Half of lake Shkodra is Albanian, half Montenegrin, and yesterday I crossed back in to the latter.

The fishermen arrived early in some clattering old cars and had caught buckets of huge fish by the time I set off.

I stopped at Beska, an small island with a Serbian orthodox monastery. After putting a gown over my paddling gear one of the sisters showed me around the two churches, beautiful icons painted on the walls, and we sat chatting in the sun over a glass of fig cordial.

Heading onwards, part of me wanted to turn back. What was the point in paddling to the furthest corner of the lake only to have to come back? Well I’m traveling with no destination, and this was a test of that philosophy – paddling not as a means to an end, but for the sake of adventure alone.

I wonder if this adventure would be better if I had no map. The map dilutes the sense of curiosity, the ‘I wonder what is around that bend’ factor, because you know what’s around the bend from the map. Or at least you think you know, because a map only tells you so much, and it’s often different to how you imagined when you get there.

That was the case today. From the map I thought further north the lake would be no different, but after passing underneath a road bridge the scenery changed, and I was so glad I’d persisted, it was absolutely stunning, a sea of lush green mountains rising up in all directions.

Having no map would also mean more surprises, and it would really feel like exploring. It’s not a comfortable feeling not knowing where you are on the map, and it would be a challenge to abandon Google maps when it’s at your fingertips. Plus on the other hand I love pouring over maps looking at places I’d like to go, they’re a great inspiration.

It’s been another two weeks since I showered and its usually too chilly to wash by the time I finish paddling in the evening, so I just wriggle in to my sleeping bag to fester and ferment, zipping up to infuse my clothes in a cocktail of sweat, jungle formula, salt, swamp water, fish, smoke and suncream.

So it felt lovely to sit in the frigid water and rub this layer of grime off my skin, even if my clothes are still impregnated with a mature aroma.

I camped on top of a rocky premonitory and dried my kit by the fire. Lying in the warmth of my tent, by 6pm I feel like I could fall asleep, and by eight I can’t keep my eyelids open any longer and fall asleep.