Kykkos Monastery

The road climbs and climbs. Pine forest presses close on both sides, and the air through the car window turns cool and resinous. Then the trees open, and a long run of stone walls and red-tiled roofs appears on the mountainside. Step out and listen for a moment. You may hear a bell, a few voices, and the wind in the pines. That is all. Welcome to Kykkos Monastery, high in the Troodos Mountains of Cyprus.

You are standing well over a thousand metres above the sea. Down on the coast, the summer heat can be heavy. Up here, even in August, the shade feels sharp. That height is part of the story. For centuries, this was a remote place, reached only on foot or by mule along mountain tracks. Remoteness gave the monks quiet. It also gave pilgrims a hard journey, and the journey was part of the devotion.

The monastery dates back to the late eleventh century, the time of the Byzantine Empire. In that era Cyprus was ruled from Constantinople, the great Christian capital we now call Istanbul. Tradition links the founding to the emperor Alexios Komnenos, who reigned around that time. What brought an emperor's attention to a forest hermitage on a distant island? The answer is a story, and Cypriots still tell it with great affection.

Legend has it that a hermit named Esaias lived alone in these woods. One day a Byzantine governor, out hunting, lost his way and met the hermit. The governor treated him rudely. Soon afterwards, the story says, the governor fell gravely ill. He remembered the hermit, returned, and asked for help. Esaias agreed — but asked for something in return. He wanted a particular icon of the Virgin Mary, then kept in the imperial palace.

The tale continues in Constantinople. According to the tradition, the emperor's own daughter fell ill with the same sickness, and she recovered after the icon's power was invoked. The emperor, grateful and a little afraid, sent the icon to Cyprus. Esaias received it, and a church was built here to hold it. That is the founding story as the monastery tells it. Historians treat the details as pious tradition, but the imperial connection to Kykkos is an old one.

Now for the first surprise. That icon, still the heart of the monastery, is traditionally said to be one of three painted by Saint Luke the Evangelist himself. Luke is the author of one of the Gospels, and Orthodox tradition calls him the first icon painter. The icon is known as the Eleousa, which means "the Merciful One". It is completely covered in a sheath of silver and gilt, so you cannot see the painted surface at all.

And here is the second surprise. The face of the Virgin in this icon is kept veiled. By long custom, no one is meant to look directly at it. Pilgrims kiss the silver cover, light candles, and pray before it, but the painted image beneath stays hidden. Many visitors walk into the church expecting to see a famous painting. Instead, they find a mystery behind silver and cloth. For believers, that hiddenness is part of its holiness.

The buildings around you are not eleventh century. Kykkos has burned several times over the centuries, and each time the monks rebuilt. Most of what you see today dates from the nineteenth century onward. The icon, according to the monastery, survived every one of those fires. Look at the courtyards and arcades. The stone is solid and practical, built for mountain winters, with long galleries where monks can walk out of the rain and snow.

As you move through the cloisters, notice how much gold surrounds you. The walls are covered with bright mosaics and painted scenes from the Bible and the lives of the saints. These are largely modern work, added in the late twentieth century, and their colours are fresh and strong. Some visitors find them dazzling, others prefer older and quieter churches. Either way, they show that Kykkos is a living institution, still investing in its walls, not a museum frozen in one age.

Kykkos is also tied to the modern history of Cyprus. As a boy, Archbishop Makarios the Third came here as a novice monk. He later became the leader of the Cypriot Orthodox Church and then the first president of the independent Republic of Cyprus, in 1960. During the island's struggle against British colonial rule in the 1950s, these mountains and their monasteries played a part. For many Cypriots, Kykkos carries national as well as religious meaning.

Makarios asked to be buried near the place where his religious life began. His tomb lies a short drive further up the mountain, on a summit called Throni. From there, on a clear day, the views run out over ridge after ridge of forest. Near the summit, look for small trees and bushes tied with strips of cloth and ribbon. People leave them as prayers and wishes — a custom older than anyone can fully date.

Back at the monastery, it is worth visiting the museum. It holds church treasures gathered over many centuries: old icons, embroidered vestments, manuscripts, and silver work used in services. The rooms are calm and dim, and the objects are close enough to study the fine stitching and the worn edges of painted wood. It is a good way to see the craftsmanship that Byzantine and later Cypriot church art demanded, piece by careful piece.

Before you leave, stand still in the main courtyard for a moment. Feel the cool air from the forest, and notice the smell of candle wax drifting from the church door. Watch the pilgrims as they come and go — some in tour groups, some families, some alone with a quiet purpose. This place has received visitors like you for roughly nine hundred years. As you walk back to the road, listen for the bell once more.