Morning arrived gently in Sheki. From the balcony, the town felt held rather than spread out — clouds brushing the lower slopes of the Greater Caucasus, tiled rooftops catching light unevenly, lanes slipping quietly between houses. Two European blackbirds moved about on a nearby roof, unbothered. It was the kind of view that steadies you before the day begins.

Sheki sits at the foothills of the mountains, some distance from Baku, and that separation shows. The pace is slower, the town compact, its history worn into daily life rather than presented. We had arrived late the previous evening and would leave again by afternoon, already aware that this was not enough time.

A short drive took us to the village of Kish, less than ten kilometres away. Here stands the Old Albanian Church of Kish, small and restrained, built of local stone. Its proportions are modest — cruciform in plan, domed at the centre — and the walls are largely undecorated. Inside, faint traces of old frescoes linger, more suggestion than statement.

The church carries weight not through grandeur but through continuity. It speaks of an early Christian presence in the Caucasus, tied to an ancient Albanian civilisation unrelated to modern Albania. Outside stands a statue of Thor Heyerdahl, whose theories once linked this region with Scandinavia. Whether or not one accepts those ideas seems almost beside the point here. The place invites reflection rather than resolution.

Back in Sheki, we visited the Sheki Khans’ Palace, the former summer residence of the local khans. Built in the eighteenth century, it is compact but richly worked, its exterior frescoes depicting scenes of hunting and court life. Inside, light filters through intricate shebeke windows — stained glass assembled without nails or glue — casting colour gently across painted ceilings and carved wood.

The palace does not dominate its surroundings. Instead, it feels carefully placed, designed for seasonal retreat rather than permanent display. We moved through it slowly, less interested in the rooms themselves than in how craftsmanship had been allowed to speak without excess.

A short walk brought us to the Sheki Caravanserai, once a vital stop along the Silk Road. The Upper and Lower caravanserais face inward, built around large courtyards where traders and animals would have gathered. It’s easy to imagine the noise and movement that once filled these spaces. Today, restored and repurposed, they are quieter — museums, guesthouses, places to pause. Staying here would likely make sense, though even as visitors, the atmosphere carried enough of the past to feel intact.

Sheki is also known for its crafts — especially shebeke — and for a cuisine that is spoken of with pride. We heard the names often: piti, halva, pakhlava. Time, however, was already pressing. By early afternoon, we were back on the road, carrying with us the sense of having skimmed the surface of a place that rewards lingering.

Somewhere along the road — roughly halfway between Lahıc and the main Baku–Qəbələ highway — we stopped briefly at the Zərnava Bridge. The bridge is narrow and lightly built, originally intended to connect villagers with the hamlet of Zərnava. Today, it draws a different kind of traffic. People pause, step out cautiously, test their balance, take photographs, turn back. It isn’t grand or especially old, but it carries a quiet reminder of how movement here has always required a degree of trust — in rope, wood, and the willingness to cross.