Where the boys are L
Matthew Holt heads to Mount Athos, a Greek peninsula home to 2 000 monks — no women allowed
AST year, Professor Stephen Hawking said time travel simply wasn’t possible. I do wonder if he’s ever visited Mount Athos. I boarded my time machine, the Axion Estin, in Ouranoupolis, a small harbour town in northeast Greece. My fellow passengers were Greek, Russian and Eastern European, and exclusively male.
We were bound for the Autonomous Monastic State of the Holy Mountain — aka Mount Athos — a rugged peninsula 50km long and 10km wide, protruding into the Aegean Sea like a crooked finger. Supposedly once visited by the Virgin Mary, it’s now home to some 2 000 monks and 20 monasteries of the Orthodox Church.
To visit Mount Athos is to step back in time both literally — since it observes the Julian calendar, 13 days behind the Gregorian one used by the rest of the world — and metaphorically, with the peninsula self-governed by the monasteries, which haven’t evolved much since the Byzantine era when they were founded. In the 11th century, women, female animals and men without beards were banned, and though the rules were subsequently relaxed for hens and hairless chins, women still aren’t permitted within 500m of the shore.
In fact, even hirsute males visiting Mount Athos require a special permit — or “diamonitirion” — from the Orthodox Church, which can take six months to obtain. Fortunately, a local fixer sorted out mine for a small fee and I just had to collect it from the Pilgrims’ Office in Ouranoupolis on the morning I sailed. Costing à30, the permit allowed me to stay for four days on the Holy Mountain, with free board and lodging at the monasteries.
The ferry chugged along the coast for a few hours, before pulling in at a jetty. After hiking 5km, I reached Panteleimonos, the largest monastery on Mount Athos, which looked like a cross between a medieval fortress and the Kremlin.
In the early 1900s, Panteleimonos was a hotbed for the Imiaslavie movement, which originated in Russia and asserted that “the name of God is God himself” and if you knew his name you’d be able to perform miracles. I might not have fully grasped the doctrine’s finer details, but it was considered sufficiently heretical for troops to storm Panteleimonos in July 1913, killing four monks and carting off 800 into exile.
With half the monastery’s buildings locked or empty, it took half an hour to find the visitors’ quarters — a large, spartan dormitory with 60 beds arranged head-to-toe, nearly all of which were occupied by Russian pilgrims. Two clocks were mounted side-by-side on a wall. One showed 3.15pm, as per my watch; the other 7.30pm, which was the time on Mount Athos. The Holy Mountain keeps Byzantine time, whereby each new day starts at sunset (rather than midnight).
I’d just settled in when an eerie, metallic tingling permeated the dormitory, prompting the slumbering pilgrims to rise, dress and file out in unison. I followed across the courtyard into a musty chamber, crammed with gilded frescoes, icons and chandeliers. It resembled Ali Baba’s cave but was actually a church.
The service was in ancient Greek and I didn’t understand a word but it was still entertaining. Monks sporadically circled the church kissing icons; congregants spasmodically leapt up to cross themselves and supplicate as if doing burpees; and a monk swung an incense burner with such vigour that sparks showered in all directions and I thought he might set us alight. After 90 minutes, the service ended and we trooped out for dinner.
Back in Ouranoupolis there’d been gift shops selling fine wines from Mount Athos and cookbooks showing monks posing like celebrity chefs. I was thus aghast to find bread, broth, vegetables and water, which we con-
A monk swung an incense burner with such vigour I thought he might set us alight
sumed in silence, while a monk read prayers. Then everyone headed back to church for another service.
After a short, fitful night, during which I dreamt a monk upbraided me for not wearing pyjamas, I was woken at 7am — 3.15am on my watch — by the call for matins. I confess I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I did finally rise and leave the monastery, at 7am by my watch, everyone was at prayers.
After taking a ferry down the peninsula, I hiked along the coast to Pavlou Monastery, set on the mountainside above orchards and olive terraces. By the time I reached the visitors’ office, over 50 pilgrims had checked in and they’d almost run out of beds. The cause of its popularity became apparent after dinner, when we were invited to venerate the monastery’s prized relics. Pavlou claims to own some of the original gold, frankincense and myrrh presented to the baby Jesus. After a monk brought them out, a scrum formed to kiss them.
The next day, Sunday, I decided to climb Mount Athos itself, a 2 035mhigh peak at the southern tip of the peninsula. It was a fine hike through light woods and past small communities called “sketes”, which at first glance seemed normal villages, till I noticed all the inhabitants were bearded men.
A steep path zigzagged up the marble peak, which looked pure and ethereal against the cobalt sky. The summit was less heavenly, occupied by a small, half-derelict chapel and a Romanian pilgrim, who requested financial assistance with his medical bills.
Retracing my route back up the west coast, I reached a sheltered cove just past Pavlou Monastery. It was hot, I’d been hiking all day and though bathing was forbidden on the Holy Mountain, the translucent Aegean was just too tempting. I’d no sooner disrobed than I heard whispers from behind a rock and, on pad- dling round to investigate, discovered three portly monks in swimming costumes. They immediately evacuated the water, dressed and waddled off. With their frizzy beards, shapeless black cassocks and pillbox hats, they reminded me of Monty Python playing women disguised as men, if you know what I mean.
In fact, over the years, a few real women have sneaked into the monasteries, including French writer Maryse Choisy, who in 1929 spent a month on Mount Athos disguised as an aspiring monk, wearing a false penis and having undergone a double mastectomy to look the part. After caustically describing her experience in A Month with the Men, she then underwent a religious conversion and tried to buy up and eradicate all copies of her book.
A decade later, Aliki Diplarakou also visited in disguise — though it’s not clear who was deceiving whom, given that eight years earlier she’d been crowned Miss Europe.
I spent my third night at Dionysiou Monastery, which was perched on a precipitous crag. Not surprisingly, the food here was the worst, with dinner comprising soupy rice, hard bread, bitter olives and shrivelled grapes. There was no breakfast, since the monks were fasting, and none of the monasteries served lunch. Without wishing to appear churlish about free hospitality, staying in the monasteries was like being at boarding school, with early wakeup bells, unappetising food, no girls and petty rules. A recent study claimed that monks on Mount Athos live 10 years longer than the average Greek, which may or may not be true — but it would certainly feel longer.
The next day, my diamonitirion expired and it was time to leave Mount Athos. When I awoke, billowing dark clouds enveloped the mountain and a cold wind strafed the sea, blowing up white caps. I spent the morning scanning the horizon, concerned it might be too rough for the ferry. And when the dot of a boat finally appeared, I ran down the steep path to the jetty, keen to catch the time machine back to the modern world, cold beers and the company of women. — © Matthew Holt
Useful websites for aspiring pilgrims are mountathosinfos.gr and athosfriends.org.
If you want assistance, for a fee, in arranging your visit, try
mountathos.eu