Ostrog Monastery, Montenegro
While researching my latest travel mystery I visited several Balkan countries on the Adriatic, using Montenegro as my base. My first day there I made the trip to Ostrog Monastery, one of the key places featured in my book.
Driving in Montenegro is a form of national sport to the locals. An aggressive sport. Cars zoomed up from behind and passed, undeterred by the endless curves in the road with usually a mountain base on one side and a deadly drop-off on the other. I refused to get sucked into the game and maintained a moderate speed, ever mindful of the many crosses and flowers placed along the roads as shrines to loved ones killed in traffic accidents.
At Budva I turned north and headed for Podgorica, the capital, and by-passed it on its west side, heading up the Bjelopavlići Plain, also known as the Zeta River Valley, a rare stretch of fertile lowland found in the land of Black Mountains. It’s a decent road, mostly flat and straight, connecting the capital with Nikšić, the country’s second largest city. The vineyards, fruit trees, and fields of vegetables stretch for almost thirty miles, thriving in a Mediterranean-style climate influenced by the Adriatic Sea.
A road sign at Bogetići indicated the turn-off for Ostrog. Just after the right turn a taxi was parked by the road, and I recalled the guide books urging pilgrims to use a taxi rather than drive the precipitous road to the monastery. I reasoned I’d rather be master of my own fate than be at the mercy of a Montenegrin driver who excels at playing road chicken. And, indeed, the fun soon began.
The road was paved, fortunately, but the accolades stop there. Mostly one-lane, snaking up the mountain of Ostroška Greda with the mountain wall on one side and a drop-off that increased at an alarming rate on the other, and no guard rails anywhere. Perhaps a row of rocks placed beside the road, or an occasional tree, but nothing substantial to keep you from plummeting over the edge into eternity. So, I drove slowly and steadfastly, praying that no cars would come from the other direction.
Moments before my nerves snapped I arrived at the Lower Monastery and stopped to visit the chapel. The walls and arched ceiling are vivid with brilliantly painted frescoes depicting saints and significant historical moments in the life of Saint Basil of Ostrog, to whom the monastery is dedicated. A black-bearded priest entered, his long, black robes flapping like the wings of some great bird, releasing the scent of incense that saturates the folds of his attire. Ever-present incense. He drew back when he saw me, then hastened to a small altar holding sacred books before a painted mural of Saint Basil surrounded by suppliants. He hastily crossed himself, then bent at the waist, prostrating himself on the tomes, kissing them feverishly from side to side, then crossed himself a second time and withdrew. His fervor was almost disquieting.
The road to the Upper Monastery took my breath away with its narrowness crushed up against the mountain’s side, except for the reverse curves at the switchbacks. I withdrew to the safety of one as a car approached, filled with large-bearded priests dressed in the regulation black robes, their pilgrimage to the Upper Monastery completed.
A building project was underway at the Upper Church, which is built into a vertical mountain cliff, to add several meditation cells for overnights guests. One of the workers, a young man named Stefan, fell into step beside me and gave me a tour of the monastery, beginning with the lower cave church where Saint Basil’s relics are kept in a reliquary which is always attended by an Orthodox Serbian priest.
The ceiling of the outer chamber of the lower cave sanctuary, carved by hand and smoothed by centuries of touch, barely accommodated Stefan’s height. The small, darkened room opened up to an inner chamber where a priest keeping watch over St. Basil’s incorrupted remains jumped to his feet as we entered. Frescoes cover the cave’s walls; they are a bit difficult to appreciate in the dim, candle-lit chamber. I approached the reliquary and offered my respect and homage, breathing prayers for loved ones in need of healing since cures for ailments are often reported by pilgrims.
Stefan took me to the Upper Church next, which he unlocked with a key provided by his boss. This, too, is a cave painted with frescoes. It was larger than the one we had just left and Stefan reverently explained that the small relic contained in a sealed, transparent case on the altar is a piece of the cross on which Christ had died, from the Holy Land. The atmosphere is palpable with sanctification and I knew I was standing on holy ground. It was almost too much to process.
Just outside the door to this church Stefan pointed out a grapevine growing from the rock of the monastery wall. Legend is that the vine appeared after the death of St. Basil (he died in 1671) and, in spite of the inclement weather and lack of soil, it produces fruit that is said to work miracles for women having problems with conception.
I thanked Stefan, who desires to become a priest, profusely, and went my own way, making one final stop in the prayer room on the lower level next to the book shop. It is a dark room, lit only by the hundreds of burning prayer candles standing upright in the shallow vats of melted candle wax on either side of the aisle. The points of light are multiplied by their reflection in the liquefied wax. Each candle is a prayer, a petition, of expressed hope for mercy and grace placed there by the endless procession of pilgrims who visit Ostrog.
Before leaving I took one last look at the vast plain far below, trying to imagine the Nazi artillery launching shells at the sacred site and failing miserably to succeed. The one shell that hit its target failed to detonate, so the story goes…
