Sights - Chania Prefecture - Akrotiri

Agia Triada Monastery

Simonellis' description

 

Vittorio Simonelli (1860-1929) was born in Arezzo, Italy. At the age of 15 he was taken in at the university of Pisa as a science student. At the age of 29 he became a senior lecturer of geology and palaeontology at this university. After a journey abroad, to Bavaria, he was in 1891 employed at the university of Bologna, from where he in 1893 made his scientific journey to Crete.

 

The Greek edition, translated by Ioanna Fountoulaki, was published in 1996 and is the basis of my translation.

 
After Korakies the terrain is sloping slightly downwards to the north and is covered with some low and hairy plants, sending out an intense smell, as from incense, while being burned under the sultry sun. For quite a long stretch there are almost no trees, neither cultivated nor wild. Not until after Plakoures - a village apparently named after the large flat lime stones in its surrounding area - you see some rows of olive, almond and carob trees.

 
Time passes quickly, but we proceed only slowly, as we often pause to examine every stone, every plant and every insect that we find on our way. Night had therefore fallen when we arrived at the Agia Triada monastery. This holy building resembles a fortress, especially when you see its silhouette rising over the olive trees in the darkness. A four-sided building with high and strong walls is surrounding the court, in the middle of which the white church, built by the Venetians in 1631, dominates.

 
A well-fed man in black clothes comes to meet us at the entrance and greets us with the traditional kalos orisate (welcome). With his long beard he looks like a personification of a mythological river-god. Around his big stomach is wound a long purple sash - suitable to hide pistols rather than crosses. This is igoumenos (the abbot) as his title is, i.e. the monastery superintendent. He led us into a large hall, furnished with low and very big peasant sofas. There was also a piece of furniture looking like a money chest, plated with iron, and a small bookcase holding at the most 50 books. In the middle of a wall there was a colour portrait of sultan Abdul Hamid, with a daydreamer's glance turned towards a misty picture of Kiev. What a lot of curses this cheap replica must have heard every day!

 
Into the reception room came a brother, a kalogeros, as they called him, wearing a pair of breeches, long boots and a black mantili around his head. He was carrying a tray with all the necessaries for a small reception-party: small glasses of mastic, cups with the usual coffee grains, cold water and lukumis, a kind of cakes made of flour and sugar, soft, transparent and aromatic, and in no way inferior to the "grand" cakes in Europe.

 
As we did not speak the language, we escaped a whole lot of complimenting. In stead we threw ourselves on the refreshments, while a veritable procession of both ordained monks and other monks made their appearance, bidding us welcome with their hand on their heart. They were all athletically built, which shows that the numerous periods of fasting in the orthodox faith had not been able to break them. They had determined and proud faces - despite their effeminate hairstyle - and their eyes flashed like sword blades. Their charisma showed a kind of military resolution, and their expressions resembled the warriors of antiquity. They seemed to be ready to leave their holy duties and take up arms in case of rebellion. They were brave men who - through their desire to kill Turks - were ready to deny themselves a place in paradise.

 
They showered on us a curiosity and a talkativeness, characterizing usually only women. But when they could not get any answers from us, who were dumb as fish, they turned to Kelaïdis with a stream of questions about us. They put their hands down into the boxes, in which Cecconi had locked his small animals; they rummaged in the botanist's things, and laughing loudly, they showed to each other the instruments I used for my geological research. In the meantime the rest of the monastery's inhabitants were returning from the fields. New monks appeared in the doorway, while we saw the pupils from the monastery school looking in through the window with sparkling eyes from the darkness outside in the court.

 
The supper was a long time coming, and the waiting time appeared very long to us. Agia Triada's patient cook made me send kind thoughts to his colleagues in the Italian monasteries.

 
Fortunately a young monk who spoke an excellent French, came and kept me company. (...)

 

 
During my conversation with the young monk, I became aware of how great the difference is between the present monks in Crete and the monks that Tournefort met, who "as simple and unlettered are only occupied with cultivating the land". I also understood the monks' important part in the rebel movement of Crete. They are not just favourably disposed hands, always ready to take up arms when necessary, but they are in fact the very soul and brain behind the liberation organization.