That time we politely broke into an abandoned Greek monastery.
On stumbling into places you're definitely not supposed to be in.
We'd been driving around the island all day. Bumbling through villages with more dogs trying to get into my car than there were residents.
Devouring syrupy orange filo cake at the roadside cafe, taking a scenic piss off a cliff in deep pine forests, and praying the little rental car would continue to live. The engine revving into a banshee at even the slightest hint of a hill.
Chios was an unusual place to end up after a month of traveling.
The tiny Greek island, known for it's mastic gum, was my home for the week. Jon Persson (co-founder of Greco Gum) inviting me to get a taste of it's beauty.
You know it's a small island because the planes continue to land on an old WW2 runway. With airport security being the equivalent of one guy waving you through based on how he feels that day. Oh, and you're carrying your own luggage to the plane.
Aesthetic dreams of 80s air travel bleed out from the archives of my Pinterest mood boards. One cigarette and a crisp copy of today's newspaper please ma'am.
Whipping around in our car the landscape changed drastically with elevation, as did our playlist. From 2000s dance down by the port to Kanye West in the woods blasting out in the pockets of cell service we could find between mountains.
Honking our horn on every dirt track road to announce ourselves as locals looked at us like we were crazy.
"You can't go that way!" I imagined them saying in Greek as we placed more trust in (our lord and saviour) Google Maps for directions than even attempting to ask someone who actually lived there.
Where would be the adventure in knowing where we were going? It's an island after all, we'd hit water eventually.
Pausing for a moment to take a drink from one of the natural springs, I skimmed around the map for our next drop-in zone. Where could we go that was on route to the port we had planned for sunset?
And there it was.
An old abandoned monastery, built on the edge of the next hill.
Growing up in the south of England I was surrounded by old naval forts, castles, and monasteries. Monuments of a long forgotten time. So, it was safe to say I was ecstatic about the possibility of this one too. I was a toddler on Christmas Eve pleading to open a present that's tucked under the tree before bedtime.
Please, just one more dilapidated castle. Then I promise I'll go to bed.
The road down the hillside was snake-like. Fallen boulders pinned you up against the edge of the track with no safety rail. The final scene of The Italian Job primed in my mind in case we had to bail. Finger on the seatbelt trigger.
Why did these monks choose this specific spot anyway? I know they were men of solitude and discipline but, this felt a little personal.
Parking up on the wrong side of the monastery, we had to stumble down the back wall to the front entrance.
Bushes, weeds, and grasses dominated the entire site. Overgrowth poking through each and every brick on the neglected walls. But, I was in heaven. You're telling me I get to potentially walk around a very old building, take photos, and soak up history via osmosis?
I didn't even have to learn anything, I'd be content just exploring the ruins.
Turning the corner to the entrance our faces dropped. It was locked shut. Weirdly shut though. No ticket office, no information, no hints of life at all really. Not even a sign. They clearly didn't expect many visitors.
We stood there a little deflated for a moment. And just as we were about to turn back, I heard keys jangling on the other side of the door. The heavy iron sound you only really hear in movies now. One metallic click later and a middle-aged lady with short dark hair stuck her head through.
I couldn't believe our luck.
Maybe she worked here? Or owned the place? Clearly she had something to do with the site as she held a handful of big iron keys like a knuckleduster. I just wanted to get inside and I sensed she could help. It felt like we'd stumbled upon some hidden gem and I wasn't going to let this get away from me.
Grinding back into reality, I began trying to communicate with her. Speaking English and miming to the best of my ability. I should really have learned some Greek.
"Is there any chance we could take a look inside? At the church?". Sharply pointing at Jon and I then to the gate and back again. Gesticulating with my hands in the most exaggerated Looney Tunes manner possible.
I was willing to make a fool of myself to get what I wanted, even if I didn't speak the language.
After a few moments she understood.
The surprise she held on her face moments ago start to fade. A faint smile pinned up on the corners of her mouth, and with one shake of the keys, she said, "OK".
I don't think many people show up to this place unannounced. Especially not two pasty looking white boys in March who didn't speak the language.
I turned to Jon and smiled, I can't believe we'd managed this.
Forgive me for the lack of film photos here, I didn't want to risk being kicked out or making the situation awkward by firing a noisy camera shutter.
Stepping through the door I was transported back to summers wandering around the ruins of old English castles. The cobbled pathways were patchwork-ed with long tufts of vivid green grass. Each wall held together with softened stone blocks worn from hundreds of years of wind, rain and wear.
The place was beyond weathered, it was barely holding together at the seams.
Our impromptu tour guide made a beeline for a large building at the end of the opening walkway. The keys bouncing in her hand with each waddling step.
It was the middle of the afternoon but stepping inside the monastery we were swamped in deep shadows. The breeze that was refreshing from the heat, was now whipping through us like an icicle. Our feet gliding over polished cobbles we walked the same path as the monks did 500 years before us.
We exchanged no words but, the silence only accelerated my excitement. It was increasingly obvious that we were not supposed to be here.
Stopping at the end of the path, we were presented with a grand wooden door covered in silver metallic studs and a large white cross. Her keys jangled as she went through the motions of trying each one. The suspense was rising and I tried to look non-chalant about it all. A short pensive look out past the walls, cleaning my camera lens, pacing back and forth. Anything to look like I was able to be patient in the face of giddy levels of anticipation.
Then click. The door budged and swung open.
A disturbing creaking sound echoed around us. The door needed a little TLC but, all is forgiven considering it was likely older than me by multiple lifetimes. Jon stepped through first, and the space opened up around us.
Biblical scenes burst from the walls straight into my retinas.
The place was stuffy and dimly lit, seemingly a requirement for European churches, but the detail was mesmerising. Richly varnished wooden furniture lined the central aisle, contrasting with mountains of gold leaf embellishments up each wall. The geometric black and white floor tiling contorting your mind until it felt like you were floating roughly an inch off the ground. Portraits of every saint painted in varying degrees of detail all the way up to the ceiling.
"The church is too dark to take film photos in.", I told myself. Yet, I don't think I ever even put my camera up to my eye to check the light meter.
I was in awe.
A few moments later as I was fumbling around with my lens - a nervous tick I have apparently developed - when the key holder approached me with something in her hand.
She gave me a pamphlet depicting the history of the monastery. Saying something light in Greek, eyes bright, and placing it into my palms.
The pamphlet was just one folded piece of A4 paper. Grey pixelated artefacts littered all over the page from years of photocopying photocopies into oblivion. My school teachers used to do the same until the words were entirely illegible - a memory I look back on fondly now despite hating my time in the classroom. I unfolded it to read the hastily translated English, attempting to decipher some knowledge from this treasure map.
Face to face with Mary, I paused to soak it all in.
Ιερά Μονή Τιμίου Προδρόμου Μουνδών - Holy Monastery of the Honourable Forerunner (St John the Baptist) of Moundon.
A monastery with a troubled and bloody past despite it's prestige with the Eastern Orthodox Church. Financial troubles, looting, massacres, natural disaster, more looting, and abandonment. Centuries of being turned into a punching bag.
Memories and archives repeatedly decimated and left to rot.
All you can really ask in this scenario is, "I wonder what it used to be like."
Imagining monks in long garbs tending to gardens in the unbearable heat of summer, raising livestock, studying, and singing together. My mind conjuring up new myths for their lives instead of relying on direct records.
Pocketing the pamphlet, a smiling skeleton emerged in the corner of my eye. My body was just washed with a sense of reverence and you're telling me someone had painted this cheeky looking guy like a secret character in "Where's Wally (Waldo)?".
Turns out the grinning skeleton was Death, because of course he was.
Considering the fresco this character was attached to (a crucified monk - "Life of the True Monk") I was taken aback. Giggling to myself under my breath and trying to get Jon's attention without offending the grace of the key holder who let us in.
There's something so mischievous about laughing in a place designed for silence.
After soaking up our fill of divine artistry, we smiled and said thank you many times. Stepping back out into the sunlight, overlooking the valley below.
Editor's note: During the research process for this newsletter I learned we got extremely lucky that day as the site is generally not open to the public. You have to typically go to the Diefcha village nearby, hunt down the key holder, and ask them to show you around. We just showed up and with a stroke of serendipity ran into them as they were leaving.
We got to experience something most people never get to see purely because I was willing to look like a fool for a few moments pointing and waving.
Normally I would have listened to the rules, the stereotypical Brit standing in a queue waiting for his turn, without making a fuss.
Yet, with a little courage, doors seem to open.
As she locked up behind us, the portal closing in the background, we stood on the cliff edge and looked westward. The heat of the sun was waning, with the hills in the distance still covered in haze.
Jon and I barely spoke on the way back to his car.
Connor x
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