I Didn’t Set Out to Make a Punk Podcast

I didn’t wake up one morning with a plan to do something called punk podcasting.In truth, I only heard the phrase recently, mentioned in passing, and it stayed with me as I went out for my daily walk. I try, as much as possible, to always have a recorder in my pocket. So I can record my steps as I walk, the dogs barking in the village, in other words, Bosnia, quietly getting on with things.

As I was walking, this idea suddenly dawned on me. I might already be doing it.

Not deliberately. Not theatrically. Just by stopping.

Stepping Away from the Noise

As you know, I live in a small village in northern Bosnia and Herzegovina. I’ve been here long enough for the place to stop being scenery and start shaping how I think and speak. These days, most of what I make begins with sound rather than a screen, walking audio, field recordings, spoken thoughts recorded once and left largely alone.

There’s no studio polish. No algorithm breathing down my neck. No sense that something has to justify itself through numbers or performance.

That wasn’t a creative strategy. It was a quiet retreat.

What “Punk” Means to Me Now

Punk, at least in this context, isn’t about noise or rebellion for its own sake. It’s about refusal. Refusing to optimise every sentence. Refusing to explain yourself into neat little boxes. Refusing the idea that creative work only matters if it scales.

Some episodes are short. Some drift. I’m so guilty of rambling.Some contain long pauses where nothing much happens at all, birds, wind, footsteps, the sound of thinking. That used to feel like breaking rules.

Now it feels like remembering what audio was always meant to do.

Why Bosnia Matters

I don’t think I could make this work from somewhere louder, faster, or more performative. Maybe like it would back in Kensington in London, where I was born.Bosnia gives me distance. From trends, from urgency, from the constant demand to be relevant. Life here allows unfinished thoughts. It allows walking without purpose. It allows silence without embarrassment.

Without realising it, that has seeped into my podcasting. The place I suppose has shaped the voice.

So… the First Punk Podcast from Bosnia?

Maybe.

I genuinely don’t know, and I’m not especially interested in proving it. There may well be others, in Bosnian or in English, doing something just as independent and just as unconcerned with the usual rules.

But in spirit and in practice, what I’m making feels close.Audio-first, independent. Not built for platforms, and made by someone old enough to stop asking permission.

A Quiet Invitation

If there’s a point to all this, it’s a simple one.

If you’re making something because you need to, not because it fits, sells, or scales, then you’re already closer to punk than you think. And if that work happens to come from Bosnia, carried on footsteps and birdsong, then so much the better.

This isn’t built to chase anyone. It’s built to exist.

Discovering a Village in the Clouds

Hello again, it’s David, and today I want to take you with me to one of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s most remarkable places. Lukomir. Perched nearly 1,500 meters up on Bjelašnica Mountain, it’s the country’s highest permanently inhabited village. Seventeen families still call it home. The winters bury their stone houses in snow, sometimes for months, while the summers transform the fields into wide open pastures.

On paper, it sounds like a postcard.

But Lukomir is more than its altitude and stone houses. It’s a place where traditions are lived, not displayed. And what struck me most wasn’t the scenery (though it’s breathtaking), but the people, and in particular, the women shepherds who keep this village alive.

A Morning with the Flocks

It’s nine o’clock in the morning. I’m chewing on some dry meat (yes, my mum always said don’t talk with your mouth full, but here we are). Around me, the village comes alive. Bells clink in the distance, whistles echo across the grass, and then suddenly, waves of sheep. To my eyes it looked like thousands, though it was probably just hundreds.

And who’s leading them? Not grizzled old men with staffs, as you might expect, but women. Older women, walking steadily with their dogs at their sides, guiding flock after flock up into the high country. It’s not just a novelty for visitors like me, it’s a way of life here, one that’s been passed down through generations.

Why Women?

Traditionally, herding was always a shared family duty. Men tended to the hay fields, fixed fences, or went off to markets, while women took charge of the flocks, milked sheep, spun wool, and made cheese. Later, as men left the village to work in Sarajevo or abroad, in Austria, Germany, or Slovenia, the women stayed. Their role as shepherds grew more visible, and today they’re the ones who embody the rhythm of Lukomir’s survival.

As one villager put it, you don’t herd sheep with strength, you herd them with patience. And patience is something these women have in abundance. Watching them, I realised resilience doesn’t always look like brute force. Sometimes it looks like quiet footsteps on a stony ridge, season after season, year after year.

Life Between Pasture and Hearth

Life here follows a steady cycle. In the mornings, sheep are led out to graze. By afternoon, the women are making cheese, spinning wool, and knitting socks that hikers like me inevitably end up buying.

By evening, barbecue smoke drifts across the village, neighbours gather, and the sound of rain patters on tin roofs.

That’s exactly how my day ended. After a long hike (six kilometers that felt like twelve, especially after the soles of my boots gave way!), we found ourselves sheltered under a small tin roof, rain hammering down as we tucked into a barbecue feast.Chicken wings, Zenica ćevap, and šiš kebabs, while across the ridge, women shepherds were still moving their flocks.

A Lesson in Resilience

Lukomir isn’t just a relic from the past. It’s alive, but under pressure. Young people leave, winters are unforgiving, and only a handful of families remain. Yet the image of women shepherds remains strong. They are the keepers of both knowledge and tradition, the kind you don’t learn from a book, but from decades of living in rhythm with the land.

I found myself getting unexpectedly emotional here. Maybe it was the altitude, maybe the long walk, or maybe just the sheer privilege of witnessing a way of life so quietly powerful. Resilience here isn’t about dominance, it’s about community, patience, and endurance.

Why You Should Visit

If you ever come to Bosnia and Herzegovina, Lukomir should be on your list. It’s not the easiest place to reach, and accommodation can be tricky, but trust me, it’s worth every effort.

You’ll find not only stunning landscapes but also living traditions that remind us what it means to survive and thrive on the edge of the world.

And when you think of shepherds in the Balkans, don’t just picture an old man with a crook. Picture Lukomir, where women guide their flocks across the high pastures, keeping alive not just their animals, but a culture, a history, and a way of life.