in 1934, almost nothing is known about it.

And the question that obsesses me is, How can that be? How can a place that has been continuously inhabited for at least the past millennium forget its own history?

Now of course I speak from a particular place: the severing effect of warfare and emigration means that I only have four generations to keep track of since my ancestors came to America from Poland and Austria-Hungary, and any knowledge of or ties with family who still live in the Old Country are mere luck. The astonishment I felt when I found out that my Polish relatives have equally little idea of our ancestry beyond a few generations – despite living in the same village for centuries – was enormous.

I am a historian (if only a fledgling one), and so I understand the forces that lead people to lose their own history: lack of documentation, indeed of literacy means that for most people in most places, preservation of history must be oral – how many families do you know that maintain a formal oral memory, like the King Lists of Ancient Ireland? Even today the surest way to preserve family history is orally. Sure, if you wanted to know the name and birthplace of your great-grandfather, there are many resources to hand that can give you the answer, with a little digging. But even this requires a kind of “re-discovery” of genealogy, not to mention requiring an interest in the first place. Whereas if you were told from a young age that your great-grandfather’s name was Stefan and he was born in Detroit… The knowledge is that much more able to play a part in your cultural consciousness and self-identification. It is known, rather than learned or studied.

Dunscaith Castle has a manifold allure. Its situation on an almost-island connected to the mainland by a particularly treacherous bridge makes it exciting – you can vividly imagine the castle defending itself under siege, rival clansmen trying desperately to take that bridge.

And the setting is spectacular – surrounded by sea on three sides, with majestic views of the sun setting behind the mountains of Rum.


But even though it’s a scheduled monument under the care of Historic Environment Scotland, it has this overwhelming air of forgotten-ness. Through warfare and clearances, the people of Tokavaig have survived in an unbroken line from the people who built and lived in this castle. Where is their self-history? How did Dunscaith Castle go from the fiercely contested regional stronghold, to “That old run-down thing? The clan hardly uses it any more,” to “Wow, what an amazing old pile of stones. I wonder who built it, and why?”

And that, in a nutshell, is my castle quandary. How do we come to forget what’s been right in front of us all along?

The Allure of Castles

If I really go back to the very beginning, my love affair with Scotland began with a castle. I was volunteering on an organic farm in Fife, and one afternoon I was taking a walk in the surrounding countryside, when I saw this in the distance:


Really it was much farther away, only just recognizable as “a great big cool-looking thing.”

So obviously, I had to tramp through every farmer’s field and cow pasture in outer Kirkcaldy until I reached the bloody thing! I never did manage to get inside it – I could say I was deterred by the enormous “Danger – Unstable Ruins” sign, but let’s be honest, it was really the impenetrable thicket of nettles that kept me out.

Pitteadie Castle. Run of the mill 15th/17th century tower keep with a fairly intact but unremarkable structure and few remaining decorative features. That’s how I understand it now, after I’ve spent a year intensely studying castles. But then, in that adventurous summer of 2011… It was awe-some.

I might chock it up to having never seen a castle before. Now, I’d recently spent two days in Edinburgh and, yes, visited the castle, but I feel it doesn’t count. It may sound rich to say that Scotland’s most famous castle is not really a castle at all, but honestly I don’t consider Edinburgh Castle a castle. In look, in atmosphere, in historic material – it’s more of an 18th century fortress turned into a tourist attraction by the lure of the crown jewels and a few key restorations. But I digress.

So I stand by my guns, that I was a castle virgin until I came across Pitteadie, and that that unmarked, neglected, shabby ruin of a building was the starting point for my castle addiction, although it took me several years and several more trips to Scotland to recognize it.

I had been staying in Fife for a week already. I had been briefed on “things to do and see” in the area quite thoroughly, I was assured, by several people, including my host family, yet somehow no one had mentioned that marvelous old Pitteadie Castle was only a fifteen minute walk northward.

And so I think it boils down to this: What kind of magic must there be in a place where marvels like this are so commonplace, so frequent, as to not be worth the mentioning? If this country, this Scotland, could hide a treasure like that beautiful bloody ruin out of sheer blasé-ness, what other heart-stopping secrets must be out there, hidden behind watchful forests, lurking in the deep glens, waiting for discovery down winding single-track roads?image1(2)