Ravenna – the Church of San Vitale – part 1

San Vitale has some of the most famous mosaics in Ravenna, its depictions of Justinian and Theodora frequently used in books about Byzantium. The church is dedicated to a local saint allegedly martyred on this very spot by being thrown into a well. Building started in 525 AD under Bishop Ecclesius and it was consecrated in 546/7 by Bishop Maximianus, and both feature in its mosaics. The work was part funded by a Ravenna goldsmith called Julianus: judging by the size of the church and craftsmanship of the mosaics he must have been fabulously wealthy. It was also a Byzantine Imperial project designed to emphasises the reinstatement of the eastern empire’s control over Italy and the triumph of Orthodoxy over the Arianism of the Goths, who previously controlled Italy.

On entering this octagonal church, I was overwhelmed by the rich colours of the mosaics.: golds, red, green and blues. But the big surprise is that only the apse and the part of the nave nearest the altar are decorated with mosaics. The rest of the church is either plain or decorated with indifferent eighteenth century frescoes totally outclassed by the original mosaics. It gives the church an unfinished look.

In the tympanum of the apse is a wonderful mosaic of Christ Pantokrator. Above it are two angels holding what looks like a Chi Rho, symbolising both Christ’s resurrection and Byzantine Imperial power. On either side of the angels is a walled city which could be Ravenna or Constantinople: it reminds me of the representation of Ravenna in the mosaics of St Apollinare in Classe.

A clean shaven Christ in Imperial purple robes is seated on a throne with the earth as his footstool, holding the gospels. Two archangels stand on either side of him and in his right hand he holds out a martyr’s crown to St Vitale whose hands are covered as a sign of respect to receive it:

I love the little detail of the coloured feathery clouds over their heads.  To Christ’s left stands Bishops Ecclesius, the initiator of the buiulding, offering a model of this church to him:

In the dome above the apse is the lamb of God in a roundel supported by four archangels standing on worlds, against a background of animal and vegetal motifs:

On either side of the apse are two scenes from the Old Testament and depictions of the Prophets:

The detail and richness of the decoration is stunning, as in this shot of the upper ambulatory, the gallery where women were allowed to worship. This also features the shell motif that occurs throughout the church notably, as I will describe later, in the depiction of the Empress Theodora.

Here is the simple marble altar table, with rather horse-like sheep on either side of the cross.

Behind on the altar and set into the wall of the apse is a marble seat meant presumably for the bishop.

Lining the walls of the apse behind the altar are these wonderful marble and porphyry revetments that remind me of Haghia Sophia which was being built at around the same time and may therefore have had the same craftsmen working on them.

There are many similar marble revetments around the church’s walls, some looking like stone Rorschach tests:

 

Ravenna – the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia no

This squat building sits right next door to the much bigger and grander Church of San Vitale. Built of red brick, like all of Ravenna’s main churches, in the shape of a Latin cross, it gives no hint of its stunning mosaic-covered interior. Called the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia it was built in the middle of the 5th century AD and was originally attached to the portico of Church of Santa Croce whose bell tower can be seen in the background of the picture. The portico was removed in the early 17th century to make way for a road that now separates the two buildings.

Galla Placidia was the daughter of the Roman Emperor Theodosius I and the mother of the emperor Valentinian III, acting for a several years as his regent. She died in 450 and was buried near the original Basilica of St Peter in Rome, not in this little church. Perhaps the church was used initially by the family as a memorial chapel in her name.

It takes a little while for your eyes to adjust to the dark interior  after the blinding Italian sunshine and then the first thing that strikes you is the richness of the colours in the mosaics; deep blue, gold, red and green. The unifying theme of the mosaics is salvation through Christ and eternal life. The main mosaic in the lunette facing the entrance depicts the martyrdom of St Lawrence:

The saint is shown carrying a martyr’s cross in one hand and an open gospel codex in the other

as he makes his way towards the gridiron, the instrument of his martyrdom, in the centre of the picture with the fire already burning beneath it:

To the left of the mosaic is an open cupboard ho;ding copies of the Gospels:

As a bookbinder, there are two things of particular note in this mosaic. The depiction of the books in this mosaic is rare visual evidence of codices with front flaps and leather ties, a distinctive form of eastern Mediterranean binding. Secondly, it is also rare to see books displayed on the shelves of a cupboard, with their fore edges facing out, exactly how books were stored on shelves in libraries in the medieval period.

The ceiling is covered with crosses in roundels against a rich deep blue and gold background, depicting the heavens. I can’t convey the impression they made in a single picture but they made me gasp when I looked up:

In the dome, where in later Byzantine churches you would expect to see the Pantokrator, is a simple cross against the rich colour of the sky. Symbolic representations of the four Evangelists are shown in the corners:

There are also depictions of the Apostles with doves and a fountain. The tops of the lunettes of the Apostles contain a shell design, sometimes found on Greek grave steles, symbolically signifying death. It also features in the famous mosaic of Theodora in the neighbouring church of San Vitale, perhaps indicating that the mosaic was completed after her death.

Two lunettes (only one included here) show deer by a pool with vegetal motifs, one said to represent spring, the other summer.

The detail of the glass tesserae mosaics is very rich and clearly required craftsmanship of the first order at a cost that could only be afforded by an Imperial family. It would be interesting to know where the craftsman came from.

These geometric patterns struck me having a very modern look:

There’s also a rich vein of vegetal motifs in the mosaics:

In the lunette over the entrance is a depiction of a beardless Christ as the Good Shepherd surrounded by the souls of the righteous, symbolised by sheep . I like the way the artists have shown all the sheep with their heads turned to look at Christ.

In the three niches at the intersections of the Latin cross are large marble sarcophagi. this one was claimed to be that of Galla Placidia:

and the other two were thought be be of Constantius and Honorius, though this may well just be myth:

The alabaster windows are not original but were a gift of Victor Emmanuel III in 1909.

One final feature to note is the pine cone on thew top of the church, another indication of a funerary monument.

Finally as you leave the grounds of the church there are two sarcophagi with similar Christian motifs to those inside the mausoleum.

Reflections on my pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain

To close the series of posts on my recent pilgrimage to My Athos here are my reflections on the trip and what it meant to me.

It is a beautiful, unspoilt place, covered in trees and surrounded by clear water in all shades of blue. Even before I set foot on shore and entered a monastery I was struck by its wild landscape, mountains, steep cliffs and odd shaped rocks. Unlike many parts of Greece it is very green and overgrown: nature has been left to its own devices. With few inhabitants, no industry, few roads and even fewer vehicles, there is no pollution. The air is bright and clear and everywhere there is a deep silence.

Its remoteness is of course what attracted monks and ascetics to come here in the first place to pursue a contemplative life. But its isolation made it vulnerable to attack from marauders looking to plunder the monasteries’ wealth. Many of the older monasteries are build like fortresses, with a steep approach from the coast, thick walls and huge wooden, iron-clad doors to withstand the pirate assaults. I remember the rifles I saw in Fr Prodromos’s museum at Iviron from a time not so long ago when the monks had to defend themselves.

Today the monasteries may be cash poor, but they are very rich in artefacts, many the gift of Byzantine Emperors and other Orthodox rulers. Some of their greatest treasures are the books and manuscripts in their libraries, though these are hard to access. Neither Nikolaos or Argyrios seem to have been into any of the libraries. I could not work out whether this was because they were not allowed or because they were not interested. I was slightly disappointed that I was not offered the opportunity of a visit – perhaps in hindsight I should have taken the initiative and just asked. In the absence of the real artefacts, I can recommend an excellent site hosting digital versions of some of the more than 300,000 of the Holy Mountain’s books, parchments and manuscripts. Next time I will do my research on this site  in advance and identify which libraries I would like to visit, seek permission to visit their monasteries and see what happens.

What is a ‘pilgrimage’? It usually means a journey to a place that has some religious significance, eg a connection with the life of Christ or a saint. The journey is a physical one to reach a particular destination to meet a religious obligation and it can also involve an inward journey towards some form of self discovery. In many western languages, the word pilgrimage derives from the Latin peregrinus, meaning a foreigner or stranger; possibly because this is how the first ‘pilgrims’ were described by the people whose lands they passed through. In Greek the word for pilgrimage is proskynima which comes from proskynisi which means prostration, veneration or worship. Maybe it’s tenuous but the emphasis in Orthodoxy seems to be more on the veneration or worship aspects of the journey. That, at least, is how I experienced this particular pilgrimage with my companions.

My band of pilgrims came to venerate monasteries’ relics, not their treasures. I found initially a deep Protestant scepticisim surfacing when I witnessed my companions crossing themselves and kissing the reliquaries containing the hand of St George or the finger of St Basil. So different from the inert, white-walled churches of the C of E, purged of relics and a whole visual and aesthetic dimension by a politically inspired reformation. As I watched them, these pilgrims venerated the relics with such respect, humility and almost love. I was given the opportunity to join the back of the queue and moved along the line of relics, bowing to each with my right hand over my heart. Even without a Christian belief and the Greek Orthodox background I found it moving.

I enjoyed the services and the Byzantine chant which was particularly good at Iviron, less so at Dionysiou. Nikolaos and Argyrios though were less than impressed when I expressed a preference for Russian chant. Byzantine chant is much harder to attune your ears to. It does not have the immediate emotional appeal of its Russian equivalent and requires more intense listening. Although I had read the liturgy in Greek before I went to Athos, it was much harder to establish where we were in the service than it is for me when I am listening to the Russian Orthodox liturgy.  And that, apart from lack of faith, does create a barrier to full participation in what’s going on.

Watching the service, hearing the chanting in the darkness lit only by candles and in the company of all the saints on the frescoes and icons, I wondered how many men had stood here over the centuries doing exactly the same. There was only one point when I forgot one of Nikolaos’s initial instructions and found him next to me at Vespers, with a smile on his face politely but firmly removing my right hand from my trouser pocket.

The monasteries preserve the old (Julian) calendar, keeping Byzantine time where sunset is midnight and following the same pattern of services they have followed since their foundation in the 10th century. I felt that strong link and continuity with the Byzantine empire.

Despite its beautiful setting, its old buildings, stunning icons and frescoes, the Holy Mountain is not a museum. It is a home to the monks who try to live in continual communion with God. That’s why taking photographs must seem to them such an intrusion. I was struck by how open, welcoming and hospitable the monks are to the endless stream of visitors pouring through the monasteries every day, feeding them, accommodating them and letting them take part in their services. All, whether they have no faith or little faith, whether they go to church or not, whether they are Orthodox or not, are welcomed as pilgrims.

Argyrios told me that there are two types of monks: those who are refugees from the world, because they don’t fit in for whatever reason, and those with a calling. Life on Athos is so harsh and demanding that in general the former do not last long and leave.

There is something about submitting to the monastic routine that is calming. It slows life right down and gives it a completely different rhythm. I thought I would find the two meals a day hardship, but actually I did not feel hungry at all between meals. Considering their hard life the monks did not seem tired, on the contrary they looked bright and alert. Argyrios told me he once spent 30 days on the Holy Mountain and was exhausted at the end of it. I cam imagine that if you walk between monasteries and keep the monastic routine, it must be very tiring.

One aspect of our pilgrimage though remained completely invisible to me and that was the conversations that went on between the pilgrims and the monks. Argyrios told me he continues to be in dialogue with the monks. In particular he had been having a discussion with Fr Prodromos at Iviron that keeps going deeper and deeper: ‘It never comes to an end, after each visit it is like we put a comma or semi-colon’, he told me. Curious as to the nature of this dialogue I asked him what they talked about. Everything!’, he tells me, ‘and it’s been going on for 30 years’.

On the boat back to Ouranoupoli I fell into conversation with a young Frenchman who was visiting Mt Athos with a Greek friend. Amongst other things we talked about the services and agreed that the Hesychastic practice of repeating the Jesus Prayer (Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner) was a form of meditation, anchoring the individual in the present moment and creating a mindful state. I recalled a story that the Elder at Dionysiou told about St Basil that is very similar to one I have heard in Zen. Two monks met a pretty girl on the road. A bit later the monk said to St Basil: ‘Did you see that girl we met?’, and St Basil replied: ‘I saw but I didn’t look. That was then, this is here and now’. The services also function as a form of consciousness-altering mechanism similar to meditation. In some ways, despite their different frames of reference and structures of meaning I see similarities between Hesychastic and Buddhist practice. I do not think may monks would agree with me on this though. I remember seeing a leaflet in the shop at the Orthodox monastery of Optina Pustyn in Russian that was entitled ‘Meditation – the route to hell’.

So what does a pilgrimage mean to someone who is not Orthodox, does not even believe in God, and is actually a Buddhist? Clearly I was not able to take part fully in the services and did not share the beliefs of my fellow pilgrims. I did not share their joy in venerating relics. Equally I did not have the opportunity to have conversations with the monks and Elders. So in many ways my experience of the pilgrimage was of its outer forms. Despite that, it was an opportunity to encounter silence in a beautiful place, to experience in a little more depth a religious tradition with which I feel much affinity and to observe at first hand the faith of my companions. More importantly it allowed me to experience a simple way of life and feel the power of the monks concentrated prayer life and their compassion arising from a life dedicated to God.

It was an honour and a privilege to make this pilgrimage and I am very grateful to my Greek tutor Sofia who set this visit up for me; to Nikolaos and Argyrios for their great patience and kindness in leading me though it; and to my fellow pilgrims for accepting me into their band. Finally, I am eternally grateful to my wife for letting me fulfil this ambition.

Ouranoupoli

I mentioned in my last post about my pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain that I wanted to write a bit about the town of Ouranoupoli, the start and finish point for the sea trip to the monasteries. I was fascinated by the old tower on the beach and the little information panel about it I found in the main square. This started a search for more information which led me to Sydney and Joice Lock who lived there for many years and the Greek girl from the village, Sydney Marangou-White, whose education and training they sponsored.

There was a settlement here, called Ouranoupolis (‘sky town’) going back to the 4th century BC. Although there are no longer any signs of if on land, in 1954 Swedish divers found submerged ancients houses and roads just off the coast. For many centuries the land was part of a farm belonging to the monastery of Vatopedi on Mt Athos and the Tower on the beach was supposedly built to protect it during the reign of the Byzantine Emperor, Andronikos II Palaiologos in the late 13th / early 14th century.

In the Byzantine era the settlement was called Prosforion, a name it retained until it was re-named Ouranoupoli by the Greek government who resettled refugees here from the Asia Minor catastrophe in the 1920s. The Government built single storey blocks along the sea with no water, electricity or sanitation. Each block consisted of 2 large bedrooms, a tiny one, an entrance hall and a kitchen. There was no road and the village was only accessible on foot, by mule or by boat. The nearest doctor was 7 miles away in the village of Nea Roda (the site of the canal that Xerxes built in 483 BC during the Persian invasion of Greece).

Many of the refugees were from fishing families re-settled from the Princes’ Islands (Adalar in modern Turkey) near Istanbul and from Caesarea. Without the tools of their trade though, many were unable to carry on fishing. The land itself was arid barren and hard to cultivate. In addition the climate was very hot in summer and bitterly cold in winter with frequent snowfalls. It was a a real hand to mouth existence.

Sydney Marangou-White was the oldest of four children who were born and brought up in the village after her parents were moved there from the Peloponnese in 1928. In her book Bones washed in water and wine she records daily life in the village in fascinating detail. Her mother was a healer who used herbs, folk remedies and even cupping glasses to treat local people. It is shocking to read how undernourished and thin people were and how, in summer, they appeared yellow from continual malarial infections caused by the swarms of mosquitoes breeding in the local pools. It was not until the last 1940s that the government started a campaign to eradicate malaria though repeated spraying to kill off the mosquitoes.

The Locks first appeared in the area in the mid 1920s when they came on holiday to Donkey Island opposite the settlement. They became fascinated by the Byzantine Tower and decided to buy it and settle there. Joice Lock was a very strong Australian woman who had come to England during the First World War. She had met her English husband, Sydney, when they were working for the Quakers dealing with the refugee crisis precipitated by the war. Later they moved to near Thessaloniki to set up a farm for refugees from Asia Minor. In addition to her strength of character, Joice Locke also had medical qualifications (though she was not a doctor) and soon she was putting her training to good effect by treating sick local people for free.

The Locks provided enormous support to the village, including: raising money from international organisations and friends; providing piped water; buying Chios sheep and agricultural tools; and building a wooden church and a Quaker school. To help the women from the village earn money, she taught them how to weave on a loom and make attractive carpets using Byzantine designs she researched. She sold these internationally through a company she set up called Pyrgos Rugs.

Sydney’s father was a skilled carpenter, as well as a fisherman, and he made some furniture for the the Locks. It was through this connection that he asked them to become Sydney’s godparents. She attended the local school they had set up in the village and then they sent her to a private  school called Kalamari run by French nuns in Thessaloniki. It must have been a huge challenge as all the teaching was in French and English. Then in 1950 at the age of 19, the Locks arranged for Sydney to go to London to train as a nurse and midwife. She spent the rest of her career in England working in the NHS, marrying an Englishman and returning frequently to her native village.

Sydney Lock died in 1955, but Joice lived on in the Tower until 1982, still working hard for the village and its people and promoting Pyrgos Rugs. Her funeral service was conducted in the local church by Archbishop Kallistos who happened to be stayed at an Athos monastery when she died. In his funeral oration, the Archbishop said that she had been truly ‘a woman of God’ who had done more for her fellow human beings than any other woman he could think of. He also called her one of the most significant women of the twentieth century. Her very full life is well documented in Blue Ribbons, Bitter Bread by Susanna de Vries,

 

 

 

 

A Pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain 10- return to Ouranoupoli

Dafni is a small port with a cafe, one shop and a Customs House, and it’s full of people waiting for the ferry to take them on to other monasteries or make the return journey to Ouranoupoli. At mid-morning It’s already hot and although there is some sort of queue in operation we make our way straight into the Customs House for some shade.

Nikolaos has disappeared, re-appearing suddenly near the head of the queue and asking us to pass our bags through a window. Not surprisingly this leads to an argument with two people at the head of the queue who seem to have bought up several monasteries’ worth of honey and red wine. A few people justifiably point out that we should remember we’re on the Holy Mountain. However, Nikolaos has presence and commands respect. For some reason he seems intent on getting us to the head of the queue and he shuts down the most vociferous complainer by telling him “We don’t fight with words in Greece’. As quickly as it flared up, things cool down and I distract myself from the slightly uneasy atmosphere we have created by taking pictures of the pilgrims, mainly monks, disembarking from the ferry.

I am intrigued by the difference between priests’ and monks’ hats (called in Greek kalymaukhi). Argyrios explained that a priest’s hat has an overhanging edge, while a monk’s is round with no edge. While we were on the Holy Mountain, monks from a completely different monastery sent him greetings because they had heard that he was there. He called it Radio Kalymaukhi – Holy Mountain jungle drums.

On board the Axion Estin we head up to the top deck to get good seats under shade. The ferry calls in at all the main monasteries on the way back to Ouranoupoli, including the Russian monastery of Panteleimontos that I only saw from a distance on the outward journey. The monastery was originally founded in the 11th century by monks from Kievan Rus, but the modern monastery in its current location dates to the late 19th century. A lot of building is still going on and the monastery looks shiny and new.

One character we bump into again on the ferry is an elderly man in a very tatty, dirty robe, bleached almost white by the sun.

He moves around the ferry selling religious trinkets, mainly komposkini (prayer ropes). Aygyrios tells me he is an unlicensed monk and I wonder if he is affiliated to any particular monastery.

The sea is beautifully calm and a deep blue colour. Apparently the clear water is so deep in places that submarines come in and shelter under the shadow of Athos. Some of the pilgrims try and attract seagull to take bread out of their hands as head into Ouranoupoli.

Approaching the jetty I notice the Tower for the first time and wonder how I managed to miss it when we left a couple of day ago. I am going to do a separate blog post about Ouranoupoli because it is interesting in its own right.

It’s 2.15 and we are all quite hungry after our very frugal breakfast. We celebrate the end of our pilgrimage in a fish taverna by the beach, drinking water and ice cold ouzo and eating tzatziki, calamari, whitebait, a tender, grilled, smokey octopus (some of the finest I have ever tasted), melitsana salata and lightly fried aubergine strips. Our coach leaves at 4.15 and we are back in Thessaloniki by 6.30.

In addition to a post about Ouranoupoli, I will also do one on my overall impressions of the pilgrimage, an expanded version of the one I wrote in Greek for the Association’s newsletter.

 

 

 

A Pilgrimage to the Holy Mountain 9 – leaving Dionysiou

Awoke early this morning at about 5.00. Nikolaos said he would wake me up but didn”t say at what time. He knocks on the door about 6.00 and comes in fully dressed, ready to attend the Liturgy. After washing, dressing and packing I set off to join my fellow pilgrims at the Liturgy and, passing the kitchen, I hear a murmurring of voices and pop in to find out what’s going on.

A group of pilgrims are sitting around listening to one of the Elders speaking and answering questions. Nikolaos invites me to join them and have some Khalkidiki olives, brown bread and a very subtle mountain tea., our simple breakfast today. As I dip in and out of the conversation, it seems a bit random. At one point the Elder is asking about hydration and health to which the answer is to drink more water and judge it by the colour of the urine. Someone asks him whether it’s possible for someone who is dying to come and die on the Holy Mountain. I can’t make out the answer, but the Elder then into a story about someone who after a meal dropped down dead after walking about 10 steps from the Refectory.

At some point the conversation turns to Archbishop Kallistos and the Elder asks me if I know him. I say that I knew him slightly at university when he was a parish priest, Father Kallistos. He asks me the correct English translation of the Jesus prayer. He finishes many of  his sentences with the phrase: ‘Glory to God’.

After a while I slip out on to the balcony overlooking the sea and watch the sky lighten, feeling very calm and peaceful, and enjoying the fresh morning air

After more tea, bread and olives I go and sit in the courtyard whose stillness and peace is wonderful to experience. Of course, I am still carrying my camera and am conscious that it must look as if I have no intention of keeping the rule of not taking pictures in the monastery.  The truth is I have nowhere else to keep it and have strict instructions from Nikolaos to keep it on me rather than in my bag.

While waiting for the Abbot to appear so that I can say a personal thank you to him for the gift of the icon, I take another look at the the frescoes depicting the Revelation. To the right of the entrance to the katholikon is a fresco with the Virgin and Child with St John and St Pakhomios (one of the founders of monasticism). According to Argyrios, this is one of the finest sequences of frescoes on Mt Athos. The detail is extraordinary: plagues of locust; the 7 trumpets; a wonderful four horsemen of the apocalypse; the angel who fell from heaven out of pride; the final battle of Armageddon; a scene with stars falling out of the sky looking like a battlefield of the First World War; Christ in judgement; and the Beast of Babylon, with multiple heads like roaring lions on long necks.

Argyrios points out that some of the eyes have been gouged out of the frescoes: the Crusaders and the Turks, thinking that the eyes in frescoes had magic properties, cut them out to make a potion to treat eye problems.

To the right of the entrance to the Refectory sits a superb porphyry throne. The Refectory itself is decorated with frescoes of the saints and has a beautifully wooden pulpit decorated in gold and red stripes. I could easily spend half a day just looking at the frescoes – though doing it without being able to take any pictures would be quite a trial. The pronaos to the church has many depictions of martyrdom, including the decapitation of St George.

Suddenly I am alerted to the imminent arrival of the Abbot, a tallish, thin man with a wispy beard, carrying a leather briefcase. He’s in a hurry to catch the fast water taxi to Karyes. I manage to express my thanks to him and then he’s off down to the arsenas in a pick up truck and offers to take all our bags down with him and leave them on the jetty.

The final visit of our pilgrimage at Dionysiou is to what the monks call the ‘School of Philosophy’, the monastic cemetery which dates back to 1375.

The quote is from the Wisdom of Solomon, Chapter 3, verse 1: ‘But the souls of the just are in the hand of God and no torment of death will touch them.’

The entrance and the pathways round the cemetery have been made by the monks using black and white pebbles stood on end, in simple but patterns. Inside, to the left of the cemetery porch, is a small extension with gold painted doors. This contains the tomb of St Niphon, Patriarch of Constantinople, who retired to the monastery in the mid 15th century to live as a simple monk.The tomb is covered in glass enclosing a full length icon of the saint.

To the right of this extension is a most incredible sight: a grill about 3ft x 21/2ft behind which you can see the skulls of all the monks who have died at the monastery, each with their name written on them. The piled up skulls stretch back into the depths of the building. The rest of the bones are contained in an open stone building half way along the cemetery on the left hand side, looking as if they have just been tossed in there at random. The bones are a reminder to the monks of death – hence the reference to the cemetery as the school of philosophy. At the far end of the cemetery are the graves of four monks who died within the past 3 years or so, all of good ages (the oldest was 94 and the youngest 76). The 94 year old was a celebrated writer on spiritual matters.

On the way back down to the arsenas, Argyrios points out a medieval loo and its shoot on the side of the cliff face. The old pathway up to the monastery with its lethal deep steps is still visible.This is the path that Argyrios and Nikos used to take when they started coming to Athos: it must have been very tough and dangerous to climb up it even without hand luggage or backpacks.

After a 15 minute wait our ferry arrives to take us to the port of Dafni where we will catch another ferry to take us back to Ouranoupoli.