Ostashkov and Stolobny Island - a taste of monastic life by Lake Seliger

It was past 5pm by the time we checked into our room. We'd been on the go for almost 12 hours. Finally, we could leave our bags and explore the grounds of this peaceful, meditation-inducing haven surrounded by water and vegetation. Clear blue skies on a late spring day. Quiet, peaceful, clean nature - bountiful clear water in the lake. Healthy green grass where daffodils are cozily ensconced. Extensive canopies providing much-needed shade in this serene atmosphere, just occasionally disturbed by the drone of a motor-powered boat in the distance... the perfect getaway from the hustle and bustle of busy, noisy and crowded Moscow.

We had pulled out of the depot at 07:50 taking a little over six hours to cover the approximately 300 km to this idyllic paradise - an uneventful ride except for the bus almost taking off without me at a smoke stop, had it not been for the intervention of one of my co-travelers. Five and ten minutes are very subjective in the mind and timepiece of the driver; depending more on the puffs drawn, or needed to be drawn - more important than the breaks for the call of nature.

The six-hour bus ride to the end of the line got us to Ostashkov - a popular, lakeside holiday resort, if it may so be described. We'd driven through big towns, small towns, country houses, over rivers, past healthy green trees and shrubs of all kinds typical in Russia, yet strangely, in this vast land, there was nothing I could recognize as farming areas. From Ostashkov, another means of transport was needed to make it to Stolobny Island. First though, we needed some sustenance deliberately avoided during the trip, bearing in mind the lack of facilities on the way, should nature call. We decided that the Russian among us would make the inquiries. 

"Parus" (Sail), along the water, about a fifteen-minute walk away, she'd been told, was a good place for a meal. She suggested we walk. Five minutes along, there was no encouraging sight around - countryside, houses and patches of bare land. Another inquiry suggested a further walk. Spying a waiting cab, I made for it and suggested we use it. True to my suspicion once again, time is very subjective. After the long drive, I had no energy left to invest in a wild goose chase; switching to a cab had been a priceless idea sheltering us from the relentless rays of the bright sun.

The driver knew "Parus" alright. And oh, surprise, surprise. When we got there, it was closed - for lunch, for the day, for the season...? Go figure. We tugged at the door, ventured in, and were greeted by a cat in a hurry to hightail it out. A young lady busy chatting on her cellphone, in just enough words so as not to importune her interlocutor, managed to shoo us away with no further explanation than they were closed.

There was hardly anyone in the vicinity, but luck was on our side - a passerby directed us to another place nearby - another cafe. They were open. We made our way in quietly and managed to seat ourselves, with no one's invitation, at a naked table as the hostess/manager/waitress punched numbers away noisily on an oversize calculator, without so much as a glance in our direction. We made sure we gave the seated trio at another table some space; sole occupants of the Soviet-style "stolovaya" we found ourselves in. A sign somewhere said we needed to make our order at the counter - further confirmation of the ideology, reinforced by the spartan decor.

We did as the sign said, keeping it simple, very aware, from past experience, of what might be on the menu but not available in the kitchen. Some grilled chicken and borscht would do it, to be washed down with some tea. All along, we kept our voices down, looking warily around us, careful not to say the wrong thing, and I wondered what we were apprehensive of. Our order placed, the clickety-clack of the keys on the ginormous calculator firing away, we heard one of the trio address the waitress/hostess/manager, asking how much longer they needed to wait for their meal. Apparently, it had been a while, almost an hour since they'd ordered. I would like to say we sank into our comfortable seats bracing ourselves for the long wait for our meal, but we actually sat up right...in anticipation? I'm not quite sure.

I looked at the trio two tables away. Theirs had a table cloth. There's no explanation for why we chose the only table of the six without one. One of the women was dressed to the nines - white lace dress and matching wide-brimmed hat, high-heels, the works. Her companions looked liked they been dragged away from work in the garden to come and grab a bite. Or more like they knew where they were going and dressed to match the decor. Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

I commented on the waitress...and her calculator to my friends, wondering what she could possibly be calculating, considering there were only three people in the eatery when we got there. We speculated on what was keeping her busy, giggling like eight-year-olds in a classroom - I suggested it was her homework, Adam said she'd left the monthly accounts till the last minute, Maria said she needed to be sure the total for the bill was accurate; hence the lengthy process. It was the only time we laughed out loud...clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

Eventually, the trio were served the soup they'd ordered. As we watched on hungrily, all that could be heard was spoons hitting plates as the soup was scooped, and slurps as the soup was ingested. It was so quiet we could hear through the open kitchen door the sizzling on the grill. And all along... clickety-clack, clickety-clack.

As the trio got up to settle their bill at the counter, the casually dressed couple treated by the lady in white, we were graced with the first course - borscht. Then we got our chicken and then the tea. Sometime during our meal, the calculator keys were left to rest. All in all, it was an edible meal and we agreed that there really wasn't anything wrong with the place or the service - the manager/waitress/hostess was just very unfriendly, unwelcoming and laidback, probably a very suitable attitude for the region. She brought us our food, didn't she? And we ate it without complaining.

Done and dusted, we called the taxi driver who had driven us to "Parus" to finally get us to our long-anticipated destination - Stolobny Island, to Nilov Monastery for some peace and quiet away from Moscow, and now, Ostashkov. As we were leaving the cafe, the hostess had finally come out from behind the counter to set the few tables in the venue for a special occasion. It was going to be a night of wild reveling at the restaurant, I surmised. 

He was there in four minutes as he'd promised and got us to the monastery in about twenty. It would have been a more enjoyable ride had it not been at breakneck speed and we'd had a chance to admire the greens and blues of the landscape - trees and water in succession. No matter. We made it to our destination in one piece. He stopped before the causeway which we crossed on foot to the monastery gates where we were greeted by a black, marble, engraved slab commemorating the approximately 7,000 Polish prisoners of war comprising lawyers, doctors, teachers and other intellectuals, held there during the Second World War; most of whom were subsequently executed in 1940 in Tver, a few hundred kilometers away.

Once on the monastery grounds, which had been used in Soviet times for various purposes - prisoners' camp, hospital, retirement home, work camp, camp for minors and orphans, tourist hostel, and others - I donned my scarf as required of women and was glad my dress was long enough not to warrant reproach. Similarly, men are discouraged from wearing shorts. A magical, welcoming view to behold, the majestic, neoclassical style cathedral standing in all its splendor on a slight promontory boasts a tall bell tower we later discovered offers a beautiful view of the surroundings, as church bells chime at regular intervals.


The elongated buildings which in the past had provided shelter for myriad occupants, none of them holding any connection to the original purposes for the existence of the complex, have undergone extensive renovation, and are still being done up. They now provide accommodation for visitors like us and showcase artifacts in a museum.

The main cathedral's now white-washed walls, we were told by one of the nuns manning the bookstore, initially exhibited elaborate frescoes by eminent painters of the time. However, underage criminals kept at the monastery during its use as a correction facility, had been urged by their wardens to clean off the paintings in exchange for their release. It is not known whether the jailers kept their word.

We stood in the middle of the compound admiring the architecture, reveling in the quietude, waiting to be escorted to our rooms. Our initial feeling of abandonment soon dissipated after a few minutes as we were eventually beckoned by a matronly figure in a long skirt and scarf and led to our room with new facilities. The bathroom and toilet were reassuringly clean and there was a full-size fridge, as well as a dining table and chairs in a very spacious and light room with three single beds and bedding.

We headed first to the bell tower offering a magnificent view of the extensive lake covering 212 square kilometers, commonly referred to, I'd heard, as a mini-Baikal. Once I made it up there, I was regaled with the shiny, golden dome of the main cathedral, and the forests surrounding the lake populated by several islands - one of which the monastery is built on.

The contrast in colors is breathtaking - the golds of the church, the reds of the roof tiles, the blue sky, the green forest, the neoclassical architecture of the monastery buildings painted in pastel yellow all beautifully reflected in the still lake, accompanied by the wild flowers exhibiting varied bright colors at their best. A feast for the eyes and the soul does not begin to describe this remote, quiet paradise purposefully located away from it all - the luxury of emptying your mind of mundane concerns, communing with nature and feasting on oxygen. I began to understand why monks chose this lifestyle. What more could man need?

All the facilities close at 7pm for supper after which mass is held from 8 to midnight. We made it to the refectory for dinner, more for the experience than for the food since we had eaten not too long ago. Tearing myself away from the view offered from the tower was painful, but I consoled myself with a promise to return. I could have stood there all day contemplating nature. Sadly, I made it down the stairs following my companions as we walked along the path outside the main buildings to the refectory. The hungry from all walks of life were gathered outside waiting to be summoned to tuck in.

We walked in leisurely with the construction workers, pilgrims, tourists...took our seats at the bench-like seats and tables, waited for prayer and the final "Amen" before sitting to eat. Buckwheat, bread, fish soup, cream cheese, jam, otjiga, all to be eaten with spoons and even cakes for dessert. We shared our area with a trio, another trio. I surmised they were mother, son and auntie.

Everyone was very civil and kind, passing plates around and serving food quietly. I missed not having fruit and vegetables, but enjoyed what I could. Expecting a relaxing meal where we could chat about the idyllic surroundings and how lucky we were to be there to enjoy it, I couldn't get over my surprise when barely about five minutes into the meal we were summoned to stand, face the lit icon, and prayers were offered for the meal we had received. Immediately after, plates had to be cleared and the refectory had to be abandoned. I know it for next time now.

I seemed not to get enough of everything - not enough of enjoying the view from the bell tower, not enough of enjoying the peaceful meal at the refectory. We went to look around the cathedral and light some candles. While we were at it we encountered a nun in the book and gift shop who provided us with some information about the origins of and different stages the monastery had gone through. She was about to close the shop in preparation for the church service. I couldn't help but wonder how she coped under the heavy black robe, covered from head to toe - I could barely breathe in a light, sleeveless dress which seemed to weigh me down.

Feeling rushed and in dire need of relaxation, peace and quiet, I took a rain check on the four-hour mass and chose to revel in my bed and my book. What an enjoyable experience, interrupted occasionally by the chimes of the church bells or the engine of a motor boat in the distance, a gentle reminder of where I was and the water surrounding me.

I would have sat outside on a bench but I'd already been tasted by bugs who seemed to have had a fair bit of me for dinner, so I chose to be sheltered indoors. My friends returned at about 11. The mass was still going strong. Still light outside, we went for a walk all bundled up. The sunset had painted the previously blue skies a reddish-pinkish hue I could not get enough of photographing. We walked around chatting and savoring every bit and morsel of this heavenly feast which ended too soon.

Finally in bed for the night, we couldn't help acting like teenagers and being silly for a while. What with the screeching laughter of three adults, I was surprised the monks didn't come banging on the door. The feather pillow robbing me of breath served for more merriment as my suffering was more a reason to be mocked than commiserated with.

Soon it was daylight and time for us to leave Nilov Monastery, said to be one of the largest and wealthiest monasteries in the Russian Empire, founded by Saint Nilus in 1594.  We had enough time for a walk around the monastery again, take it all in once more and fill our lungs with clean air, hopefully enough to last us for a month in polluted Moscow. Once again, feeling rushed, we didn't have time to join the monks for breakfast

starting after morning mass which we couldn't attend either. We had to get on the 10:10 for Moscow - a trip which took eight hours, longer than the trip in, with several smoke stops, and none long enough to attend to a call of nature.

Once off the bus we managed to delve into the goodies we'd bought at the monastery store sold to us by a portly, very patient monk in a black robe who refused to be rushed despite our anxiety not to miss our bus. I understood him. He didn't renounce all earthly goods to come and live in the wilderness to be rushed off his feet by city-slickers.

The food in the store is prepared on the monastery grounds and is all organic. We got some egg and dairy free, tasty cookies and some mors (a berry-based soft drink) all prepared by the monks. I got some tea as well, but had no room for the consecrated honey from their own apiary. I put that on my list for next time, for I will definitely go back. Fall with all the changing colors should be a beautiful time of year to experience it.