Mara Vorhees Travel Blog

Golden Ring

Moscow - Yaroslavl Station. Next stop: Vastness.

This is the starting point for trains heading east over the Urals Mountains to Siberia and points beyond. My destination is not so distant: a clutch of provincial towns north-east of Moscow that comprise the “Golden Ring”, the cradle of Russian history.

Founded in the 11th and 12th centuries, the towns of the Golden Ring once served as the seats of power in a network of northern Slavic principalities. For over 300 years, they jousted for power before finally giving way to upstart Muscovy. Today, the region boasts archetypal art and architecture, the remnants of Russia’s medieval past.

On the platform, I push past travelers weighted down with suitcases, babushkas hawking homemade pastries and stray dogs and children sniffing for scraps. I finally settle into my compartment, shared with a Russian man and his young son. They pull out a portable chessboard, and I pull out Anna Karenina. Before finishing my second page, the boy declares checkmate. “It’s always the same,” mutters his father as they reset the board.

***

In the early 12th century, Prince Vladimir Monomakh founded the fortress city of Vladimir as the eastern outpost of his domain. He entrusted these lands to his youngest son, Yury Dolgoruky. When Yury became Grand Prince, the region emerged as the political center of the northern Slavs. In 1157, Yury's son, Andrei Bogolyubsky moved the throne from Kyiv to the city-state of Vladimir.

High up on Vladimir’s slope above the Klyazma River sits the solemnly majestic Assumption Cathedral, built to announce Vladimir’s claim as capital of Rus. The Cathedral’s white stone walls and detailed carving are the distinctive northern adaptation of Kyiv’s Byzantine style.

Assumption Cathedral once housed the Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God, Russia’s most revered image, which was brought from Kyiv and later moved to Moscow. Today, I can still make out the 15th-century frescoes painted by Andrey Rublyov and Daniil Chyorny, medieval Russia’s foremost icon painters, whose work is notable for humanistic depictions of the saintly.

Thirty-five kilometers to the north lies the enchanting village of Suzdal. The winding Kamenka River, flower-drenched meadows and dome-spotted skyline make this medieval capital the perfect fairytale setting.

Suzdal has earned a federally protected status, which has limited development in the area. As a result, its main features are its abundance of ancient architectural gems and its decidedly rural atmosphere. Judging from the spires and cupolas, Suzdal may have as many churches as people.

Although one can sup at the refectory in the Intercession Convent, I have arranged to have a meal with my host Liudmila Ivanovna. Liudmila runs the Likhoninsky Dom, a charming 17th-century house-turned-inn.

The table is set with steaming borsht, roasted vegetables and the typically Russian meat-filled dumplings, or pelmeni. Liudmila Ivanovna watches me devour the feast. A longhaired cat curls up at my feet.

I compliment Liudmila on her efforts to maintain the historic inn. “Preserving traditions is very important,” she agrees. “Especially in times of turmoil, like we have now, we must remember and learn from our history.”

The earthen ramparts of Suzdal’s kremlin date to the 12th century, when this was the capital of the principality. Peaking over the kremlin walls are the star-spangled domes of the village’s oldest church, the 1220 Nativity of the Virgin Cathedral. A walk along the ramparts reveals magnificent views of three monasteries, two convents and some thirty smaller churches. I spend the afternoon taking in the timeless treasures of this wonderland.

A local specialty in Suzdal is medovukha, a mildly alcoholic honey drink. Bees buzz around the babushkas who are selling bottles on the street. I give a few rubles to one woman, her wrinkled face wrapped in a floral scarf, and she thanks me with a gold-toothed smile.

I take my medovukha to the steps of the trading arcades for happy hour, Suzdal-style. A group of teenagers is nearby, slugging back the sweet stuff, and singing along with one fellow’s guitar. I sit in the sun, watch the river wind below and sip the preferred brew of medieval Russian princes.

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For someplace called Rostov-Veliky, or ‘Rostov the Great’, this place gives the impression of a sleepy village. Yet it once served as the seat of the Grand Prince. The Rostov kremlin is breathtaking, catching me off-guard when its silver domes and white-washed stone walls appear amidst the dusty streets.

I wander around the outside of the kremlin toward the shore of Lake Nero. The road winds its way between tiny houses, decorated with traditional carved wooden trim, and tidy gardens, blooming with roses and dogwoods. A painted sign in front of one of the houses offers lodging to ‘artists passing through’. This remote spot seems an unlikely setting for an art gallery. I ring the bell.

Named for a pagan sun god, the Khors gallery and studio is owned by enamel artist Mikhail Selishchev. Although he is originally from Kiev, it seemed only natural that he should settle in Rostov, a long-time center in Russia for enamel artistry, or finift. Legend has it that an exiled Italian master introduced this craft to local icon painters in the 1730s, and Rostov artisans have been practicing the craft ever since.

Selishchev takes this ancient religious craft to a new level, incorporating wood, metal and stone into colorful, primitive enamel designs. “It gives fresh breath to traditional techniques,” he explains.

Upstairs, two sunlit rooms house the gallery, where the bold enamel colors stand out against clean white walls and open space. Downstairs is the studio and a small apartment, where visiting artists stay while learning the craft.

Selishchev expounds on the philosophy behind the studio setup. “An artist is a child of his times,” he explains. “With whom and what we surround ourselves in life is very important. That is why I have created this space and I try to fill it with talented people.”

The chiming of bells calls me back to the kremlin. A small crowd has gathered in the courtyard next to the 16th-century Assumption Cathedral. Everyone is looking up at the belfry, where two monks are giving a concert on the thirteen bells.

The peals -- not exactly melodic but certainly harmonious -- carry across the courtyard, over the kremlin walls and out into the surrounding town.

***

My last stop is Sergiev Posad, the town surrounding the 14th-century Monastery of St. Sergius. It is only 60 km from Moscow, close enough that you would not normally spend the night. But I have arrived late in the day and book a room.

To be fair, the woman at the front desk warned me the hotel has no hot water. She did not mention, however, that there is no heat. It is May, so you may not think that heat would be necessary. But it is also snowing.
I crawl under the covers. Anna Karenina keeps me company until dark, when I discover that my lamp has no light bulb. When the knob of the television comes off in my hand, I give up and wait for sleep.

St. Sergius of Radonezh began his calling as a hermit monk in the forest wilderness. In 1340 he founded the monastery, which soon became the spiritual center of Russian Orthodoxy. Prince Dmitry Donskoy’s improbable victory in battle against the Mongols in 1380 was credited to the blessing of Sergius. Soon after his death at the age of 78, Sergius was named the patron state of all of Russia.

Since the 14th century, pilgrims have been journeying to this place to pay homage to St. Sergius. His tomb sits in the corner of the somber Trinity Cathedral, where a memorial service goes on throughout the day. The cathedral is crowded with a shuffling procession of worshipers, who approach the tomb, light candles and recite prayers.

The gilded interior is lit only by oil lamps and prayer candles. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness before examining the iconostasis, another masterpiece by Andrei Rublyov. The eyes of the saints are sympathetic, and I ponder the Orthodox belief that the icon embodies the spirit of the saint depicted.

Outside, the sun is bright, reflecting off the gold and star-spangled domes of the surrounding churches. There is no sign of the snow from the previous evening. Monks swish by in their black robes. The monastery is bustling.

A long line of people snakes through the main courtyard to the Chapel-at-the-Well. Though reminiscent of Soviet times, this line is different. These are believers. Seeking inspiration and comfort from historic heroics, they wait to fill their plastic bottles with holy water.