White Star: The Shepherd of the Albanian Mountains
“Kali i mirë bën edhe kalorësin të mirë.”
“A good horse makes even the rider good.”
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- Badhryl
During my solo road trip through the rugged mountains of southern Albania, I encountered a gentle obstruction that made me slow down: a flock of sheep, unhurried and undisturbed, crossing the road. Behind them was a shepherd— his face tanned and creased by the sun and years, etched with the quiet dignity of someone who’s spent a lifetime outdoors. As I stopped, he looked up, gave a kind wave, gently urging his flock to make way for me.
I pulled over, reached for my camera, and stepped out of the car—unsure of how I would communicate, but hoping to share a moment with this man.
Attempting to ask permission with gestures and my non-existent Albanian, I raised the camera in a silent request. His cheeks, already flushed from the sun, reddened further, revealing his shyness; he gave a small consenting nod.
Witnessing the interaction and noticing our mutual struggle to communicate, a young man approached and kindly offered to interpret. Through him, I learned that the shepherd’s name was Bardhyl, meaning “white star” in Albanian. His loyal old dog, Zeka, stood guard behind the herd, while his patient mule, Lume—“river”—waited for the next stretch of their daily route.
Bardhyl spoke of his life in the highlands and the deep, wordless connection he shared with his animals. Their long friendship was evident in the way they interacted —the way they listened, the way they followed. Years of shared silence, long walks, and solitude had knit them into a quiet unit.
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They weren’t simply tools for work—they were companions, partners, and, in many ways, his family. He described how Zeka had been with him since he was a pup, never straying far, always knowing the rhythm of the herd better than any man. Lume, too, had carried him across valleys and seasons, her quiet strength matching his own. The sheep, he said, knew his voice and moods, responding not just to commands but to the way he moved among them.
As someone with a deep love and respect for animals myself, witnessing that bond moved me profoundly. There was something universally tender in the way they existed together, speaking a language beyond words.
​As I needed to carry on, I thanked Bardhyl sincerely and promised to print his photos and, through our interpreter who knew where he lived, have them delivered to him. He seemed happy with my offer, and with a final wave, I watched as Bardhyl, Zeka, Lume, and the sheep continued their journey along the mountain path.
This brief but meaningful encounter, bridged by the kindness of a stranger’s translation, left an indelible mark on my journey —those unexpected connections that will always enrich my travels.
