2 days ago
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It’s only a couple of miles up the trail opposite Noravank (new monastery), Armenia’s top tourist draw, but it’s a steep zigzagging slog, especially in summer. Thankfully, the view from the vantage point is more than worth it.
Only from a distance is it possible to really take in the masterwork of the red stone monastery complex, comprising churches and chapels, and to appreciate the sheer remoteness of the cinnamon-hued canyon it sits in, dotted with honeycomb caverns – “nests for bears” as a local priest later told me. And once you’ve reached the top and come back down, on the road leading to Noravank there is a small cave cafe offering respite in the form of refreshing salads, thick cool madzoon (similar to yoghurt), fresh lavash bread and fizzy bottles of Jermuk, the famous local mineral water.
In Armenia, I came to the conclusion that no meal can compete with what is served to you after a good walk. The deep, primeval happiness and comfort when you finally sit down and eat is one of the most satisfying and pleasurable things in life. A hillside sandwich is one thing, an Armenian feast is next level.
For my new book, Green Mountains: Walking the Caucasus with Recipes, I spent a couple of months exploring Armenia’s towns, valleys and hills, doing what I could on foot, usually travelling with a walking partner and using a car to reach trailheads.
Before I started, I’d been given some warnings about walking in the Caucasus by a seasoned expat hiker. “Watch out for lightning storms, snakes and giant hogweed, which can give you terrible blisters and severe burns. And don’t get caught between a Caucasian shepherd dog and its flock.”
Keeping all that in mind, I began my Armenian explorations not far from Noravank, towards the south of the country, gradually making my way northwards, often picking walks – long and short, urban and rural – from the HikeArmenia app or choosing sections of the Transcaucasian trail.
Armenia might not boast the number of towering peaks of neighbouring Georgia – and the awesomeness of mountains such as Ushba, Tetnuldi or Kazbek up close cannot be denied – but there are fewer trekkers setting off here, and the sense of adventure is often greater. I didn’t pass another walker on several longer hikes, and that is priceless if it is peace that you seek out on the hills.
The actual walking is only one part of the adventure in Armenia – culture is a constant companion, too. At the largest lake in the South Caucasus, Lake Sevan, I overnighted at the Sevan Writers’ House, a futuristic architectural masterpiece built in stages from the 1930s, its most photogenic part shaped like a giant snowshoe balancing on a single thick concrete leg. Today, it operates as a hotel, albeit a slightly crumbling one.
On arrival, I took a stroll to the Sevanavank monastery, located just behind, while the cook fried up a handful of plump little trout and later served them alongside bread, salads and a glass of Armenian brandy. In the morning, there was gata (a dense slightly bread-like cake, as salty as it is sweet) and coffee on offer and I happily took those on to the balcony of the dining room, with the lake stretching out below.
En route to Lake Sevan, I made a pit stop at Noratus cemetery, a field of about a thousand khachkars (cross‑stones), some dating back to the 10th century, and lost a couple of hours walking between them over scrubby grassland where flocks of sheep grazed. Crouching down, I could see some were carved with expressive human faces, almost cartoon-like, while others were decorated with complex geometric patterns. The sun lit up the lichens that covered them, forming lacy mosaics in colours of rust, cream, lime and pistachio green.
Most hikers, though, make a beeline for the town of Dilijan, north of Lake Sevan, which is the springboard for its namesake national park and 125 miles (200km) or so of marked hiking trails. From Dilijan, my first chosen walk was a half-day, circular route in the neighbouring province of Lori, following ancient paths used by herdsmen for generations.
It promised two highlights for my walking partner and I: the ruined Bardzrakash monastery, deep in the Tavut forest, and a 13th-century khachkar called Sirun Khach, known locally as the “beautiful cross stone”.
From the starting point, the village of Dsegh, we set off along a path of slippery, ankle-twisting stones laid in the middle ages. The forest of hornbeam, maples and cornelian cherry quickly grew thicker, and the trail thinner. Khachkars standing at awkward angles suggested we were heading the right way for the monastery, and before long it appeared out of the mist. It is dedicated to St Gregory the Illuminator, patron saint of Armenia, and almost entirely overgrown by vegetation, the forest literally eating it up. With no roof, the first thing you see is a jumble of fallen masonry and memorial stelae scattered around the 13th-century Mother of God church, and the smaller one to the north side.
I felt dismayed it had been left open to looters, graffiti artists and whoever felt they’d like to climb on it, but I also felt lucky to be here. To simply wander up to it, without crowds, the need for a ticket or any sort of queueing.
We strode on, losing our way a few times and hacking through scratchy vegetation, until the forests turned into open countryside and we reached the lonely Sirun Khach. Glistening in the damp, it had been sculpted from light brown tuff and reverently set on a triple-stepped pedestal of black basalt. This moment called for a hill snack reward, so I pulled out a packet of gozinaki, a sweet brittle made of nuts and seeds, and we snapped pieces off. Rain opened up the smell of the surrounding meadows.
Respite, again, presented itself at the end of the walk. Armenia’s bumper harvest was on display at Dsegh’s small summertime farmer’s market. First, hot revitalising coffee, and a slice of gata, then a litre of fresh pumpkin juice to take away, a cheese turnover to pocket as well as a bag of exceptional white figs bought from the boot of a car belonging to a woman who’d picked them from her garden. There was some amiable rivalry between the stallholders over who had the biggest and best raspberries, so I bought two cups from different vendors to taste the difference.
One of the most difficult things about walking through such landscapes, and enjoying such a sense of discovery, is stopping. There is a persuasive urge to go beyond the next valley to see a particular mountain, that church or that village. Walking in Armenia I was sidetracked again and again, in the best possible way.
During my walks, the word “constellation” kept coming to mind, as I often felt I was in a sky full of stars where I could hop from one to the next with a sense of almost otherworldly wonder. And all the while being fuelled by the hospitality and food offered by Armenians who so often go out of their way to help a stranger.
Green Mountains by Caroline Eden (Quadrille Publishing Ltd, £28) is published 3 April. To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
