And then, rising above the valley like a sentinel, stood the Jvari Monastery.
Perched atop a rocky cliff, it commanded the confluence of the Mtkvari and
Aragvi rivers. Legend says a wooden cross was erected here in the fourth
century by Saint Nino, marking the dawn of Christianity in Georgia. The current
stone church, built between 585 and 605 AD, is a masterpiece of early Georgian
architecture—simple, solemn, and utterly majestic.
As I stood there, wind tugging at my sleeves, I felt the weight of centuries settle
around me. The stones beneath my feet had borne witness to empires rising
and falling to prayers whispered in candlelight, to the quiet persistence of faith.
It was humbling.
Just beyond the bend, Mtskheta revealed itself like a secret garden. Once the
capital of the ancient Kingdom of Iberia, it’s one of the oldest continuously
inhabited cities in the world. The village unfolded in soft hues—stone walls,
terracotta roofs, pomegranate trees heavy with fruit.
I found a guesthouse tucked behind a wooden gate, its courtyard dappled with
shade. The owner, a kind-eyed man, offered to drive me back up to Jvari. I
accepted without hesitation.
That evening, I wandered the cobbled lanes of Mtskheta, eventually arriving at
the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral. Built between 1010 and 1129, it’s said to house
the robe of Christ, buried beneath its foundations. Whether legend or truth, the
cathedral radiated a quiet power. I sat on a bench in its shadow, watching the
light fade, feeling the hush of history settle around me.
Later, I sipped a cold beer in the courtyard of the guesthouse, the air thick with
the scent of ripe pomegranates. The sky turned lavender, then indigo. I thought
of the morning’s chaos, the lost screw, the misty hills, the ancient stones. This, I
realized, was the rhythm of cycle touring: the unexpected, the sublime, the
small victories. A day that began with frustration had ended in stillness and awe.