A Night in a Greek Monastery

A NIGHT IN A GREEK MONASTERY 

For many years I cherished the romantic wish to spend a night in a Greek monastery. I had often read, often heard, how the monks received the dusty traveller, shared with him their simple food, showed him to a bed in a plain rough cell and after a night of peaceful sleep fed him by the light of dawn and sent him on his way refreshed. 

I went to Greece as a pilgrim, walking the full width of that seasoned cribland of civilisation, from Corfu to Crete, in order to visit the grave of Nikos Kazantzakis, philosopher, novelist, poet, traveller, mentor. During this pilgrimage my long-cherished wish was granted. 

I approached Mega Spileon, one of the historically important monasteries of Greece, by railway: not on the train but on the tracks. I had just left the mountain village of Kalavrita, on the road eastwards from Patras, when two passers-by, with whom I stopped and talked, told me I could follow the railway track, if I wished, all the way to Mega Spileon. 

The surroundings were inspirational. Mountains hove high on either side, not peaked like the giants of Erimanthos, but with broad shoulders, caged in pine, and blunt bald heads. Some were hunchbacks, deformed by huge humps of bare, smoothly weathered rock, like the mythological victims of Olympian revenge. 

A river rushed beside the railway track, hurrying to the coast in the cool shade of trees and chattering to itself like the White Rabbit late for his party. The red walls of the deep ravine sheered above, tapestried with trees and scrub and thin yellow grass. At times the walls bulged out at a frightening angle or leaned towards each other over the narrow gorge till they almost touched. 

Then the gorge opened out, and up ahead stood the railway station of Mega Spileon. A couple of cafes sheltered beside it in the trees, and I sat at one of the tables sipping thick sweet coffee, reading away the last sultry hour of the afternoon. As the sun touched the hilltops I pocketed my book and climbed a rough footpath up the almost vertical cliff-side to the monastery. 

The monastery clung tightly to the cliff like a limpet to a rock, held fast by faith or suction like the old pilgrim churches of Rocamadour in central France. Such intimidating isolation. Such an inviolate retreat from the greying material cares of the world. 

I glanced up for reassurance, sucked some strength from the hills and plodded slowly skywards. 

The main building of Mega Spileon is long and narrow and tall, as dictated by its situation. Built of pale stone, it looks distinctly modern, like a new apartment block. Up on a crag stand the ruins of an older building, square and solid, the original fifteenth-century monastery, Nearby is a small stone chapel. 

The monastery, named after the 'great cavern' in which it was first built, looks down into the craggy wooded ravine and traces its course all the way to where it begins in the mountains near Kalavrita. The ravine stretched out in the cool shadows, relaxing after the heat of the day. In those tiny stone houses, both deep in the valley and up on its steep sides where it seemed incredible that houses could ever be built, the countryfolk would be gathered round the tables. The herds of goats were folded for the night, the donkeys tethered near the hay, the ponies in the grass. The hens were cooped, and the old cock gave an occasional crow. Evening spread like a warm woollen blanket over Mega Spileon. The day began to nod like an old man by the fireside. 

Feeling tired myself, I turned towards the monastery, anticipating food, a bed, and a restful night's sleep. 

Rounding a corner to the front of the building I saw hordes that would have frightened Jenghiz Khan. In a riot of colour they poured out of four large luxurious touring coaches that had just arrived by a new smooth road that ran along the lip of the ravine. Two hundred women and children and a couple of dozen men, all from Olympia, all on a summer tour of Greece, all staying the night in the monastery of Mega Spileon. 

Mega Spileon became megabedlam. People packed the long refectory, crowded its tables and covered them with bags and baskets, loaves of bread and meat and fruit, pieces of cheese and mugs of slopping coffee. The place looked like a scene painted by Breughel and sounded like a byre at milking time. In this peaceful house of God all hell had broken loose. 

A young monk rescued me, led me like a shell-shock victim to a small quiet room aside from the cattle-byre refectory with its swilling bellowing herds. He gave me a huge plateful of macaroni, fresh bread and water and discussed the work of Kazantzakis with me in a quiet, sacerdotal voice. 

I went for a stroll round the chapels and the old ruins. I saw icons in shadows, large chests full of skulls and bones, lamps burning by ghostly gravestones, monks showing guests around by candlelight. The monks' tour-guide monotones blurred in the vaulted gloom: "... great cavern ... statue of the Virgin ... miraculous powers ... the work of St Luke ... monastery of the Assumption ... Constantin XI ... several times burned down." Not all the words I heard I understood. 

I listened to Mass in the church within the main building and waited with dazed patience while distraught monks with tempers racked by clamour and confusion tried to find beds for everyone. 

I finished up on a camp-cot on a landing, but sleep was impossible. All night long the noises went on, the creaking and slamming of heavy doors, the clanking and gushing of antediluvian plumbing, voices shouting, children crying, hard heels clappety-clapping on stone stairs and echoing corridors. 

In the end I could stand it no more. I rose and left when the moon still hung above the hills, and the dawn was just a gleam in the farther sky. I settled my rucksack on my back and turned my face towards the quiet dawn.