My almighty person in Armenia, Ekaterina, had helped me plan my Armenia itinerary. She had suggested visiting the Sevan peninsula and the popular Sevanavank monastery there.
“The monastery is popular so there are a lot of tourists, but it is nice.” Ekaterina had told me.
My post about hitchhiking to Sevan from Alaverdi narrates how I had reached my guesthouse. After a cup of tea, I was out to explore.
I put the peninsula on Google Maps and also read a bit about Lake Sevan. It is one of the largest freshwater lakes in Eurasia. For sure, the lake was big. Once the lake began, it never ended. I couldn’t see the other side of the lake. On Maps, it was huge too. It is about 5000 square km, covering one sixth of Armenia’s territory. Lake Sevan reminded me of Lake Titicaca in South America.
The ancient Sevanavank monastery was once on an island, but due to the overuse of the lake water for irrigation and power generation, it has now become a peninsula. Alright, I would see this peninsula and monastery.
Google Maps showed me a way through the road. I crossed the city market, noticing the shops that displayed prices with each item (those are the ones I prefer in foreign countries), and came onto a road leading me out of the city. I passed a train track, admiring its beauty in the middle of the mountains, and strode on the road, cars rushing by me. It was drizzling a bit, too.
The other side was the marvelous blue lake, lovely small houses and cottages, and on the horizon were the mountains. On my left, at the foot of the hills, a couple of big boards bearing trail markers appeared. I didn’t know about a trail to the peninsula, and Ekaterina hadn’t mentioned any either. But this one showed that it would take me to the Sevanavank monastery and the peninsula.
The grassy mountain and the mud track curving up were tempting. Along the road, my ears had been strained with the rush of the cars. I wanted solitude. I decided to follow the markers. The peninsula was on my right, though, across from the road I had just walked on and the main highway I had taken to arrive at Sevan city earlier.
The trail would definitely curve towards the peninsula at some point.
I got onto the climbing mud path. Clouds had started gathering up, too. I was tired, and hiking up a hill was not part of the plan. But, well!
The path was easy, cutting through the grass. No one was there apart from me. The mountains seemed endless, sprawling in all directions. My view was still amazing. The silky blue lake, homes, and peaks that formed the perfect backdrop to the whole scene. But how far was I supposed to go on? I was climbing up and didn’t have the energy that day.
The hail that had started to fall didn’t help either. They were tiny droplets of ice, but it was ice, after all. The wind was strong, sometimes pushing me a bit forward or backward too. I was cold. I zipped up my jacket and thrust my freezing hands into the pockets.
I messaged Ekaterina.
“After the road, I came to a point where there were markers for a trail up the mountain. I think you suggested going by the road? There was no trail on the map either. But the markers were there. So I decided to follow.”
“Have you seen this trail before? And did you mean to say to go by a trail or by the road to the church?”
“I was wondering if the trail would ever lead to that church so of course thought to ask the expert.”
When I turned my phone towards the road, the Map showed that the monastery was in the same direction. Of course. But I was going the opposite way. When was this trail going to turn? Not anytime soon. On another mountain across from me, there was a track. But how to access it? I would, in any case, go a long way before I could walk toward the monastery.
I was tired and hungry. I also had to figure out the shops in a new city, buy ingredients, and cook.
Would it be worth going further? It was already five pm. Even if I reached the peninsula and the monastery, I would have to rush to see it and hitchhike in the dark. Or at sunset. And there were the chores too.
Ekaterina had not replied. It was a no-brainer. With the hail falling on my head, I turned around. Apart from me, there was only one more person in the mountains. He was further away, his car parked on the road, and he was ambling along the slopes, I think carrying a plastic bag in his hand.
Now I was descending, and all the beauty of the area was right in front of me.
The next day, I would see the trail from the path I would take to another place. And I would understand that I had made the right decision by not going forward. The Sevananank monastery and the peninsula were a long way from that track.
Back on the road, I strode towards the city without trying to get a ride. From the shops I had seen while walking to the peninsula, I bought greens, onions, tomatoes, eggs, cherries, cheese, and bread. I had rice and lentils with me. Armed with food, I walked home.
The kitchen was overtaken by the Russian guests who thought the right place for the leftover bread were the kitchen counters, and for the used tea leaves was the sink, and basically anywhere where there was clean space. I made do.
Everything I cooked in that guesthouse was bad. That night I made greens which turned out to be spicy and bitter. I had tried a new green. And I wasn’t used to the chili I had been using. I had bought it in Lagodekhi for one lari, and it was strong.
That day I didn’t see the monastery. But on my third day in Sevan, I visited the Sevan peninsula, part hitchhiking and walking. I walked out of the city, crossing abandoned dilapidated homes and buildings, and after ten minutes or so on the highway, got a ride to the peninsula. It was only a five-minute drive, but it saved me a lot of time.
Sevanavank monastery, like others in Armenia, was beautiful as well. I visited the various structures, admired the domes and and the vertical stones carved with Jesus, who bore long braids, and climbed up to the ruins of the oldest cathedral slightly higher up from the main standing structure. The ruins were from 305, the fourth century AD, when the monastery was first built.
There were also rabbits and bull busy in a conversation. The braids on Jesus were explained by what I had read earlier online: sometimes the figurines were made with Mongolian features so the Mongols won’t destroy the temple.
I had read about the Sevan Writers’ House the previous night. I could see the building right below me. The circular building was constructed in 1932 to serve as a retreat for the Soviet Writers. A mud trail from the monastery led to the writer’s building.
The trail was lined with beautiful red poppies, and I stopped to take a few pictures. The rooms of this Writer’s building were separate from the main hall and dining, and the residence now functioned as a hotel. The previous night, I had been confused about staying at the hotel for a night. If I, as a writer, wouldn’t stay in old writers’ rooms, who would? But when I arrived at the Sevan Writers’ House, my doubt was cleared.
First, I stood under the circular building and looked above. It was jutting out of a cliff, with only a singular thick pillar on the cliff to support it. I climbed back up the few stairs and entered the restaurant part. It was a big hall, its front facade made up of tall glass windows, and its entrance was marked with information about the building. Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had visited the retreat in 1963 and stayed there. The straight residence building behind the hall looked dreary and a bit sad, to be honest. Who would want to stay in the rooms looking at Lake Sevan all day? It wasn’t one of those happy places where you would go about freely, eat well, and laugh. The whole place was quiet.
From the monastery, I had seen an old couple walking down the trail. Now they were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they had gone down to their car and left, or perhaps they were staying in the hotel. I couldn’t tell. The guy sitting at a table in the big dining hall gave me the menu. There were no fresh drinks, only bottled. I don’t remember what else was there, but I wasn’t going to order their fish, though I was hungry. It didn’t look like that kind of place where inventory was moving and the chefs were busy. I was the only one in the hall. No waiters around.
After much contemplation, I bought a lemonade. A server finally came and put a bottle and a glass on my table. I drank the lemonade but then took my glass outside. The view from their deck was beautiful. A couple came, took pictures of each other against this railing and that view, and left. I went back in to bring my bag and the bottle and sit outside. A chair in the corner was inviting me. The guy was okay with me sitting outside.
“Yeah of course,” he said, momentarily lifting up his head from the laptop.
I had read about tourists not being allowed to visit this and that part, and so on. A blogger called Wander Lush, whom I had been reading in Armenia, wrote that you can’t visit any place in the hotel and that there was news of tourists being sent back too, so it is better if you stay in the hotel and that way you can explore those parts of the buildings which were closed to regular visitors. I don’t agree with her. No one was sending anyone back from the restaurant. Just follow the regular practice of ordering something, rather than barging in and starting to take pictures. Of course, you would be shown the door at any place if you do that. They are open for business.
Outside on my chair in the corner, with Lake Sevan spread as a blue sheet in front of me, and the Sevanavank monastery above me, I was grinning. I imagined the writers visiting the retreat, admiring the view, and enjoying breakfast in the dining room.
I was there a while, drinking lemonade. I had no interest in staying in the hotel. The wind was cool, and the sun was shining on me. I enjoyed myself while thinking if I should head back to my hotel or visit the Hayravank monastery too. I would have to hitch a ride to Hayravank. But I was ready to do that after I had visited the beach.
I paid for the drink, visited the toilet in the residence building, and walked down. Yes, there was some security there. I didn’t understand why they were there. Later, I remembered that the summer residence of the president of Armenia is also somewhere close by. There were also some trailers with beautiful white curtains, and people moved around them. Maybe there was a kitchen. The signboards said that those were all resorts. I wouldn’t mind staying in one of the trailers for a night. Now that would be something. But I was not going to do that. The next day, I was leaving for Yeghegnadzor, a mountain town.
I walked along the road to the beach. It was cold and windy. There were many shacks with their tables still laid. But everything was cold. I think it wasn’t the right weather to visit. Ekaterina had written to me, “I am not sure if it is even warm enough to hang out at the beaches.” She was right. It was not. I zipped up my jacket and walked along the road next to the beach, hoping to reach the main road so I could hitchhike again. But this side road was completely overtaken by private residences. Everyone had put fences outside their property. I crossed one home, ignoring a child playing outside on the sand staring at me, but couldn’t go further than that house. The other house had put up barricades and fences.
I eventually turned around and went back all the way and took the main road out of the peninsula. I didn’t find any ride on this sunny road, but a car picked me up on the highway. The guy wasn’t going to Hayravanq, but he still decided to give me a ride. It wasn’t the best ride of my life. But more on that in another post.
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