Montenegro's oldest building—The ride to the Morača Monastery—A perilous bridge and ascent—The Abbot's tale—We inspect the monastery—The health of the King is drunk—The relative merits of Boers and Montenegrins—The Abbot makes us presents—We visit a peasant's house and a Homeric feast—A feu-de-joie—Departure from Kolašin—We are mistaken for doctors again—Raskrsnica.
In Montenegro there are, strangely enough, with one famous exception, no buildings of any great antiquity. This, however, can be easily accounted for by the repeated invasions of the Turks, who ravaged the land with a merciless fury. Montenegro was the only Balkan state which they were unable to bring to obedience, and the struggle, which began after the battle of Kossovo, has, perhaps, not reached its final stage yet, though other enemies have supplanted the Turk.
Far away in the heart of the mountains, and perched on the top of a high cliff, at whose feet the turbulent mountain torrent Morača races past, there is situated a monastery, which takes its name from the river below.
This monastery is the only building that has escaped the scourge of the Turk, and, though often attacked, only once has it been partially burnt. Like its famous sister at Ostrog, it is constructed in a position where Nature has provided the best means of defence, and this the hand of man has skilfully utilised and improved. It was founded in the year 1252 by one of the sons of the famous Servian king, Stephan Nemanja, and dedicated to S. Nicholas. Right well has the saint watched over and protected his feof.
During our stay at Ostrog the Archbishop of Montenegro impressed upon us most strongly the necessity of visiting Morača before leaving the country. He himself had lived there many years as the Archimandrite, and was besieged by the Turks during his sojourn within its walls.
So, accompanied by a guide, with whom the Governor of Kolašin had provided us, we made an early start one morning for the monastery. We had a perfect ride through dense beech forests, skirting a noisy little stream, of which we were able to obtain a glimpse every now and then through a break in the trees. On either side of the ravine the hills rose steeply to some height. We soon passed a lonely cross in a small clearing, erected to the memory of five Montenegrins who had been surprised and murdered there by the Turks.
It is always so in Montenegro, when the traveller is filled with a sense of peace at the grandeur of the wild mountainous scenery, or the beauty of a sylvan forest glade, a rough cross, or cairn of stones, will be pointed out where men have met a sudden and violent death.
A TYPICAL ROAD