Letter from Armenia: June 2009 |  print |
Saturday
The process of negotiating for an early morning taxi at Yerevan airport after a night flight from London was punishing. Bids started at 20,000 drams; and after incessant haggling with a cast of bleary-eyed unshaven scallywags, most of whom looked like extras on the film set of Casablanca , my offer of 10,000 was grudgingly accepted. When we reached the hotel, I was duly hassled for a tip, having been lectured throughout the entire journey on the absurdity of the bargain I had struck.
"Look, Sir, I have to bribe the policeman at the airport, I have to pay outrageous parking charges, I have to pay exorbitant prices for diesel, I must allow myself to be robbed when the car is repaired. Tell me, Sir, where is the profit in your price in these circumstances?"
I refused him the tip and soon discovered that I had paid twice the going rate. Welcome to Armenia, where they joke it takes two Jewish merchants to get a bargain out of one Armenian merchant.
The Hotel Hrazdan overlooks a river of the same name sunk into a deep gorge which dissects the city to the West. Clean, functional and friendly with the ubiquitous Eastern European empty swimming pool The ATMs around Republic Square in the city centre spat out all my cards. Even my own bank HSBC seemed to be suffering from plastic indigestion. To the much-hyped Vernissage Market, where everything from plumber's washers, tourist knick-knacks, Armenian bric-brac, garish canvasses to antique carpets is on sale.
Then, after narrowly missing being run down by a police convoy protecting an enormous black-windowed Rolls Royce, to the covered food market with its stands groaning with meticulously arranged mounds of sugared fruits. After countless free tastings that start to bring on a sugar-induced nausea, I was bid half a kilo of apricots for the equivalent of £5. My Armenian credentials were obviously lacking.
To the Opera House, where outdoor cafes and bars are sewn around it like a minefield of trendiness - cocktails on comfy sofas, drinkers fanned by a warm breeze. Here is where you come to be seen but such is the proliferation of these alcoholic oases that only insiders know the ‘in' places.
Dined at a roadside cafe close to Hotel. Having seated us in a private room on high-backed carved wooden chairs, our buxom, ever-maternal hostess plied us with vodka and portions of barbecued chicken. Meanwhile the heavens opened.
Sunday
Walked along bottom of gorge by the willow-banked Hrazdan River, its setting ruined by the steel and iron detritus of Soviet grandiose irrigation schemes. Much mulberry picking in progress - white and black fruits grow on slightly different trees. To the Armenian genocide museum, a sombre, spiritual underground room where the story of the terrible events of 1915 to 1923 is portrayed in photographic images. Nearby, an eternal flame in the centre of a circle of towering stone plinths mysteriously emits sad chants. A group of schoolchildren come to pray, forming their own circle around the flame like a necklace of innocence. My reaction is an overwhelming desire to shed tears of sorrow and anguish and to rage at man's inhumanity to man.
Armin Wegner, a German travel writer, took some of the most harrowing and moving photographs. Sent to Istanbul in 1915 as part of a German Red Cross unit, he witnessed the genocide of nearly 2 million people. Became a pacifist and anti-Nazi. Fled Germany in 1933 after being arrested and tortured; his unpopularity lay in the awkward truth that the Germans had connived with their allies, the Ottomans, in the Armenian deportations of 1915 and 1916. This fact was denied by subsequent German governments and led to Hitler's infamous remark in 1936 [1939?]: "Who talks about the Armenian tragedy today?" The successful white-washing of the Ottoman crime against the Armenians surely must have encouraged the Nazis to pursue their anti-Semitic policies and ultimately the Final Solution of 1943. Wegner should be revered in today's Germany.
The Museum of Russian Art houses the collection of Professor Abrahamian. A charming sketch of Performing Tigers in a Circus c 1934. The museum is at the foot of the Cascades, Yerevan's very own Spanish/Potemkin's steps. A clutch of striking modern statues are scattered over its terraces. Much is going on under the surface but it is too soon to view these enticing galleries. The cafes at the bottom of the steps soon become my favourite haunt.
To the National Art Museum in Republic Square - many of the artists had trained in Paris. A central attraction is the seascapes of Hovhannes Aivazovsky, who painted prolifically by moonlight/sunset/sunrise. A glorious gypsy girl is portrayed in ‘Bread on the Mountain'. Spring is a favourite landscape subject, usually depicted by a faint ripple of water on an otherwise snow-covered canvas. Over seven floors there is a bewildering array of canvasses - Armenian, Russian and ‘others'.
Sunday a day of weddings and hence ceaseless cacophony of car horns. Who invented this tradition or did it just emanate from the Mediterranean psyche?
Monday
Our driver appeared in a Range Rover with a huge crack across the front widescreen. He offered no explanation or apology. It was a bad omen. East to Dastadem, an old fortress just south of Talin, commanding a splendid view of the plains to the south. This is now Turkey but people here call it Western Armenia. The outer red-stoned wall dating to the last Qazar khans of Yerevan at the beginning of the nineteenth century is impressive but the precincts have been given over to a farmyard complete with cockerels and cows. The keep, much earlier, is dank and musty. An Arabic inscription in Kufic letters on the East wall reads:
‘May Allah exalt him. In the blessed month of Safar in the year 570 (1174) the lord of this strong fortress, the Prince, the great Spasalar[General], the Pillar of the Faith, the Glorifier of Islam, Sultan son of Mahmud son of Shavur.'
Sultan ibn Mahmud was a scion of the Kurdish Shaddadid dynasty who ruled various parts of Armenia from the tenth to the twelfth centuries.
To the seventh century church of St. John at Mastara. Imposing cupola twenty metres high, with flowers and grasses sprouting from cracks and crevices. In the gloomy interior, I met the priest, dressed in a beautifully tailored cassock. He took us to the graveyard on the outskirts of the village where after a sweep through rain-sodden grass, we found a tombstone in the shape of a sheep. He smiled and said: ‘Baaaahhh!'
The road to Gyumri heads north up a pass until it reaches a high plateau of grasslands, similar to the Scottish highlands. We met up with Artkush, who conducted us around the town, past and present. His knowledge and enthusiasm were infectious:
‘In this house so and so author lived; ...this house Armenian's best-loved poet; ...here is the Park of Kisses; ...we have many bards in Gyumri; ...here the Hotel de France, look a lovely early nineteenth century town house, once a hotel, then KGB headquarters, now ruin.'
Marmashen Monastery is situated on a cliff above the Akhurian River beside a stream that ends in a waterfall. Four churches in all. The main church of Saint Stephen of 986-1029 in red tuff - ‘tuff' is the red stone quarried throughout Armenia. Cupola supported on four large pillars. Outside there are traces of a long-gone gavit. To the south a small church of the same design; to the west, signs of a rotunda church with foundations of a pre-Christian temple and to the north, another church, half collapsed. Families and footballers abound in the surrounding fields. There is a bridge probably of the tenth or eleventh century on the Akhurian nearby. Across the river, near an abandoned medieval settlement, are Bronze Age graves. Marmashen is for Artkush a symbol of the collective Armenian memory of which he is a prime keeper. If one asks a question to which he has already given the answer, one receives a sharp reprimand.
The December 1988 earthquake is still all-pervading here. When I ask Artkush about it, he replies: "Don't talk to me about it now. I am in a good mood." I understand his response, for nearly 25,000 were killed. Every family lost someone. He prefers to talk about the old capital of Ani. In the eighth century this walled city of over 1,500 hectares straddled the Silk Road and boasted over 1,001 churches. What happened to its 200,000 people? It vanished as only cities in Central Asia can.
Artkush gave me a most helpful précis of Armenian history vis a vis the monasteries:
In the eight century, Arab rule gave way to a new Armenian royal house, the Bagratunis, who established their kingdom in Gugark and built their capital at Ani. Together with their compatriots the Parthian Pahlavunis [Kamsarakans], they re-established dozens of monasteries and fortresses throughout northern Armenia, including the monasteries at Marmashen, Haghpat and Sanahin, and the fortresses city of Lori Berd.
The next Golden Age began in the late twelfth century, when the Orbeli kings and queens of Georgia liberated Armenian lands from the Seljuk Turks in conjunction with the Armenian brothers, Generals Ivaneh and Zakareh Zakarian. The ensuing period saw the renovation and expansion of dozens of monasteries and cities throughout the area, including Haghpat and Sanahin as medieval universities, Kobaiyr, Haghartsin, Goshavank, Markaravank and Noravank. This was continued by Prince Prosh a.k.a. Khaghbakian who was a vassal of the Zakarians and founder of the Proshian principality, having cannily bought large swathes of Armenia from his Lords and Masters.
So five key names to remember, said Artkush: Bagratunis, Pahlavunis, Orbeli, Zakarian and Prosh[ian]. But a word of warning: all this was a thousand years ago.
To dinner in fish restaurant down a pot-holed track in a thunderstorm, past a Tsarist fort still occupied by young conscripts of the Armenian Army. We order trout and receive a fish with a long peculiar snout. Delicious. On return to Hotel Berlin, Artkush and Alex crack open a bottle of Apple wine brewed by their friend, a 60 year-old artist, to a respectable proof of 14%. Despite its cloudiness, there were no ill effects.
Tuesday
To Arpi Lich, a WWF nature reserve in the making. A highland landscape. Stopped just short of Georgian border and headed west along tracks, through small villages once inhabited by Azeris. They have now gone, leaving only their Muslim graveyards of tumbled and cracked stones behind. Arpi Lich is a glacial lake surrounded by snow-capped hills; in the centre is a solitary island colonised by gulls. Eagles and harriers all around. On the return journey, the far away isolated villages with their white roofs look like tented camps.
Though Spitak, Vanadzar, north through Pushkin tunnel, to Stepanavan, a small country town in the foothills of the Kedi Bazumi mountains. A Carpathian landscape of thickly wooded hills and wide cultivated valleys. Lori Berd fortress-town built by Daniel Anhoghin of the Bagratuni dynasty 989-1049 as one of feudal Armenia's capitals. Bordered by deep ravines of Miskhan and Dzoraget rivers, it juts out on a cape of rocky cliffs 300 feet above the gorges below. Despite this apparent impregnability, the hordes of the Seljuk Emir Kizil managed to capture the town in 1105; more hordes, this time of Khoremsk's shah Jalal-Edin laid siege to the fortress in 1228 and captured its suburbs; in 1238 the town was laid to siege again this time by hordes of Mongol khan Jagat, who successfully captured it in toto. In 1430 Mongol conquerors again took the town. Surprisingly, the last of the populace only moved out in 1932, because, I was told, of difficulties with water-supply and ‘other discomforts'.
Quails, potatoes and vodka for dinner.
Wednesday
To St Dopartvanan, a small church in the fields to the North east of Stepanavan. Long ago, a merchant stopped here to allow his wife to give birth to twins. One died; one survived. Hence this little Church of Thanksgiving. A profusion of wild flowers and herbs - mint, thyme, St John's Wort - and birdlife - hoopoes, black-headed buntings, golden finches, rosefinches, shrikes, starlings, crows, magpies, cuckoos, Caucasian blackcock and soaring high above us all, eagles and vultures.
The Range Rover which had been showing increasing signs of wanting to expire over the last two days, died on us by the Church of Thanksgiving. It turned out to be an Act of God for not only did the ensuing delay give us the opportunity to have an impromptu lunch with some shepherds, who shared their food and vodka with us, refusing any token of appreciation; but also facilitated a ride in a gas-fuelled Lada to Dzoragets; and mercifully a new car and driver materialized the following day.
The hotel at Dzoragets offers Hip Hop lifestyle in the bottom of the Debed Gorge. I climbed the hillside behind to spy the land - stupendous views to the high peaks of Georgia in the North.
Thursday
To Kobayr, five kilometres north in the Debed Gorge. Reached on foot from the railway line. Walked up through tiny hamlet clinging like moss to the wall of the gorge. Perched on a shelf half way up the West wall of the Debed gorge, where springs seep out of the rock, we found a beautiful ruined twelfth century church, partly fallen into the gorge, with very faded but still recognizable Georgian frescoes - Pantocrator, a cluster of saints and a Last Supper. [Most of the beautifully carved inscriptions are in Georgian too for it was a property of the Georgian Zakarian family]. Outside a ruined refectory further up the hillside. We meet an 88 year-old man on our descent who graciously poses for a photograph. At the railway line, a small boy appears out of nowhere with a rose for JA.
Turned East at Alaverdi and followed road through housing estate to Sanahin Monastery. Rather gloomy buildings - a bell tower, two churches [The Mother of God and Amenaprkich], a chapel and two gavits all juxtaposed in somewhat of a muddle, huddled together under the shade of ancient trees. A gavit is a square room either attached or unattached to a church, which served as a vestibule, meeting room and burial chamber for notables.
The interiors of these churches were once decorated with frescoes which are now almost totally lost. This accentuates the impression of starkness, of a Protestant severity although no one here has resorted to expunging images with whitewash. Hagpat Monastery further up the gorge towards Georgia is in a more open situation with magnificent views across the mountains.
This fortified monastery was founded by Queen Khosrovanush of the Bagratuni dynasty around 976 around the Church of the Holy Cross; her two sons can be seen high up on the Eastern wall presenting a model of the monastery to God. The gavit was built in 1185, with the following inscription on the north facade:
"In the year 1185, I Mariam, daughter of King Kyurike, built with great hope this house of prayer over our tombs -- those of my paternal aunt...my mother...and....You who enter through its door and prostrate yourself before the cross, in your prayers remember us and our royal ancestors, who rest at the door of the holy cathedral, in Jesus Christ."
A large bell tower [1245], another gavit [1257] and. a smaller church of St Gregory [1211] complete the complex. A fine Pantocratic Christ in the Eastern Sanctuary apse.
In the village square beneath the monastery walls, a group of middle-aged Armenian men and women suddenly burst into spontaneous dance, forming a circle with linked hands. A boom box inside a bus provides the music.
Back at Dzoragets, another walk up the hillside, cool breeze, warm sun, wild flowers..
Friday
To Alaverdi, then Noyembergen, then south along Azerbaijan border. Much evidence of burnt out and destroyed villages though nature busily reclaiming the untilled fields and stubbed out houses. At Voskepar, it is said that Azeri snipers shoot at passing cars. At Achajur, set off on foot to Makaravank Church on the slope of Paitatap Mountain.. The road is blocked, so strike out cross-country. A glimpse of a distant cupola through hedges of May flowers must suffice.
To Gashavank, where a christening is underway in the monastery church. Hidden from the prying eyes of passers-by at the head of a steep valley clad with oak trees, such is its remoteness that no wall was deemed necessary. This seclusion did not prevent Timur the Great from ransacking the library c1430 according to a guide who accosted me. Yes, I was assured, there were even English books in it!
Pavgos the Carver's khachkars stand out here as among the best in all Armenia. I should explain that khachkars (in Armenian ‘cross-stone') are a uniquely Armenian form of tombstones and memorials, which evolved into an incredibly ornate art form in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Most depict the Armenian cross with two triple-loops carved onto a stone. But a few highly detailed and elaborate khachkars are called ‘lacework' and this is what Pavgos produced here in 1291. His finely carved lacy ornaments are arranged in layers in which the basic elements of the composition are a cross on a shield-shaped rosette and eight-pointed star filling the corners of the middle-cross section. A geometrical pattern constitutes the background, and the combination of all the ornamental elements forms a complicated floral and geometrical pattern which never repeats itself.
To Harghatsia Monastery buried deep in the woods above Dilijan. It was sadly a construction camp, for a large-scale renovation reportedly financed by an Arab Prince is underway. The walnut tree here is 700 years-old.
Roadside lunch by cascading river. Cheese, tomatoes, cucumber, Armenian red wine. Birds of the day: bee-eaters and Guldenstadts' redstarts
The Davadand [Terrace] Hotel lies on the road to Jukhtavank, a church and gavit set in a glade in the woodlands above Dilijan.
The Church of St Gregory was probably built in the eleventh of twelfth centuries. The dome disappeared long ago and the walls have been brutally reinforced with iron bands. The western church of The Holy Mother of God has this inscription:
‘In the year 1201, in the Amirdom of Lasha... I Hayrapet, abbot of S. Petros Monastery, built S. Astvatsatsin with the hope that every sunrise in both vestibules one mass will be offered for me and one for my brother Shmavon, and in all the churches for my parents.'
Sounds of fierce shepherd dogs resonate through the woods. A lone grey mare is tethered by the church. Back at the hotel I am introduced to Rashkim, the owner and creator of this personal haven that overlooks a richly wooded hillside with the sounds of an invisible torrent below. The food here is akin to Lebanese - dolmades, salads, humus and is by far the best I will eat in Armenia.
Saturday
To Serenavank Monastery on an isthmus projecting into Lake Seran. Before madcap Soviet schemes to lower the water level, this was once an island which would have prevented today's tourist takeover of this monastery. Look at the 1917 painting by Panos Terlemezian to see the true Serenavank. Further south, to Hayravank Monastery on a small hill overlooking the lake, more remote and less visited.
Noratus village boasts an enormous graveyard and as such appeared to do a brisk business in burials. Several were taking place concurrently in different zones. The Armenian Way of Death marked by extravagant floral tributes. In one family plot, a formal picnic complete with table and chairs, bottles of vodka, and brimming bowls of food.
From behind the headstones, rascally children pop up trying to sell scraps of paper with hand-written Armenian alphabet for £2! Mourners troop up wearily from the town, mainly widows with both arms locked in the comfort of supporters.
Long drive over open country to the Caravanserai at Selim, a medieval men-only stopover for prodigious drinking bouts. Women were installed in their own quarters next door.
Stopped at a shepherds' summer camp. The soothing shade in their stonewalled houses contrasted to the unrelenting merciless glare which refracted across the mountains and hills.
Sunday
Rendezvoused with a guide, Arras, and his Lada jeep at Shatin; he drove us to the foothills from where we set off to Tsakhatskar Monastery, a two hour uphill walk. Arras wore black Versace jeans and black loafers. View from monastery ruins fantastic; the landscape combines the barrenness of the Scottish Highlands with the majesty of the Swiss alps.. S. Hovhannes church of 989 and S. Karapet church of tenth century. The altar decorated with row of pitchers; lion attacking lamb motif on outside. A truck deposited a group of French ramblers, so hitched a ride half-way down before alighting to walk to Smhataberd Castle, a massive fortification overlooking the Shatin and Yeghenis valleys. Hard to think of a more remote place to build a fort. Must have been abandoned in winter.
In Yeghenis village, two churches, The Zorats [Army] or St Stephens church of 1303. Constructed in the thirteenth century by Prince Tarsaich Orbelian, governor of Siunik province, it consists only of a central altar with a sacristy on each side. The faithful thus attended divine services in the open air with mounted warriors blessed by the priest standing on the raised altar platform before being despatched to battle. Some ancient headstones with round holes in them. Pagan? The 1708 three-aisled Mother of God church in the village centre. No tower.
Monday
Back to Yeghegnadzer to RV with Arras. A nail-biting drive along a precipitous dirt track, my knuckles turn white as I hold on for dear life. I notice a new khachkar with the outline of a modern tractor sandblasted onto it, perched on the edge of a precipice. Arras looks at me and shrugs. My confidence hits a new low. We reach Spitakavor, a tiny church seemingly on top of the world. It is about 8,000 foot here.
The Mother of God Church was built in 1321 by the Proshians, with a bell tower of 1330 There are traces of a ruined fifth century. basilica. In the yard of this tiny, remote monastery are buried the remains of the nationalist leader General Garegin Njdeh, brought secretly to Armenia in 1983. Born Garegin Ter-Harutyunian in 1886, the son of a village priest in Nakhichevan, Njdeh led an Armenian band fighting the Turks alongside the Bulgarians in the First Balkan War of 1912. He then led a combined Armenian-Yezidi volunteer detachment against the Turks in World War One. His moment of glory came when following the declaration of independence of Republic of the Mountainous Armenia from Soviet Armenia, he was proclaimed Prime-Minister and Minister of Defence. Shortly after, he had to flee from the triumphant Bolsheviks, and ended his days in a Soviet prison in 1955. His spirit, I am sure, is happy here, overlooking the ancient land of his forefathers, land that is now free.
The Castle of Proshabad lies up the valley on top of a crag; today it is but a pile of stones. Walked down to the valley bottom, cool and clear, a pair of mountain partridges swept by.
To Tanahati Monastery. Very isolated. Again it is its location which commands the superlatives. Built of gloomy black basalt stone, the interior resembles more of an aviary than church, with the shrill choir of hungry swallow chicks quite deafening.
The Church of St Stephen was built 1273-79 by the Proshian family (family crest of eagle with lamb in its claws carved in South wall, with the Orbelian crest of lion and bull near it).
Finally to Arkaz, a nineteenth century reconstruction of a much earlier building. It is said that a piece of the Holy Cross is buried in its walls. This is based on the story of how the Emperor Heraclius retrieved the Cross after it had been stolen by Persians in 620. A Jeep arrives with four young men. It has major problems for as fast as they fill the radiator with water from the well, it gushes out from under the engine. Three more cars packed full of young arrive. The rave begins as we head off down the valley.
Violent storms and thunder roll up and down the valley at Hayk.
Tuesday
Armenians tend to rise late which is frustrating if one is attempting an early start. A 9.30 am departure is respectable. Off to the East, across the pass at Vorotan and then a descent with grand views of Gorhayk and Spandaryan with all the southern summits of the Barughhatil Mountains strung out before us. All about 11,000 feet. Kept to main road, past cloud-covered Ishkhanasay [3550m] until we reached the Halidzar turning where we changed vehicles and drivers. Rattled off in a white Lada along winding roads cut into the side of mountains until we came to Devil's Bridge below village of Tatev. A natural bridge with a torrent flowing under it;is strewn with litter. To the left, the ruins of Tatev Hermitage with no obvious track to reach it. At the top of the next hill, nesting on the edge of a steep cliff, lies the impressive main Tatev Monastery with its principal church of 895-906. At one stage in the fourteenth century over 1,000 people lived here. Today there are two monks in hooded cassocks in residence who show us the tomb of Grigor Tatevata 1346-1411, the man who presided over the apogee of Tatev.
An extraordinary architectural and engineering monument, ‘Gavazan', was erected here in 904. It is an octahedral pillar, built of small stones; eight meters tall, crowned with an ornamented cornice, with an open-work khachkar towering on it. As a result of seismic tremors, and even at the mere touch of human hand, the pillar, hinge-coupled to the stylobate, tilts and then returns to the initial position. It is nothing short of miraculous that it is still standing today.
To the village of Aghvani further along the plateau where we found the baker delivering bread on horseback. Walked back to Tatev. Met another rider, this time dragging two large bundles of bean-pole sticks behind him, an army lorry full of garlic and a bossy granny who berated three small boys for some misdemeanours to do with tending their flock of sheep and goats.
Returned the same way and stayed overnight in Sisian, a pleasant nineteenth century town that has somehow survived the earthquakes. It is gridded in the French style.
Wednesday
Back the way we came, across the Vorotan Pass until we reached turn-off for Gndervank. Hugged the eastern side of the gorge until the road emerged on to a plateau where we reached the village. It transpired that there was no through way to the monastery, so we returned to the main road and took the next turning north, only a few metres west of our original route. This time we followed the boulder-strewn track along the bottom of the gorge for about six kilometres until we came to Gndevank Monastery, a beautiful tenth century church of St Stephen [936] overlooking the valley of the River Arpa. "Vayots Dzor was a ring without a stone; I cut and set that stone in the ring", said Princess Sophia, the founder of Gndevank. Interesting animal motifs of hunter and oryxes on the side of tombs.. Fortified precincts include a library, refectory, bakery and half a dozen splendid walnut trees.
To Zaritap and on to Martiros down a very bad road. Directions to the subterranean church of the Mother of God, built in 1286 by the Proshian family, varied from villager to villager. The problem was accentuated by the fact that there was no visible sign. Headed off across meadows deep in wild flowers until we reached a wooden bridge. About a hundred metres beyond it, was a small stone entrance in the side of the hill. Inside The Mother of God church and side chapel, founded by Matevos vardapet in 1286 at the behest of the Proshians As one enters a dark cave, one realizes that it is in fact a church sculpted out of the rock in exactly the same cruciform design as its opposite numbers on the surface.
Thursday
To Noravank Monastery just south of the main road to Yerevan. Approached up a spectacular gorge with vivid, pulsating red rock walls. The monastery itself has been assiduously restored and lacked the derelict charm of others. That said, the central church is unique for it consists of the two-storey Mother of God Church, in essence two churches stacked on top of one another; the upper one is reached by a set of small cantilever steps protruding from the side of the building. Surely more of a deterrent than an invitation to worship - only one slip to Purgatory. Beautiful terracotta tympanum of the Virgin and Child and a strange, symbolic stone relief of an almond-eyed God with a dove in his beard.
The side chapel of St Gregory was added by the architect Siranes to the northern wall of Siant Karapet's church in 1275. The chapel contains Orbelian family tombs, including a splendid carved anthropomorphic lion tombstone dated 1300, covering the grave of Elikum son of Prince Tarsayich Orbelian.
Back down the gorge. A Golden Eagle preening its feathers a mere fifty metres away. To the Aleni Wine Factory where we sample grape, cherry and pomegranate wine. The first is the most palatable. There is a power-cut, so our tour is cut short. Along the roadside, locals are selling gallons of red wine packaged in 2 litre Coca Cola bottles.
Scenic drive over Tukh Madukh Pass, descending into the fertile plain of Ararat Province. The mountain of that name more or less invisible due to haze, cloud and rain. Through the suburbs of Yerevan and then North-East to the Greek Temple at Garni. Heavily restored, it would be far more impressive as a ruin.
On to Gerghand Rock Monastery, also a major tourist attraction due to its proximity to the capital. The churches hewn out of rock are strangely moving- the square subterranean rooms surrounding them are called jhamatun. Is there a subliminal connection with early man living in caves? Like Noravank, these cave churches are on two storeys - from the top one, there is a window cut into the dome below. I wish there had been a service in progress for without the act of formal worship these underground chambers are but empty caverns.
Journeys end. Impressions? In the churches and monasteries, there is little ornament or decoration in terms of painting or sculpture except for the Georgian influence in the north of the country, indicative perhaps of a reluctance to recognise the post-Chalcedon duality of Christ. The severe stone exteriors and stark interiors suggest a belief solely in the divine nature of Christ, a concept shared by the early Christians who eschewed images of any sort.
Many of the Churches are branded with the coat of arms of either the Proshian or Orbelian families but that is purely temporal. The only form where art is given any licence is the khachkars but then it is restricted to the depiction of the Armenian Cross and geometrical patterns.
There is one exception, the khachkars which resemble stone sheep. Maybe in a land of shepherds, this is deference to the story of the Good Shepherd, which was once so central to Christian artistic symbolism.