Travel: Scenes from the ascent to heaven: Ian Holmes leaves this modern life and passes into a closed world of prayer with the monks of Mount Athos

AT TWO O'CLOCK on a December morning, the flagstones in the washroom of Great Lavra Monastery feel pretty cold beneath your bare feet. As I dowsed myself from a stone trough under a cold tap, an icy sea wind was whipping around its 10th-century battlements, gusting through each open window. Gasping, I stumbled towards the light of the church, trying to focus on the six-hour service ahead. It was deepest night, shushed by the psalm of the sea.

The path to Heaven has never been an easy one, but after days of threading imaginary camels, attempting to secure by phone a permit to visit the Greek Orthodox monasteries around Mount Athos, I had begun to despair. Finally, I gave up what little wealth I had and reported in person to the Ministry of Northern Greece in Salonica. The gates, at last, were opened.

These 20 monasteries (17 are Greek, one Russian, one Serbian, one Bulgarian) form an enclave that for more than a thousand years has guarded the purity of the Orthodox Church. The edict of 1060 that bars women from the region is still observed. Monks say this is out of devotion to the Virgin Mary, to whom the peninsula is consecrated. The edict also served the more mundane purpose of removing the distraction once provided by Greek shepherd girls whose flocks grazed on the mountain. The ban applied to all female animals, but today some - cats, deer and hens - are permitted. A limited number of male 'pilgrims', however, are allowed to visit the monasteries, which offer hospitality and shelter.

From Ouranoupolis I sailed down the peninsula's west coast, past the monasteries of Docheiriou and Xenophontos, wonderful clusters of Byzantine asymmetry. Domes and peaked belfrys peep over the balconied tiers on their medieval, fortified walls. We continued on past the green domes of St Panteleimon, now home to only a handful of Russian monks. Once, there were more than a thousand.

At each port seemingly frail old monks vigorously unloaded crates and drums. As one hurried along the quay at Xenophontos, a box of apples slipped from his arms. The fruit rolled in all directions, to sympathetic amusement. He shrugged. Luck must indeed be a lady.

From the port of Daphne a bus takes pilgrims to Karyes, the peninsula's administrative centre. (The area is semi-autonomous, governed by a council of representatives from the monasteries.) Beyond here, the landscape of beautifully abandoned ruins is evergreen, speckled yellow, rust, swept with autumn; its hills roll in the sun like cats in a monastery courtyard. With the sea on my left, I took a steep coastal path to the Monastery of Ivron. Red-roofed lodgings sprawl around the ancient walls that enclose its courtyard - a homely meeting of medieval castle, school yard and discarded stage set. The buildings are part ramshackle and faded, part painted strong saffrons and reds that darkened to the earthy pigments of old frescos as dusk fell abruptly.

Ivron's land and outbuildings stretch beyond its walls. Such monasteries are active communities, akin to medieval villages, with busy farmland and sawmills. The daily chores are many: farming, fishing, building maintenance, working in the kitchen, bakery, infirmary, library, treasury, as well as attending to guests, and most important, prayer.

According to Byzantine time, day begins at sunset and so moves from darkness into light. A large wooden plank (the semantron) is banged to call monks to the main service of the day, which begins at 2am and lasts four or five hours - after which a meal is eaten. Until Vespers, eight hours later, daily chores are done. After Vespers is the second meal of the day, followed by Prayers, private prayers, and sleep.

A lesson is read at meal-times, which otherwise are silent but for the ringing upon plates of bread as hard a slate, and the peeling of apples. At Ivron, monks fast on vegetables three days every week, and, when I was there, were starting their 40-day fast to Christmas (Their Julian calendar is 13 days behind our own). Often I was uncertain exactly what I was eating, although bean soup was usually involved. What I took to be semolina was actually foaming fish soup; my vegetable lasagne, a cake of cold chips and green beans. The wine, served every meal in teapots, defied temptation. At the Monastery of Pantokrator I mistook a lull in the liturgy for its conclusion, and hurried to the refectory, only to hear renewed psalms rise from the church as plates of baked fish on the table filled the air with their own fragrant pleas, and turned cold.

Monks are indifferent to these things. They eat and wash only as necessary. Their long beards and hair (tied up) are partly a gesture of their indifference. Their care for their guests, however, can be touching. Towards the end of one meal in refectory at Great Lavra, a Russian pilgrim replenished his plate and my own from an apparently spare bowl of tunafish stew. A late pilgrim arrived. One very elderly monk stood up and shuffled around his neighbours, who all gave him what remained of their food, which he then brought to our table. It will be a long time before I can swallow tuna again.

While many monks I met were of Greek or Cypriot parentage, several had been brought up abroad and had now returned to their roots. One was an economics graduate from the States, another a linguist from Camden, a third a sculptor from New Zealand. Often, these were young people who had visited Athos, had returned, and then decided to stay. Intake has trebled since the Seventies, the recruits younger and more educated than before.

The monks believe self-denial is a concentration upon what matters most. They have simply abandoned what is beyond their needs. They remain untouched by world events. Their life is a prayer. They are never more than a few hours away from communal worship. The regularity of their services is addictive. The intensity of their worship is at first difficult to appreciate.

The first monastery on the peninsula was Great Lavra, founded in 963 by Saint Athanasius. I travelled there by fishing boat to Saint Anne, past the spectacular Simonopetra and Dionysiou, their balconies high on rock crags. The path from Saint Anne to Lavra, round the southern tip of the peninsula, is a happy meeting of precipice and forest. From Kerasia I turned off it to climb to the summit of Mount Athos. A small church perches at the top, where the light-grey rock is patched with snow.

The following morning was my 2am awakening in Great Lavra. I stumbled through the darkness from my cell (pilgrims are housed in stark dormitories) to join the monks at prayer. Inside, the church smelt of incense and time.

Tiers of candles on suspended candelabra cast gold and shadows into the black. At times these were put out, relit, lowered and raised. Tinted oil lamps, blue, red, green, orange, hung before each icon. I stood in one of the wooden pews lining each wall. Black shuffles in the dark slowly turned into silver beards. Saint Athanasius lay in the side chapel. The dead stay warm here, so I was told. I was bitterly cold. Six hours. A monk snored on my left, undisturbed by the hissed remonstrations of his neighbour, or by the stoking of red coals in the stove opposite us.

Sluggard light. So slow to show the glorious dome and frescos hazily taking shape and colour above me. A procession of litanies and psalms. More readings and sermons. Torrents of Ancient Greek. Monks constantly moving in the flickering candelight, crossing themselves, bowing down, kissing icons. The robed priest proceeds through the church ringing chimes, chanting, and wafting incense.

Dawn. I've stayed the course. The priest is now framed in the open gateway, the Holy Door of the magnificent iconostasis, the ornate screen hung with icons that separates the altar from the rest of the church. Bread and wine are brought processionally to the altar. The Eucharistic prayer. The Invocation. Glimpsed through the Holy Door, the Holy Table and Bishop's Throne, silver and gold in this morning light. Here, beyond the iconostasis, is believed to be Heaven on Earth. This is quite truly a glimpse of Heaven.

Returning to Ouranoupolis was a revelation. After only one week on Mount Athos, I had slipped into assuming that kindness, courtesy and gentleness were natural ways to behave. The difference was in people's eyes, and it was striking. In the little restaurant I ordered bean soup. On its wall, a faded print of a bikini'd blonde on a giant banana reads: 'Tuck in Baby'. And down the road rise the ugly concrete blocks of Hotel Sunset.

In Athens, Sebo, a pal of one Ouzo or more, took me to a basement bar to meet some of his friends. My mistake. Anna suggested I bought us some champagne. It was pounds 300 a bottle. Instead, I spoke of all I'd seen. She smiled. 'Self- denial's not the only way, you know.' Ah, yes. Of course. I finished my drink. TRAVEL NOTES

GETTING THERE: Fly to Salonica with Olympic Airways, 071-493 3965. Return flights pounds 344 (Thomas Cook Flightsaver, Saturdays only, pounds 265).

PERMITS: Permits for four-day visits are issued by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Athens, or by the Ministry of Northern Greece in Salonica. They are issued to men (but not to women) who can prove serious interest in the region and who have a letter of recommendation from their own embassy.

GETTING AROUND: One boat runs daily between Ouranoupolis and Daphne. Departure 9.45am. This connects with the bus to Karyes where pilgrims collect their permits.

(Photograph omitted)