Akdamar Island and Church

The boat engine drops to a low rumble, and you hear water slapping the hull. The wind off Lake Van carries a mineral smell, faintly soapy, almost like wet chalk. Ahead, a small island rises out of very blue water, its shoreline pale with dry rock. Almond trees hold the slope in loose green rows. On the highest ground stands a compact stone church, warm red-brown in the sun. From the water it looks small. That impression will not last.

Step onto the pier and the sound changes. Gulls call, and dry grass moves in the wind. The path climbs past almond and pistachio trees, and in spring the ground is covered in pale pink blossom. Lizards run across the hot stones. Then the church appears fully, and you slow down without deciding to. Its walls are covered with carved figures — people, animals, whole scenes — cut into the surface on every side. Almost no flat space was left empty.

This is the Armenian Church of the Holy Cross. It was built in the early tenth century, between 915 and 921, for Gagik the First, an Armenian king who ruled the region of Vaspurakan from this lake. His architect was a monk named Manuel. The building first served as a palace church and later became the centre of a monastery. The stone is a reddish volcanic rock quarried nearby. That is why the walls turn orange in late afternoon light.

Walk slowly around the outside and read it like a picture book. On one wall, a small David swings his sling at a large armoured Goliath. Elsewhere, Jonah goes into the mouth of a sea creature and comes out again in a second panel. Adam and Eve stand beside a tree. Daniel sits calmly among lions. The carvers cut deep, so the figures still hold shadow after more than a thousand years of open weather.

Above the figures runs a band of grapevine. Follow it and you find a whole working world. Men pick grapes. A bear climbs. Hares, foxes and deer move through the leaves. A lion brings down a bull. There are hunters on horseback and animals that look local rather than symbolic. Nobody carved this in a hurry. Somebody wanted the people of a kingdom to see themselves, and their fields, on the outside of their king's church.

Inside, the temperature drops several degrees. The plan is compact — a cross shape under a tall conical dome, with only a few narrow windows. Paint survives in patches on the upper walls and in the dome. You can make out haloes, robes and fragments of faces from Gospel scenes. Much of it has faded to a dull red-brown. Stand in the middle and look straight up. The dome makes this small room feel far taller than it is.

The church did not stand alone. For centuries a monastery grew around it, with a bell tower added later against the west side, plus chapels, monks' cells and a school. Traces of those buildings are still on the ground around you — foundations, low walls, worn steps. Monks lived here in small numbers, copying and keeping manuscripts. Carrying supplies across the lake was ordinary work. In winter the crossing turned dangerous, and sometimes the island was cut off for weeks.

The monastery's life ended in 1915. During the First World War the Armenian population of this region was deported and killed, and the community that had used this church for a thousand years was gone. The building stood empty for decades. It lost its furnishings, and parts of the surrounding structures fell down. For much of the twentieth century, people came only occasionally, by fishing boat. That long silence is part of what you are standing in now.

Restoration work began in 2005, and the church reopened in 2007 as a museum. Workers cleaned the reliefs, repaired the roof and made the walls stable again. In 2010 a cross was raised on the dome, and a liturgy was held here for the first time in many years. Since then a service has usually taken place once a year, in September. Armenians from Turkey and from abroad travel here for it. On those days the island is crowded and loud.

Now look back at the water. Lake Van is not an ordinary lake. It has no outlet to the sea, and its water is alkaline and full of dissolved soda. People here once used it directly for washing clothes, with no soap. That chemistry means almost no fish can survive in it. One species manages, a small silvery fish that swims up freshwater streams each spring to spawn. The deep blue colour you are looking at comes from the same unusual water.

Turn south and you see mountains, often holding snow on the higher peaks into early summer. The mainland pier at Gevaş is a short crossing away. Boats usually wait until they have enough passengers, so your return time is flexible rather than fixed. On the island there is little shade beyond the trees and no shops of any size, so bring water with you. Find a rock on the quieter side, where the ground drops steeply to the lake.

Before you leave, put your hand flat on the wall. The stone is warm and slightly rough, and the carved edges are softer than they once were. Wind, rain and a thousand winters did that. Listen for a moment — water, wind, birds, and voices somewhere behind you. This building has been a royal chapel, a monastery, an empty shell and a museum. Right now it is simply the place where you are standing, on a small island, in a very blue lake.