Sailing to The Monastic Republic of Mount Athos

Alexander Shaw explores an important Eastern Orthodox monastic republic, dating from the Byzantine era, perched on the most eastern of the Halkidiki peninsulas in the northwest Aegean

The Monastic Republic of Mount Athos, roughly the size of Malta, dates back to at least 800 AD. This sovereign region within Greece has a policy of extreme isolation, which has defended its Orthodox Christian communities against invasion and political upheaval for over a millennium.

Athonite roads don’t connect to the Greek mainland, and foreign boats are forbidden from landing on its shores… Or are they? Having sailed 3,000 miles single-handed from Britain, I was determined not to depend on the few Athos-flagged boats which ply the last 20 miles across the frontier from Greece.

Would a lone foreign sailor be granted access to the 500-metre coastal exclusion zone? Satellite images revealed four potential landings on the territory: three on the south side, belonging to the monasteries of Panteleimon, Xeropotamos, and Simonopetra, and one (the best), on the north, belonging to Vatopedi.

I set sail from Neos Marmaris on Sithonia, the middle peninsula of Halkidiki, bound for the nearest harbour on the ‘Greek side’ of the Athos isthmus, Ierissos. Besides offering a welcome stop on my onward journey to the Dardanelles, Ierissos is less than 20 miles from the harbour of Vatopedi.

Night fell as I was crossing the Singitic Gulf towards Mount Athos. The lore of the fishermen’s canteen rang in my ears: Xerxes’ Revenge is a wind named in honour of the Persian king whose fleet was wrecked here in 592 BC.

Half a millennium later, another shipwreck brought the Virgin Mary to Athos, not as a divine apparition but as a lady in her own lifetime. Mount Athos is known to its inhabitants as the Garden of the Mother of God.

According to the tradition of the Holy Mountain, Mary the Mother of Jesus set foot on the east coast of Mount Athos after being blown off course when travelling with St. John the Evangelist. Thus began the Christian society which endures there to this day.

Byzantine heritage

My sheet-to-tiller rig kept me on course for the cape as night fell. Behind me, the lights of Sithonia scintillated in golden chains of infrastructure. Ahead, dark hills shrouded a brilliant sky and the velvet mitre of Mount Athos rose to a lacquered fang of moonlit snow.

By 0100, I was rounding the Athos headland, where the most devout ascetics live in huts and alcoves gouged into the cliffs connected by a system of pulleys and man-sized baskets. Passing under the high windows of Megali Lavra – Europe’s oldest monastery – I steered west. A sparse constellation of lights glowed on the north coast. The bells must have rung matins.

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Dawn unveiled a scene that was more Himalayan than Hellenic. Gone were the whitewashed and blue-domed churches of the dusty Cyclades, the jewel-box harbours of the Sporades and the pastures and vineyards of Kassandra and Sithonia. Here, the foothills, soaring terraces, and canted roofs recalled more the Potala in Lhasa.

Ierissos is a well-sheltered, small fishing harbour which receives very little yachting tourism and retains a substantial year-round population who make their living from the sea. Electricity and water were freely available on the wharfs as I made my hopeful preparations to land at Vatopedi.

Athos still flies the flag of the ancient Byzantine Empire: a black eagle on a yellow field. To my puzzlement and dismay, the Lowestoft chandlers had omitted this from their Mediterranean courtesy ensign pack. Fortunately, I was joined by a friend, Nicholas Tang, who is a portrait painter by profession. A perfectly good Q-flag has now gone to waste.

Monastical machinations

Visas at the ready, we embarked the official ferry and landed on Athos as regular foot passengers. I walked through hills towards Vatopedi, scrambling up gullies and over the forested ridge until cenobitic glades of agriculture broadened down a valley beneath me like Shangri-La under Karakal. It was early evening by the time I reached the Monastery.

Pondering my papers at the gatehouse, my cassocked hosts directed me to the church for vespers. Revise your mental image of unclaimed yachting frontiers. This is no skerry in the Southern Ocean.

Supernovas of incense whirled around blazing chandeliers and stucco murals annotated in Old Slavonic. Biding my time in the flickering kaleidoscope of rose and tulip lanterns, I formulated my request to bring in my Westerly GK29 Granny Knot to a deep hum of Byzantine chanting.

The doors finally opened and we filed out into eddies of almond blossom. A dozen monks paused in the courtyard to hear my request. The younger ones translated for their elders. The monastery would give careful consideration to this matter and let me know.

Buoyed by their response, I wandered down some worn donkey steps to the large, tidy harbour. Of course, Navionics has no record of its capacity. I unwrapped a plumb line from my pocket – three metres by the dock. Perfect!

Then a bell pealed behind me, gathering everyone back within the monastery walls before the mighty doors were closed for the night.

Rebuffed

Next day, there was some bad news. ‘Our territorial integrity is protected by agreement with the Mount Athos government and the Greek coastguard and, regrettably, the Greek coastguard won’t grant you permission to enter without you first gaining approval of the civil authorities here.’

So I headed up into the hills to start banging desks in the fog-wreathed Athonite capital, Karyes. The government offices were all closed for an event in the liturgical calendar which I hadn’t considered (Athos observes the Julian, rather than Gregorian, calendar).

A group of young monks filed from the ecclesiastical academy to an antediluvian Mercedes bus which was readying for departure to the main port of Dafni. It was the last transport out of town. I joined, and after 45 minutes we emerged from the cloud layer into the Athonite port. A glance at the piers confirmed what I had guessed from the satellite images: it is unsuitable for any boat with a pronounced keel.

I petitioned both the port police office and the customs office. Each sent me back to the other. I contemplated the bitter irony that, on this one occasion that civil authorities seemed broadly sympathetic, it was heaven which needed moving rather than earth. No one could grant me a final word of approval.

Hitch-hiking to Simonopetra, I arrived in the back of a 1980s Toyota pickup. Perched high on their needle of rock, the monks were eager to hear about Granny Knot and the journey from Britain as we paced the wind-buffeted balconies and admired the monastery’s Arsanás (fortified harbour), a sheer half-mile below. They told me that, alas, their pier is too dilapidated for any vessel other than the landing craft.

The bell rang and we assembled in the near pitch darkness of the chapel. Wind roaring around the buttresses outside, the hum of Byzantine chanting continued until dawn rippled in the marble embrasures. After breakfast, I set out on foot to the vast monastery of Saint Panteleimon.

Scrambling around the headlands, several eroded slipways and overgrown huts lingered from the era of skiffs and Caïques. I also passed the isolated Xeropotamos harbour. Despite the depth inside, waves break at its shallow entrance.

Abandoned hopes

Athonites are roughly divided into 20 monasteries according to language. Saint Panteleimon houses the Russians. Their harbour looked excellent, with a fishing boat wintered at the top of a slipway, but the thought of bringing Granny Knot back around the peninsula filled me with dread. My passport was regarded with suspicion at the guesthouse. A storm was gathering. I decided to head back to Ierissos.

As a last roll of the dice, I texted my friend the painter and asked him to make the request. He had by this time managed to make friends with one of Athos’ top iconographers who picked up the phone to the coast guard. Halfway into his first sentence, the poor monk received a tirade from the other end.

‘Oh no! Not that Englishman again? No! No! No! Not even for King Charles! He must completely get this idea out of his head!’ The phone was slammed down and that was that.

Disappointed, I paced the St. Panteleimon mole (two metres, by the way, and fresh water on the dock – but no electricity), and waited for the ferry. I suppose it was a long shot, turning up on spec – but I couldn’t have forgiven myself for not trying.

As the vast fortifications of the coastal monasteries attest, my ambition to land a foreign boat on Athos is nothing new, but the survival of Athonite society today owes more to its sharp-witted negotiations with powers on the mainland than to its defences.

The key to landing there, I am sure, lies in gaining the confidence of the Holy Council (Ierá Sýnaxis). This body comprises a representative of each of the 20 monasteries on Athos and has a veto over the Athos Civil Authority which, in turn, works with the Greek Foreign Office to protect Athos’ autonomy.

The successful voyage probably won’t involve dropping plumb lines from the monastery jetties, but perhaps it will benefit a little from the observations of somebody who once did.

For my part, I left the Holy Mountain, like King Charles and everyone else, as a foot passenger on a stygian landing craft; a stark reminder (as if the vast ossuaries hadn’t been enough), that however far we may have come, the last short crossing is made on terms we cannot negotiate.

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