Instalment 3: In Mr. Bean's Footsteps – Part Two (Mount Athos) London to Thessaloniki (or Vice Versa)

Instalment 3 of 7

The refrectory,  a Byzantine lullaby and a forest picnic

From last week:

...He thumps my back with his giant paw, and simultaneously encircles my shoulders with his arm and gives me another squeeze. He obviously feels some kinship with Islanders. With that, and disengaging himself after a final pat on my head,  a chuckling Friar Tuck scoops up my luggage and takes off, beckoning me to follow him down a dim hall. At the far end he points to an old oak bench and I must sit down. Palm outwards in a universal stop gesture, and I’m given to understand that I must wait here.

Now read on

I feel exhausted, exhilarated and very small, under the stone vaulted ceiling, subdued in the silence and enveloping quiet. My fate hasn’t been sealed yet and I’m not sure if I can sleep the night, although I’ve literally got one foot inside the door and I can exhale a bit. I wait what seems a very long time and I begin to wonder if they have forgotten I am here. A rolling rumbling in my stomach reminds me how hungry I am.  The arched tunnel of a hallway is lit at intervals, by candlelight, and my suitcase casts an elongated shadow on the floor. I contemplate its journey here, an entity in its own right, my constant companion and my status. I lose track of time, and fall into a kind of apprehensive trance.
My reverie is interrupted by a slight, barely discernible movement at the far end of the tunnel. An incandescent , soft, glowing light seems to be moving towards me. I have to blink as this mirage draws near.  A tall, thin, gaunt monk with flowing black robes and a long bearded shining face seems to be gliding towards me on a puff of air. The room smells fragrant all of a sudden, everything is shushed and for the first and only time in my life so far, I can actually say that I have SEEN somebody’s ‘aura’ if that is what it is.  A halo of light seems to emanate from this man’s translucent skin. I cannot talk, I feel intuitively I mustn’t. I just stand there mesmerized, my jaw slack and gawping. I am in the presence of holiness, but it is not quite that, no..if wisdom had physical manifestation/incarnation, if it looked like anything, it would look like this. There is something so ethereal and wise and knowing about this monk, such a diametrically opposed contrast to the robust earthiness of Friar Tuck. The translucent, floating monk stops in front of me, and  in a strange, firm, soft , commanding and gentle voice, tells me very briefly that he has been ‘sent’ to speak to me because he is the only Monk who is fluent in English. He explains that this is not a monastery but a sort of seminary or retreat house for Monks only and that guests are not usually accommodated here. Nevertheless, Friar Tuck has apparently put in a good word for me and taking note of my predicament, they are prepared to bend the rules just this ‘once’ and I am to be given a Monk’s empty cell to sleep in, but solely for this night and at first light am to be on my way, away. Still tongue-tied, I can simply only nod my appreciation. The otherworldly apparition in front of me does not encourage me, anyway. He brings his fore and middle finger to his lips and whispers an inaudible shhh. “You must be hungry, you will eat now, you will talk and ask later, you may leave your luggage here, please follow me.” He says in clipped yet still soft, parallel sentences.

With a soundless swish of his skirts, he turns around and continues gliding straight ahead down the tunnel. I have no volition of my own, and like a clueless puppy I stumble after him. It is as though I have stepped into a story book and I am not the author of my life anymore but a character, a puppet, whom things happen to, an actor with no script to rehearse, a captain only in name; with no wheel or rudder to steer.

The mention of sustenance, though, keeps me earthbound. Food and shelter, so basic to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, I am so happy to be able to tick them off my list tonight.  Somewhere, round a corner and then further down on the left, the monk halts in front of a wide archway, with recessed heavy wooden doors and an enormous brass ringed door handle. The door is slightly ajar. The monk looks round, just an imperceptible shifting of his neck towards me as if to beckon me telepathically and disappears into the source of the puddle of soft light on the threshold.  An involuntarily gasp escapes from me as I follow suit.

I am standing in the middle of a giant refectory, aglow with candles perched on wrought iron chandeliers, suspended from the low vaulted ceiling, illuminating rows of long, solid, wooden trestle tables, bordered by benches on either side. The monk is already seated at the far end of one exterior bench. Behind him, the candlelight flickers across a vivid golden and multihued fresco that does not show the patina of age. In contrast with the Romanesque interior, it looks as though it might have been painted yesterday. The two dimensional fresco spans the entire breadth of all four walls. It is a breathtaking sight, but it does not arrest my attention for long.

Another more primeval sense has taken over. My nose approaches the table, the monk is sitting in front of. A mise-en-scene for a still life by Caravaggio, I am incredulous and a combination of gratefulness and the secretion of saliva makes me weak at the knees. One end of the table is piled high with metal bowls of fruit, a jug of wine, a pitcher of water, two goblets, silver plates but no forks or knives. Grapes cascade from a glass pedestal platter , there is some sort of round rock cake with seeds and moist with dried dates, plaits of bread, fried fish and a white kind of savoury porridge. I cannot make out the cereal but it tastes like manna to me. The cook has not prepared much, merely left -overs from lunch, the monk tells. It is true they must not often receive guests, but they have pulled out the stops for me. I eat with my hands, I want to taste a morsel of everything at once. It takes all the restraint I possess, to try and eat gracefully and respectfully. Not hunching my back, like some ravenous Medieval lord in from the hunt wolfing the feast down. I am in the presence of austere spirituality personified. He merely sits serenely with his palms in his hand, touches nothing and looks sideways into the middle distance transfixed. I eat in silence, but this suits me as the pleasure I get from each mouthful is exquisite.

 I feel transported to another era, I’m in a time warp. No Oscar nominated, Hollywood set designer could have got it this right. I regret to say, even now, today as I write this, that some sense of inculcated modesty and propriety stops me from licking the plate clean and hoovering the table. Decorum, dictates that I leave some of the grapes on the plate and a few dregs of wine in the decanter.   I gaze mournfully at the food I have not eaten, but I do not want to appear as greedy as I feel. Besides I am eager to ask this Monk a few questions, but I do not know how to go about it. I feel gauche, clumsy in speech and words, thick, random and unformulated into sentences in my throat, die as they reach my lips.
The monk does not seem interested in me, he does not ask me any questions about my country of origin, why I have come here, my name even. All the same, sitting together in silence does not feel uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. There is a haze in the room, either caused by the smoke from the candlelight. I cannot tell if it is my perception, or if the haze is there at all, but it hangs low, and the light is dim. As we sit though, the room appears to brighten as if someone has turned the lights up, using a dimmer switch. The haze subsides and it feels as though the sands of time are parting, the very air, like a pair of curtains, is being drawn asunder. I follow the Monk’s gaze as though he is leading me towards an eternal truth, in a place beyond time and space. It feels immensely peaceful and a settling descends. I understand the lack of language. There is no need for it. The silence is communicating volumes and I’m blessed just to be here in this room with this holy man. This is an immense gift. I enter timelessness and the refectory grows large, so very large, the walls open up and the frescoes in three 'D', peel off the brickwork and start dancing and morphing into a plethora of myriad shapes and designs at the corners of my eyes.  Here everything makes sense and is as it should be, there is no desire for movement on my part, for being other than it is, observing everything unfold, beyond ethics and morality and judgment, atoms subdivide, the very air is so alive, fluid like water, a gentle breeze brushes my cheek, and it is pure energy. The curtains close and I feel drawn back inside. The lights dim and I am once again back in a refectory, the air is heavier and more solid. Has any magic herbs or mushrooms  been present in the food? I ask myself. But no, I conclude, it was nothing other than being in complete comfort and contentment for a long split second with a stranger, silent in a room. The monk gets up and smiles a deep, knowing smile. I sense that he had accompanied me on this particular journey. He tells me that he will lead me to my room and that it is not expected of me, but I may wish to attend the evening service at 4am. Once escorted to my cell door he bows and takes his leave.

The cell is simple, clean and in a more modern part of the ceremony. I shower (there is running water in this monastery apparently), fall into bed with immense gratitude and zonk out immediately. It has been an incredibly long and emotional day.

At 3.45am, I hear a jangling of bells, in my dream. At 3.55 am, a series of loud raps on my cell door wake me up. I do not want to get up. I am warm and snug and so tired. I would like to go back to the flying dream I had been dreaming. In it all I had to do, was just jump up and I could soar vertically into the air, hovering above the street as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I could then taunt the byzantine faces who were pursuing me but couldn’t fly and off I could swim horizontally, with a breaststroke in the sky. My new found feat was as surprising to me as to the pursuers in my dream. Reluctantly though, I must get out of bed. As an unexpected guest I have been offered free food and accommodation. Staying put in bed = free loading tourist.  Putting in an appearance = seasoned traveler, eager to find out more about local customs and respect the monastery’s routine. In retrospect, the monks probably don’t really care whether I make an appearance or not. It is inconsequential, but someone did bother to knock on my door. It would be courteous to go.  How often do we play these games in our head, anxious not to displease, to maintain ‘face’ yet keen to get away with as much as we can, this avoidance of discomfort and pain. We put ourselves at the centre of the universe with our ego on one end of the scales and effort on the other.

Five extra stolen minutes in bed deliberating and then a quick scramble to get dressed and join matins. Outside, there is no need to adjust my eyes to the darkness. In the back lot of the monastery, a full moon has risen behind the holy mountain, throwing it into sharp relief. The peak itself is haloed by the white orb, and its outline shimmers, smoking as if on fire. Tracing a winding path down the mountain to  its base, with my gaze, I discern, a group of dark figures,  in the middle ground, holding candles aloft, swaying and snaking their way into the chapel at the extreme end of the cloister. This sight is arresting, it is beyond beauty, timeless, eternal and it transfixes me.” I will never forget this image” I say to myself and I haven’t.

I am late so I make haste in their direction. When I enter the chapel, I once again feel as though in a scene from Francis Ford Coppola’s ‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula’, which had hit the cinemas, earlier in the year. Now I do need to adjust my eyes. In the Narthex (which separates the nave from the outside world), the chapel is dim and dark. Framing the royal doors,  two Manoualias (tiers of beeswax candles on metal stands) are the only source of light. Entry past these doors is prohibited to a Cathecumen-a non-orthodox- like me. I am saved from making another faux pas (an inherent inclination), by having already learned the ropes, the chastised way, on an earlier visit to a monastery in Meteora. I take a peek, through the forbidden doors however, before lowering the flap and seating myself on an outer Stacidia (wooden high backed bench, having arm rests high enough to be used while standing). The nave is brightly lit in contrast, with dozens of Manoualias, the monks line up the Stacidias on either side, but the gilded Thronos or Bishop’s Throne remains vacant. The air is heavy with the sweet, herbaceous scent of beeswax, smoking trails upwards, through the Horus, and up onwards to the blue and gold frescoed dome.

My ears are ringing with the deep, resonant Byzantine chanting of these Monks, throats up stretched towards the infinite, acapella ever ascending vibrations, mingling with the candle smoke, on their guttural release destined to the heavens. “O, O, O, OOO!!!”, the male human timbre seeks to join an angelic choir in deep sonorous crescendos, an earthy supplication for divine union. A shiver runs down my spine. This is sublime. I am so, so lucky to be here experiencing this and I am ever so glad to have made the effort to leave my warm bed and brave the evening nip. The chanting does go on forever and I drift in and out of a drowsy stupor, slinking lower and lower in my seat. I contemplate going back to my cell and slipping under the covers, but simultaneously I would like to prolong this unlikely experience. These rivulets of sinuous parallel melodies, one overlapping the other, intertwining and spiraling toward the stars outside, wrap me up and hug me in tendrils of comfort and safety. I do not understand the canticles, the language is foreign, but the chanting is not. Once matins (Orthros) are over, the monks file past me. I look out for Friar Tuck and my Ethereal Monk, but they do not notice or acknowledge me. Still I have put in an appearance and it has been worth it. I join the tail end of the dark defile as it snakes back to the monastery and disperses silently once inside the cloister.

At daybreak (much later actually), as instructed, I take my leave reluctantly. I would like to say thank you to someone, especially to Friar Tuck, but the monks that I encounter, on my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, seem to be busy rushing to and fro in the main hallway, and somehow I daren’t interrupt anyone’s stride of purpose. Instead I write a thank you note in my cell, leaving it on the pillow as I smooth down the bed, trying to erase my night’s presence there.

I decide to walk to Karies, the capital of Mount Athos, if you can call it that, register with the Ecclesiastical authorities (and be provided with a new visa ) and stock up on some provisions if I can.

Half an hour into my walk I remove my cotton cardigan. It is already hot, a beautiful late summer’s day, announcing the fact that the season hasn’t quite ended. Karies, is mainly deserted. Save for a few horse drawn carts, a couple of the longhaired morose rednecks I had encountered previously and the odd monk, there was no body about.  I make my way to the Astinomia (police station), to enquire which building the Epistasia is, but am informed by a sleepy official that most likely, the latter will not be opening its shutters today and my Thessaloniki document will do for the remainder of my stay. He does lethargically stamp my permit however and this reassures me. Following the guide book’s advice, I do decide to skip the closest dependencies and monasteries (the reason being the jaded attitude of the monks to the daily onslaught of pilgrims - well understandable), and head off to Iviron, an ancient Russian Georgian monastery, now populated by Greek monks, on the eastern Coast, and third on the Athonite monastic hierarchy, but not before stopping to buy some ‘breakfast’. The only ‘convenience store’ open is a hole in the wall, that doubles up as post office, stationery, general hardware store and ‘grocery’ for the entire peninsula. I only manage to purchase a bag of sunflower seeds, a compacted dehydrated fig ‘cake’, a few yellowed postcards and a very dubious but essential map.

On the way out of Karyes I encounter a magnificent skiti, which is a ghost town. I have the run of the place, but after 15 minutes of exploring, I feel I am trespassing. The guide book refers to it as ‘Ayiou Andhreou’, a Russian dependency of the great Vatopedhi monastery. I suspect there aren’t enough monks to inhabit both locations and that Andhreou is a bit too close to Karies for comfort.  I hit the forest allowing myself ample time to get lost. Still I would like to settle in the first monastery and ensure a bed for the night as early as I can. I have no idea how many pilgrims may already have set their sights on Iviron, being not too far from Karies and there is no guarantee, that once there I will be offered accommodation. There might be an allotted quota which had already been filled. I was not only competing with the daily ration of non-orthodox visitors but with the rest of the Greek male orthodox population. Added to this was the fact that hospitality relied very much on the whims of individual Arhondarisis (monastic guest-masters). We were not paying the monasteries for the night, in theory we were staying free of charge and therefore dependent on whether ultimately the Arhondaris was in a good mood and liked the look of you or not.

Fingers crossed. I descended into the vegetation and was lost to civilization for a couple of hours or so. Following alternatively well trodden and then questionably overgrown trails and paths, I relied upon my internal compass to direct myself East and coast wards bound. The dappled light, singing of birds in the trees, the odd startling rustle of an unseen retreating animal in the undergrowth and the murmuring of brooks close by made me feel like one of Robin Hood’s merry company. This was how Mediaeval Man travelled, through forest and fields, from A to B. On foot if a pleb like myself or on horseback if higher ranked. Save for the odd hermitage ruin and an occasional glimpse of chimney smoke rising from  distant sketae, clearings were sparse and I oft doubted whether I was walking in circles.  The map was of little help initially, reading more like a treasure map than anything else, but I enjoyed deciphering its symbols and matching them to the ruins, rudimentary bridges and rare signposts on trees I passed. Certainly the mountain peak of Athos, when a slight gradient allowed it to peek through the foliage, was always a guiding point of reference.

Then again, I have a nose for the sea and the salty promise of the breeze caught in a spider web here and there, and in the occasional waft intermingling with pine and fresh mountain air, egged me on. Despite my carefree whistling daytime happiness, and the innocuous conversation between the cypress and oak trees, I was glad that I had not bedded down on some branch, envisioning how sinister each rustle of foliage would sound at night, what portent of imagined apprehension. I thought I could drink a little from one of the streams that accompanied me to the sea. And I sat down on the slope of a rocky hill for a little picnic.  Indeed the cold, fresh, mountain water, slated my thirst immediately. My rationed fig cake (which would have stuck to the roof of my throat on any other occasion, I imagine it had lain on that grocery shelf for a very, very long time) tasted of ambrosia. I was a child of nature transported back a millennia in time.  The vegetation became less thick and in the distance I could get occasional, fleeting glimpses of the scintillating Mediterranean below, sparkling, and inviting under the scorching  sun which was already quite high up in the sky.

At the edge of the forest, the slopes of hillside cascade downwards,  in terraced fields of wheat, halting at the walls of Iviron, my destination. 

To be continued...