My demands are modest.

But could I get them in Albania?
No.

Could one travel from Scutari to Monastir in the same comfort as one travels from London to Paris or from New York to Chicago?
No.

Does any sensible man of domestic instincts and scholarly tastes like to find himself halfway up an inaccessible mountain, surrounded by a band of moustachioed desperadoes in fustanella petticoats engirdled with an armoury of pistols, daggers and yataghans, who if they are unkind make a surgical demonstration with these lethal implements, and if they are smitten with a mania of amiability, hand you over, for superintendence of your repose, to an army of satellites of whom you are only too glad to call the flea brother?
I trow not.

Personally, I dislike mountains.