Across the Narrow Pass of Bistritz

Upright the Monastery of Horez the country becomes wilder and wilder, the valleys more and more narrow and steep; the hills, covered by neverending darkish forests, meander and mount each other, blocking the horizon for ever. The silance is so deep and sacred, that you walk very slowly and attentive not to wake up, with the noise of your silentness, God knows what legendary creatures that have fallen asleep thousands of years ago in the voiceless of these isolated places, never touched by the sight of a human being. After merely one hour of walking to and fro through cramped tight places and gloomy thickets, you hear a terrific roaring that makes your blood run cold, a gurgle of suave springs trying to make their way through the dense vegetation. It seems that a weir would have, out of the blue, turned aside from the way of the unpatient and unrestless waves of the water. The valley enlarges itself; the woods draw back and an unexpected, breathtaking and unspeakable stately lanscape appeares before the eyes. Up there, on the mountain range ahead, there rise the tiny towers of the Monastery of Arnot. Beneath, on the foot of the mountain, on the right shore of Bistritz, there lies a marvellous glade; and in the middle of it the grey enormous walls os the four hundred year-old Monastery of Bistritz rise up to the sky.
From this point forward you cannot advance anymore but by foot. From the very back of the imposing building you enter the quay of Bistritz, into the fascinating world of abrupt precipices and whizzing whirlpools. The whole mountain is split from top to bottom, and in the middle of these clefts, between the immense walls of rock, there flings Bistritz, tempestuous hitting its whirling waves against the hard stone, with a deafening noise. At a giddy and astounding highness in the wall from the right side, there, above the dreadful torrent, the cave of Saint Grigorus opens its dark and unknown labyrinth. A narrow path with stairs hollowed out into the stone leads you along the quay, from underneath the ridge of the mountain to the opening of a tight hole, through which you can hardly penetrate; you crawl into the darkness until you finally reach a high vault that receives a little bit of sunlight coming through the splits of the wall at your left. Then you descend on the fragments of rocks into the parlour of the cave. Two ways split here, both of them steep and dark: the one on the right, where the flying beasts of the night feel at ease, as if that would be their royal court; the second one, however, takes you to an abandoned chamber, with sacred images wiped out by the passing of time, with smoked walls revealing the traces of the hermits, those people who, escaping the world, have willingful enclosed their lives in these dark and moist vaults.
All the mountains in this part of the country are cracked and hollowed by small pools of water beautifully shining in the sunlight. Narrow, steep dangerous paths keep you close to the edge of the abyss, where you are afraid even to take a look at. In some places the ground sounds like a voult under your pace; looking up, you see huge pieces of rock that seem to part from the main body of the wall, ready at any moment to crumble and become nothing mare than simple dust. Crouched, crippled trees get out through the cracks in the rock. You find yourself in a shattered, rundown world, ruined by a mighty desaster ... only the noise of the tumultuous water resounds as a wailing far away in the distant silentness and stillness.