Sevanavank

Listen first. The wind comes off the water in long, steady pushes, and it carries a cool, mineral smell, like wet stone. Under your feet the steps are uneven, worn smooth in the middle by countless climbing shoes. Ahead of you, two small churches of dark stone sit on the crest of the hill. Behind you, and on every side, there is blue. This is Sevanavank, the monastery of Lake Sevan.

The name is simple once you take it apart. Vank is the Armenian word for monastery. So Sevanavank means, quite plainly, the monastery of Sevan. The lake itself is one of the largest high-mountain lakes in the world. It sits nearly two thousand metres above sea level. That height explains the thin, bright air, and the way the sunlight feels sharp on your skin even on a cool day.

Here is the first surprise. The ground you are standing on was once an island. For most of this monastery's long life, monks and pilgrims reached it only by boat. In the Soviet period, engineers drew huge amounts of water from the lake for irrigation and hydroelectric power. The surface dropped by around twenty metres. Slowly, a strip of land rose out of the water, and the island became the peninsula you walked across today.

Think about what that means. The road, the car park, the stalls at the bottom of the hill — all of that ground lay under the lake within living memory. The monks who lived here were cut off by water on every side. Isolation was the whole point. A monastery on an island was a place apart, close to heaven and far from the noise of the world.

The monastery was founded in the late ninth century. Armenian tradition and medieval sources link its foundation to Princess Mariam, a daughter of the Armenian king Ashot the First, of the Bagratid royal family. This was a time when Armenia was rebuilding its own kingdom after long periods of foreign rule. Founding a monastery was an act of faith. It was also a statement of power, and a way for a royal family to mark its land.

Now look at the two churches in front of you. The larger one is usually called the Church of the Holy Apostles. The other is the Church of the Holy Mother of God. Both follow a classic Armenian plan. The walls form a compact cross shape, and a many-sided drum rises from the centre, topped by a pointed conical roof. That pointed cone is one of the clearest signs of Armenian church architecture. Once you notice it, you will see it across the whole country.

Walk closer and touch the stone. It is dark, rough, and slightly porous, a volcanic stone typical of this region. The blocks are cut and fitted closely, with very little decoration on the outside. Compare that with the great cathedrals of Western Europe. Here there are no flying buttresses, no tall glass windows. The beauty comes from proportion, from weight, and from the way the dark walls stand against the pale sky and bright water.

Step inside if the door is open. The interior is small, dim, and cool. Light falls in narrow beams from the windows in the drum. Candles burn in trays of sand, and the smell of wax and old incense hangs in the air. People come here to pray, not only to look. You may see a family lighting thin candles, or someone standing silently near the altar. Move gently, and keep your voice low.

There was once a third church on this hilltop. Today only low walls and foundations remain, close to the two standing buildings. Look for the outlines of stone on the ground. They help you imagine the complex as it once was — larger, busier, with cells for monks, storerooms, and paths running down to the shore where the boats came in.

Locals often say that Sevanavank had a reputation for strict discipline. According to one popular account, monks who had broken church rules elsewhere were sometimes sent here as a form of penance. Treat that as a story passed from guide to guide rather than settled history. But stand in this wind for a while in winter, imagine no road and no boats, and the idea is easy to believe.

Now turn your attention to the carved stones around the churches. These are khachkars, which means cross-stones in Armenian. Each is a flat slab carved with a cross, often surrounded by dense patterns of knots, leaves, and rosettes. No two are exactly alike. Khachkars were raised as memorials, as prayers, and as marks of gratitude. Look closely at the fine carving. In some places the stone has weathered soft and round. In others the edges are still sharp.

Here is a second surprise. The hill you climbed is not only a museum of the past. The monastery is still a working religious site of the Armenian Apostolic Church, and a theological seminary operates on the peninsula. So the bells you might hear are not for tourists. Down near the shore you will also find a quiet Soviet-era building that once served as a rest house for Armenian writers. Poets and novelists came here to look at this same water.

Before you go down, find a spot along the edge of the hill and look out. On one side the lake stretches toward distant mountains. On the other, beaches and small boats line the shore. The colour of the water changes with the clouds, from deep navy to pale turquoise. Fishermen still work these waters, and you may smell grilled fish drifting up from the cafes below.

Take one last look at the two dark churches, sitting low against the wind, as they have for more than a thousand years. They were built for people who arrived by boat, across open water. You arrived on land that the lake itself gave up. As you walk down the steps, listen again to the wind, and notice how quickly the silence of the hilltop gives way to voices, engines, and the soft slap of water on the shore.