Born in Istanbul in 1905, Giorgos Theotokas enrolled in the Law School of the University of Athens, where in 1925 he was elected General Secretary of the student organization "Syntrofia". After graduating in 1927, he left for Paris and London for three years. While at the capital of the United Kingdom he wrote his first book, "Elefthero Pneyma" (The Free Spirit), which is regarded as the manifesto of the 1930s. In 1929 he returned to Athens and worked as a lawyer, publishing many articles in the daily and magazine press. The author's journey to Mount Athos took place in the summer of 1960, from August 17 to 28, a few months after the death of his first wife.

Trip to Middle East and Aghion Oros

It is a dark night as we sail, at a distance, the mountainous peninsula of Athos, the "Gardens of Our Lady", as it is called. Under the August starlight, we distinguish the dark rock peaking epically at its southern tip, forming its huge, steep peak.

The seaman describes the various locations as we pass by, with certainty, reciting well-known names: "Here is the Vatopedi monastery. Here is the Ibiron monastery. A little further, the Megisti Lavra monastery. Then the Cottages… ”. He tries to shed light on them with the headlamp. We can't see anything, but we already feel the atmosphere of Mount Athos surrounding us.

So here is where the mystical monasticism of the Eastern Church ended up, completing its historical course, after passing through the deserts of Egypt, Sinai, Palestine, Syria. At this place it peaked in the Byzantine period, and managed through countless and inexplicable oppositions to keep its tradition alive to the modern, so-called nuclear age. Its flame is not great today, but it is still burning and is one of the hidden spiritual riches of the Greek land.

In this peculiar, self-governing, secluded area, a part of the Byzantine world dedicated to Theotokos, is living intact. It lives under her protection, with its own architecture, the style of its settlements, its customs and its formalities, with the names of its Emperors mentioned every day in the ecclesiastical liturgies, with their chrysovoula still under effect, as if Byzantium had never been destroyed. And with its spirit, ruthless and irreverent.

Here (on Mount Athos) I live the shift of time, backwards, a transfer to past centuries, which somehow extend up to us -and beyond us, in the future- the fire of their spiritual existence.

The Protaton Temple is revealing

Then suddenly, we pass through a rather humble gate and find ourselves immersed in a world of excitement, joy and magic, exciting, unique like no other [...] it is a huge gallery of countless portraits and great paintings, complemented by small compositions, and all together, drifting away from the frames and traditions of the hitherto traditional forms of painting, they are combined, harmonized and united by a freedom, a comfort, a spirit that are the hallmarks of genius. The colors, full of light and joy, are a true joy of the eye and of the spirit.

The shades are soft, the light tones are found in all combinations, the flesh is pink, the foreheads are shining. The color harmony has something light and airy that captivates you, without downplaying the mental tension of the profiles and the power of imagination expressed by the groups' achievements.

A breath of eternal refreshment comes directly from ancient Hellenism through the Gospel.

As we passed through the steep edges of Athos, we followed its southwest coast. In a little while, the landscape became smooth. We saw the amphitheatrical village of Aghia Anna, and then Nea Scete, and from there we made our way to Dionysiou Monastery.

It is an amazing architectural complex when you first look at it. One has to imagine a huge rock, standing in the waves, like many others we saw on this tour. At the top of it stands a spectacular fortress and, ontop the fortress, are the floors of the cells.

They form balconies based on styluses, hanging high above the sea.

Even higher up the buildings is the tower with the crenellations.

Viewed from beneath, the whole building looks like a fairytale, as it stretches across the open sea, at the mouth of a ravine that breaks the mountain behind it. It is worth noting the beautiful, poetic name of this stream: Aeropotamos (river of the air).

[…] (Dionysiou Monastery) is the first community that we visit and the feeling of the difference is instant. Life here is riddled with harder rules, than the monasteries we have seen so far, in which there is a comparatively more liberal and somewhat, in fact, more parliamentary administration. The commune, as it is called, requires complete obedience to the monastic authority represented by the lifelong abbot, and an unshakable commitment to the spiritual target of monasticism. Lack of ownership pervades everything here. Even the smallest, most insignificant things are common.

The monastic community, as the word itself reveals, demands a perfect collectivity, total obedience to the monastic authority, the lifetime abbot, and undistracted dedication to monasticism’s spiritual goals.

Nobody owns nothing here. Even the smallest, the most insignificant things belong to everybody.

A nice garden like a terrace overlooking the sea. A deep-purple sun reigns above. We stand for a few minutes enchanted by the silence, by the fiery colors of the sky, by the power of this nature. I can't imagine better conditions for anyone that wants to fully delve in a spiritual life.

Here the mind spontaneously rejects what is unnecessary and futile to concentrate on the essentials. Flare, in such an atmosphere, must be a normal everyday state, a rule of life. We hear water boiling. It was recently brought by the Danilians, from afar, from the heart of the desert, sweetening a bit this corner. We are in the countryard of their iconographic house. His boss, father Stefanos, is waiting for us and goes forward, kind and sweet, to welcome us.

"Who will give me those chants and the vigilance and the outburst to God through prayer and the immaterial way of life where we were at the time in Katounakia?" This is how Alexandros Moraitidis cescribes his travle experiences when he recalls the days he lived here around 1900. […] Today, the cottage has turned to a two-room house with many rooms and a very comfortable guesthouse. On the upper floor there is the spacious church, as well as the painting workshop.

The atmosphere is warm, brotherly, reminiscent of a harmonious, loving, kind family. The combination of religiosity and artistic work eases the hard solitary life, giving it a different tone of thought, fostering mutual understanding and facilitating human relationships. The same brotherhood spirit pervades hospitality. You feel like they want you to stay with them, that they are truly enjoying your company. And the church here has a homely intimacy, touching by its simplicity, as the monks leave the palette to go for beautiful chanting.

I can understand Moraitides' nostalgia. It is a blessed life, a time of emotional euphoria and spiritual joy that memory cannot erase.

At three and a half after midnight we embarked the same black, tall boat that had brought us here. With a loud whistle in the night, we left the shores of Athos. At its southern end -the Nymphaeum, the Karoulia, the Katounakia...- the sea suddenly shakes. We return back to Kavala, in a sea full of waves. Above Mount Athos, a star similar to the others progresses rapidly through the sky. It is the recent man-made US satellite, that is reported these days from the radio and the world press. We saw it from both the Karyes and the desert...

As the sea shakes us heavily, dazzling sequences of Byzantine temples, framed by frescoes, loaded chandeliers, illuminated only by candles and candles that glitter in gold-plated metals, come to my mind.

The old monks stand still around in their pews like dark frescoes. The slow chanting still accompanies us, in an air of frankincense.

What links me, I wonder, with this atmosphere? Because, I have no doubt that this link is something alive. No question, it's History, I respond. The succession of Christian centuries that fill our collective memory in these places where we have been given the opportunity to live. However, there is something deeper, I believe today, greater than any national and geographical reality, something that has to do with people independently of places.

Isolated, naked, with its destiny: a heat that defeats loneliness, a dark, inexplicable, fleeting and reassuring power of solace.

Such an exit from the world, like that which we have attempted, a contact, however brief, with the tradition of mysticism, imposes an ex post control of self, an attempt to clarify our position vis-à-vis the other world, the spiritual one.