An asphalt road winds between the gloomy hills of the Montenegrin landscape. Above us, a blue sky crucified like a canvas and attached to the tops of the mountains. I throw glances through the car window, now to the left, now to the right, wanting to capture the beauty and interestingness of those pictures. Let's go to the Ostrog monastery! I heard about him as a magnificent endowment of a saint named Vasilije Ostroški.
Unbelievable! I was suddenly dumbfounded by what appeared before my eyes as we headed toward the steep side of the mountain. Through the greyness of the stone, I can barely recognize the silhouette of the monastery, whose colours of the walls dissolve into all other colours. Ostrog does not stand, Ostrog hovers between heaven and earth, as in a folk tale that tells of miracles. And maybe not !? Maybe it's just a fresco on the wall of a huge monastery that I don't see !?
With some hidden creep, we enter the monastery. We were greeted by silence mixed with pleasant shade and the crackling of candle flames. Around us and above us are frowning figures of saints, immortalized by the hands of unknown painters and preserved by the care and love of unknown monks. At that moment, I plunged into the past that resists this sunny seaside day and the noisy life above the walls.
The Ostrog Monastery is also an interesting building that stands out with its almost unreal whiteness from the grey mass of rocks that flicker in the bright summer sun. Not a trace of gloom and medieval darkness! We enter the main chamber with timid steps. Our gazes circle the oval vaults that rise, it seems to the heavens. At the top of the dome is a skinny figure of Jesus Christ. He matches our bodies and our souls with his hand. It's half-dead. Broken rays of the sun pass through the narrow and oblong windows and fall on the sullen faces of the saints. The walls are decorated with frescoes with scenes from biblical stories. With their colours, they complete the peace of the monastery narthex.
Mysterious peace reigns everywhere. It seems to me that I hear the beating of my own heart that threatens to disturb the peace of the deposited centuries. Impressions are gained in a fluid, global, diffused way, with the scent of incense and wax candles.
Ostrog, a beautiful monastery with the name of a great healer, is already behind us. With my last look, I embrace the old monastery, firmly convinced that it will be like this in the fourth millennium.
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