We next went up a lot of steps to a platform under the shelving cliff where there was a beautiful spring of water. The view which it commanded was magnificent. Below us lay the lower monastery and the deep valley of the Zeta, the mountains rising again sharply on the further side; to the right and left stretched wooded slopes.
Then we descended again and paid the priest a visit. This man, over eighty years of age, has spent forty years of his life as a hermit in that rocky crag. With the exception of Whitsuntide and the occasional visits of pilgrims, he lives entirely alone, subsisting on vegetables. His appearance was most patriarchal, his snowy white beard and saintly look impressing us greatly. When he heard that we were from England, he embraced and kissed us repeatedly, much to our embarrassment. His joy knew no bounds, and he kept us with him in his rock-hewn cell for a considerable time. He even consented to be photographed, for the first time in his life, facing the ordeal with unflinching courage.
The descent to the lower monastery was made in record time, and with half-closed eyes. We found the Archbishop standing in the shade of an enormous tree surrounded by a large ring of Montenegrins. He beckoned to us, asking us for our impressions, and needless to say we solemnly drank coffee. This beverage began to pall before we left Montenegro.
After partaking of a splendid meal (for the country), washed down with wine such as is not to be obtained elsewhere in the land, we paid a farewell visit to His Grace and departed.
Already the booths were fast disappearing and a mere handful of peasants remained. Many pilgrims journey from seven to eight days on foot or on horseback to Ostrog, over mountain passes and barren regions; so that the pilgrimage is very real.
Before we leave Ostrog, we will mention one of the miracles which we had the opportunity of authenticating.
A wretched Turk living to-day in Podgorica, a cripple crawling painfully on hands and knees, once made the pilgrimage to Ostrog. Friends carried him to the shrine, where he lay all night. Then he rose up and walked back to Podgorica rejoicing, with those who had carried him the day before. As he crossed the Vizier bridge, he sceptically remarked that he would have been healed without undergoing the farce of the pilgrimage. Straightway he fell to the ground, the same helpless cripple that he was before.
The Turk and the witnesses still live—in fact it happened but a few years ago—to tell the tale.
The road to Nikšić, which we left to proceed to Ostrog, climbs to the height of 750 metres in crossing the mountain ridge dividing the valley of the Zeta from that of Nikšić. The scenery is throughout fine and wild. In a succession of serpentines, the road descends sharply on to the great plain, the fertile valley of Nikšić.
The town can be seen immediately on leaving the mountainous gorge, the cupola of the cathedral standing up boldly from the surrounding flat.