It's all winding down

In Ohrid without a map.

The weather changed a week into our stay and it seemed to suit the place. It had become darker and more compelling. The nearby mountains seemed more mysterious too now that they were partly obscured by clouds, and the light fog really rounded out the whole look. As if the city might have been heading off to a masquerade ball.

Aside from this, the sporadic warm days early on during our six week stay in Ohrid, North Macedonia, felt like a tease. A denial of the breaking out of autumn. As we've slowly made our way south from Norway over these last few months, it's felt like we've been on an autumn farewell tour. Each time being treated to the start and end of autumn. Warm to cold. Like seeing the same show over and over again and knowing the beats.

It was a disorientating feeling. As if our inner rhythm had been disrupted. A bit like a record that keeps skipping.

That disorientation wasn't helped by getting sick on our arrival in North Macedonia. The occasional fog outside reflected the fog inside our heads. Which had been aided by being house-bound and limited to a small radius in a new city. Arriving in Ohrid had also felt like the beginning of the end. We'll be back in Australia in less than four weeks, after eight months overseas. An open, dizzying expanse looms ahead of us. Big enough to invoke a slight leg wobble. Like peering over the edge of a cliff.

Thoughts of this had to be put to one side as we focused on getting better, but it continued to linger. And then, bit by bit, our tiny radius eventually expanded as we ventured further out.

Getting to finally see the huge lake, for which the city is famous, was a welcome sight. After being cooped up, it felt like we were assembling the pieces. Mapping new areas and building an image of the city. And each one made us love Ohrid more and more. There's the charming old town, and the wooden boardwalk that extends beyond the paved one along the lakefront, taking you around the cliffs, then up to the iconic church above you on the cliffs edge. At the other end, the pedestrian boulevard continues and offers you an opportunity to gaze at the old town from a snug spot in amongst a wilder and greener setting. On the way, you pass the mountain, still toggling between masquerade attire and summer casual. This turned out to be a national park and we climbed up to the top. Looking down and assembling more of the pieces.

There were the sculpted hedges all over the city. Not your stock standard ones but a more impressive and eclectic gallery of pieces, including dogs, giant human faces, chickens, something that looked like Yoda with a bear on its head, a woman wearing a ballgown and all sorts of other shapes. It seemed to be an open brief and if the hedge sculptor got up in the morning and felt like trimming up a goose, a spiral, and a man's head down by the lakefront followed by a stately dog, a great dane perhaps, over in the centre of one of the roundabouts, then that seemed to be a job well done. A dream gig for a creative person.

The graffiti wasn't as creative and artistic as some other places I've been, but it was certainly friendly. On one wall out the front of an apartment building, someone had written 'cool'. And another one which read 'it's all good babe'. Both of which felt like they could have been sent as a text message rather than spray painted onto a wall. There were also two music related ones: 'sex blood rock' which was seemingly missing the 'n roll' off the end. On another wall, someone had just listed several of their favourite music genres, which included ‘rap, hip-hop’ and ‘metal’. Then perhaps feeling the need to be more specific, added in ‘Guns N’ Roses’ and 'Jon Bon Jovi', giving it more of a Throwback Thursday vibe.

Sorry, wrong chat.

It was also pleasing to see the neatly stacked wood piles all over the city. Satisfying walls of logs piled up outside of each house ready for winter. Despite the unevenness of the logs, they all slotted in perfectly - perhaps why they were so enjoyable to look at. I'd only seen one messy pile of wood that hadn't been organised yet; an overwhelming task to worry about another day.

As the weeks have gone on, the smell of woodsmoke is everywhere as people dip into their beautiful wood piles. Slowly disassembling their creations. And despite all the smoke and fog, it felt like we were slowly clearing a path through.

It's quiet here in Ohrid. It's off-season and so our only friend here has been Mr Grosh¹, the man who runs the small restaurant next to our building.

He looks familiar. Like an actor from the 90s who played a lot of military officer roles that involved looking stern and having a grey crew cut. I can't figure out who it is but it might just be a mashup of all the 90s actors that played military officer roles. All the badass ones.

I was sure he didn't like us at first. Although that could be the whole stern faced thing. Aside from a few words, we didn't speak Macedonian and he didn't speak any English and I suspect that was frustrating for him. Which I understand. I often feel like a clumsy tourist in situations like this. Wandering in and disrupting the usual proceedings.

As often happens though when you keep showing up, we had become a familiar face and Mr Grosh softened. After a few visits, he saw us walk through the door one day and greeted us with a smile and a wave. 'Zdravo!' we called out. 'Zdravo' he replied.

It was a nice moment to see him smile. His whole face changed and then very quickly reverted back again, making you doubt whether you'd seen it in the first place. Or if it was even physically possible. And also that maybe he'd had a change of mind about the whole smiling thing. We got to see this a few times though and were able to confirm its existence. He didn't give much away and I think that's why it felt special. Like how affection from a cat feels well earned.

Sometimes we sat inside waiting for our order and it was just us, Mr Grosh and one of his regulars, smoking away, and we would watch the sport on the tv together, often football. One time it was tennis though and he got quite animated and I took this as a sign he was more comfortable around us.

Recently we were in our local supermarket, standing in line with a handful of items when Mr Grosh walked past. His face broke out in a smile as he recognised us and we exchanged zdravos. He stood in line behind us which made me slightly nervous as I was aware that we didn't have much more small talk beyond 'hello'. And we'd already done that one.

At this point we noticed he was only holding two items and KB leaned in and whispered 'Should we let Mr Grosh go in front of us?' 'Yeah that's what I was thinking too' I replied.

We turned around to catch his eye and then waved him through. He immediately put his hand up and furrowed his brow in an effort to politely decline. We countered with some exaggerated hand gestures, stepping up the size and speed of our hand waving to suggest that we'd heard and acknowledged his response, but that we really did insist.

This did the trick and Mr Grosh gave in and went ahead of us. After he paid for and collected his items, he looked over at us and then smiled and waved. The way friends sometimes do. And it felt like a small win. Something to build on. And maybe if we were staying longer we might have run into him again at the supermarket and we could share a little joke. Maybe I would pretend to not let him into the line this time with a mock serious expression on my face and we would all laugh about it because it's a shared joke just between us.

Mr Grosh had become a comforting presence for us, registering our existence here during a moment in time. And although a smile and a wave isn't much, it felt like something from someone like him. We may not have been his friend, but he was ours.

As I write this, we will be dropping in later to order some food. It’s a grey and rainy day and it will be nice to see a friendly face in amongst the unfriendly weather.

I suspect our relationship won't last after we leave in a few weeks. Saying hello, watching tennis together and letting the other person in front of you in the supermarket is not enough to sustain a long distance friendship. But it's enough for now.

And some friendships only last a season anyway.

As the weeks pass, there's no denying autumn now. Everything is winding down. It feels like a bedtime routine.

The signs are everywhere. We see men tidying the streets using the same brooms we had seen in Albania, which are constructed from leafy tree branches, except they're dried and brown now like a witch’s broom. Leafless and lifeless.

Paddle boats are stacked up against trees and are slowly disappearing under the discarded foliage. Restaurants along the lake are shuttering up, and the jetty out the front of one of them seems to have been booked out for a conference. The attendees - roughly a hundred or so water birds, seem to be enjoying the event and off-season rates.

And despite the brown and yellow colour palette, woodsmoke and crisp, cold air, the conifer trees seem to be in denial. They don't want the party to end, and their green outstretched branches look like the hands of a keyboard player insisting on just one more song.

Resistance only makes it harder though. It will come to an end because nature has its own plan. To be reminded of the seasons and the cyclical nature of life can be comforting. Knowing that an ending is near can also mean the start of something else.

And to stand on the precipice of that can be a dizzying thought, to be confronted with the fear and excitement and unknowingness of it all. And sometimes all you can do is walk out into the fog and smoke and build a map that way. To try to assemble the pieces as you go with the freeing and comforting thought that you can never have the whole map anyway. And wouldn't life be boring if we did.

The conifer trees beg for one more song. They're panicked and trying to resist. I remember something I read once and tell them 'it's all good, babe'. Maybe they can play us out with one more song. Something by Bon Jovi maybe.

Soon their last pine needle will drop and the keyboards will go away. Then to mark the occasion, maybe we'll put a record on. Something to mark the new season. Then let the needle drop again.

1. This was an affectionate nickname we gave him based on the name of the restaurant (Grosh).