Budva
Breathing in with delight and savoring the subtle, tenderly spicy scent of March lilies of the valley, warming themselves, like me, in the gentle yet morning-soft light of the Adriatic coastal sun, I set off further into the highlands. I climbed proudly above the coastal village of Pržno, the historic King’s Beach and Queen’s Beach, the picturesque ancient island-castle of Sveti Stefan, and the entire curving silhouette of the Montenegrin coast, stretching far from the nearby cozy Rafailovići and the magnificently restored Budva to distant Tivat.
On the other side rose giant mountains, cloaked in the richness of Adriatic nature: nearly fluffy green pines, lush and fragrant laurel valleys, and ancient, often mighty olive trees—along with olive groves cultivated in distant antiquity—dotting nearly every mountain from the coast onward, cascading skillfully down the slopes. Amidst all this natural abundance, ever-green under the Balkan sun, ran the ringing, gurgling streams and mountain rivers. One of them, swelled by recent rains, flowed briskly through a miniature islet—a creation of nature’s artistry, woven from the roots of an ancient, majestic tree and a small cascade of stones, draped in vivid green moss, splitting the river’s rushing current. In the distance, the gleam of massive, roaring waterfalls caught the eye.
Such a scene unfolds before anyone who finds the strength to climb 500 meters above sea level on Budva’s coast. These mountains hold everything: abandoned houses, left deserted decades ago in typical Venetian or Mediterranean style, with collapsed roofs, rusted door hinges, and window shutters from the early 19th century, now overgrown with ivy creeping into the walls; simple homes of locals; forsaken huts surrounded by olives; ancient stone olive presses; modern chalets; and residential complexes. At one peak stands a grand mansion under construction, hinting at antiquity with its marble columns, matching sculptures, and a marble terrace overlooking the coast. There are also small homesteads here, bustling with delightful livestock, offering homemade honey, olive oil, milk, and eggs.
And that’s not to mention the pomegranates and lemons that fall from trees both in these mountains and along the coast.
A picturesque, mountainous, blooming, fragrant, sun-drenched, gurgling, and abundant idyll, isn’t it? And nestled within it are small monasteries. So, having inhaled the full fragrance of those soulful lilies of the valley, let us set off toward the first of them—the tiny women’s monastery of Vojniči, on the southern edge of the village of Kuljače.
VOJNIČI
So small it’s barely visible from the winding mountain road. As I climbed a slight hill, construction work was underway, guard dogs barked, and playful cats purred. Ana, a novice of the monastery, came out to greet me—a kind and gentle servant of middle age, dressed in the black Orthodox monastic robes. We spoke in Serbian, though she knew a little Russian.
“Good day, excuse me, is the monastery open? May I come in?”
“Yes, of course, please enter.”
The monastery grounds consist of two churches—even by Montenegrin standards, they’re tiny and unassuming—standing side by side, and a large house with cells and balconies facing the sunny side.
First, we entered the left church, dedicated to Saint Demetrius.
“This church is the oldest; it was built sometime in the 10th or 11th century. There are remnants of ancient frescoes from the 17th century all around. Here, you see the ancient stonework, restored from the ruins of an earthquake.”
The little church felt cramped and, in true Montenegrin fashion, humbly furnished—poor yet modest and natural in its interior. This is typical of the local ecclesiastical decor.
Next, we moved to the neighboring church of Saint Nicholas.
“The church of Saint Nicholas is newer, from the 14th century. There’s no ancient stonework here like in Saint Demetrius, and overall, everything is more modern.”
“Do you drive down for supplies?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is it hard to live so secluded, so far up in the mountains?”
“No, not at all—it’s the opposite. It helps us immerse ourselves more deeply in prayer and service to God. Nothing distracts us like it does down on the coast. We remain in silence, alone with God.”
“I agree.”
As I left the church, I crossed myself, and we said goodbye. But the goodbye wasn’t complete without the fluffy, whiskered monastery cats, who purred joyfully and rubbed against my legs.
“Thank you for the tour—what a wonderful monastery! All the best!”
“Praise God! May the Lord bless you!”
That was the small, unassuming Vojniči. On the street, built into the wall leading up to the monastery, is a beautiful spring adorned with a mosaic of Saint Nicholas, which I gladly made use of. Next, I continued my journey to the right and higher into the mountains toward Duljevo—the men’s monastery, the largest, newly renovated, and perhaps the most famous mountain monastery on Montenegro’s southern coast. People flock here: Montenegrins, Serbs, Russians, and travelers from all over the world.
DULJEVO
It lies hidden deepest in the mountains. Passing through the gates, a visitor might immediately be struck by the meticulously tended courtyard, dotted with blooming flowers, trimmed bushes, a neat lawn, and sturdy thuja trees. As expected, the entire monastery—save for the monks’ cells—is built in the Serbo-Byzantine style. Set apart from the courtyard, bathed in colorful flowers and sunlight, is the cemetery.
The monastery itself is visible only beyond high walls and gates, where I rang the guest bell twice, hoping a monk would come to let me in. But no one answered. Perhaps I’d arrived at the wrong time. It was around ten in the morning—maybe they don’t admit guests at this hour, or perhaps services were underway. That day, I didn’t make it past Duljevo’s walls. Yet there was no reason to be upset. As they’d say here, “lepi”—the divine view and the fresh, delicate scent of the morning courtyard alone lifted my spirits and colored an already marvelous day.
Leaving the courtyard, I once again took in the sight of the monastery’s cultivated lands, descending in the familiar cascades typical of this region. After that, my path turned downward.
RUSTOVO
The Rustovo Monastery rests amid meadows on flat land, with a single church dedicated to Emperor Nicholas II, featuring a terrace on a cliff’s edge.
Its grounds include outbuildings, cells, a souvenir shop, a summer kitchen with a long dining table, a monastic courtyard with a small chapel, a quintessentially Montenegrin tower, the Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and a playground. To the right lies an enclosed animal garden with chickens, peacocks, and geese, who roam the yard freely, loudly greeting visitors and rushing into a noisy heap when one of the sisters arrives with food—so lively they are. They likely take more steps in a day than the average Montenegrin, such is their energy. Along the slope lie ancient graves of warriors from the Paštrovići clan, fallen in the late 14th century during battles against Hungarian invaders. The Paštrovići fought alongside Venice, which then stretched along the eastern Adriatic, fostering warm ties with the local Serbs, granting them autonomy, and supporting Orthodoxy. Since then, the fallen are revered as warriors who died for the faith.
“Hello, welcome to our monastery—let me show you around,” said one of the novices, a woman whose age was softened by her kindness, cheerfulness, and energy, as she paused her bustling chores to greet me. Our conversation blended Russian and Serbian.
“Our monastery is very young—it was built only in 2003, so everything here is new, though constructed in the traditional Serbian style.”
“And that tower—is it used by anyone?”
“No, it’s just there for beauty, though the children always try to climb it.”
We proceeded to the Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Outside, it has an unusual canopy over the porch, unlike most churches. Inside, it’s slightly more spacious than the one at Vojniči, though still dimly lit and sparsely furnished.
“This church is the only ancient thing here. It was built in the 14th century, shortly after the battle, over the burial site in honor of the fallen warriors.”
Amid the dim decor, a pedestal with a glass-encased painting stood out against the left wall.
“This is an ancient icon of the Mother of God «Fragrant Flower» from the 10th century. This icon was handed over to the church, blackened and covered with what seemed to be an indelible layer of soot. It was so black and old that they didn't even bother to restore it. But after some time, what the world calls a miracle happened, well, that is, the most real manifestation of God: the icon itself began to be cleaned and the layer of ingrained soot gradually dissolved. And now you can see the colors and silhouette of the Virgin here. Although not very clearly.”
“Incredible.”
“Yes. Come, I’ll show you what else we have.”
We returned to the inner courtyard, where she led me to the new church, adorned with a photograph of Russia’s last emperor, Nicholas II, and his family. This church was built in pure Russian style, like the wooden churches back home. It had a green-gold roof and a golden dome, instantly marking it as Russian Orthodox. It’s worth noting that Serbian Orthodox churches use gold not for domes or external adornments but for interiors, typically boasting a distinct, more Byzantine look. Meanwhile, churches in Montenegro often reflect either the Moravian (Serbo-Byzantine) or Venetian style.
“This is our new temple, as I’ve told you. Here’s the icon of the Iveron Mother of God—it was gifted to us in 2005 by a man who lived in Moscow back then and now resides in Montenegro. He said an iconographer painted it by the hands of the Lord, and when he finished, the icon began to exude myrrh and a sweet fragrance. Since then, it’s been a divine aid for many families who come here to pray for children. You, too, can ask it for what you need and be sure to give thanks for what you have.
Down here, see? Under this cover are (some of) the relics of Saint Jovan Vladimir, a Serbian saint. His full relics are kept in Albania, in Tirana, at the Church of the Holy Resurrection from the 11th century.”
“And who painted this icon?”
“Oh… Andrei. But he’s not well-known, though he painted many beautiful icons.”
“How many novices are in the monastery?”
“There used to be 19 of us sisters; now there are only 9. Many sisters have gone, with God’s blessing, to three new monasteries.”
“People came from Russia to build a church high in the mountains. What exactly did Nicholas do for Serbia and Montenegro to inspire this church in his honor?”
“So much, so much. He helped the Serbian people during the First World War and in building many churches here in Montenegro—that’s why they love and thank him so much here. Over a million Serbs suffered and died in the First World War, and without Nicholas II’s help, it would have been even worse.”
A rooster crowed loudly behind us.
“No more sheep or goats around?”
“No, they're in the pasture. Come, I’ll show you the shop, and there you can have some coffee if you’d like.”
“I love that you have a playground—I’ve never seen one at a monastery before, not in Russia, Germany, or anywhere else.”
“Yes, families with children visit us often, especially those who prayed to the Virgin for children and received her help. They’re usually ‘gradski’ .Here, if you’d like, you can light a candle.”
She let me out of the monastery walls, and we headed to the souvenir shop, where I bought a lovely monastery keychain. There were also plenty of church books in Serbian, including some for children—several even translated from Russian.
Afterward, I sat at a table in the garden by the summer kitchen, where the novice brought me Turkish delight and a cup of rich, flavorful coffee—the kind they serve guests here. Drawn by the strong, tangy aroma, a striped, purring friend arrived, rubbing against me and settling down nearby to bask in the warming midday sun. Soon after, two Serbian families with children arrived as well.
Savoring this idyll, I returned everything to the summer kitchen, paid, and, after thanking them for the enlightening visit, left Rustovo.
This was the final stop on my journey through the mountain monasteries of Budva’s picturesque coastal municipality. The descent to the Praskvica Monastery was no quicker than the climb, for along the way I encountered a fairytale-like, dollhouse islet formed by the roots of a mighty tree and stones, over which a miniature waterfall cascaded down a rushing river, gurgling melodiously and glinting in the rays of evening sunlight filtering through the forest path’s foliage. On the descent, down the well-known Stroganoff stone staircase, I also met a large green lizard, staring at me with its reptilian eyes. The sun had already bathed the coast in a soft honeyed glow. The sea’s calm surface sparkled in the sunset’s rays. And high above, in the illuminated mountains, the monasteries I’d left behind gleamed faintly.
Kirill Dorokhov March 20, 2025 Budva
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