A small Byzantine church, less known than it deserves, lies in the wild scrub country to the north of Lycabettus. The pleasantest way to approach it is on foot. Leaving the Marathon Road almost a mile beyond Ambelokepi, it is easy to strike across the Turkovouni range through one of the steep defiles between the little hills. Across the open country beyond, a cart-track bears away to the right, and brings us, after a mile’s walk, to the church, known to the countryside by the endearing name Omorphi Ekklesia–“Lovely Church” or “Church Beautiful.”
Theoretically it may also be reached by carriage from the Patissia Road, but the country is rough and cabmen are wont to pretend ignorance of its whereabouts, so that for a first expedition I should always recommend a journey on foot. It is within sight of the little station of Heracleia, on the Cephissia Railway, and is easily found from this side also if the traveller does not mind a cross-country scramble.
Wandering about these lonely moors it is difficult to believe that we are within an hour’s walk of a European capital. A few shepherds with fierce dogs, or a solitary brushwood-gatherer are the only friends we are likely to meet. The church, which is small and dark, belongs to the cruciform type, with the central dome rising on a high drum. Its chief variation from the regular type lies in the addition of a narrow narthex and of an extra aisle on the south side. This aisle ends in an apse larger than the two side apses, but not so large as the central apse of the bema.
It does not seem to be a later addition, for it is made of the same fine squared blocks of stone with alternate rows of brick that are seen in the rest of the building. Some later work appears, however, at its west end, where aisle and narthex are of inferior masonry. Little use is made of brick as ornament. Instead of brick designs there are the plain faces of masonry relieved by a delicate marble string-course that must once have run right round the building. There are also light marble columns finished with carved capitals in some of the windows.
One of these capitals and some other fragments of carving lie on the floor inside the narthex. The door is usually locked, and the sleepy guardian of the solitude must be roused from some shady corner of the neighbouring huts. After the sunshine the meagre proportions of the church shut us down in chilly darkness. The four large central piers supporting the dome seem far too bulky for the narrow space around them. The whole interior gives an impression of massive solidity out of all proportion to the diminutive building. Yet its beauty is beyond dispute.
It is not the beauty of line, but of colour. The darkness is filled with mysterious faces and blurred robes of crimson and blue. The walls have once been covered with fresco, and even where the damp has loosened the original painting it has set green stains to hide the gaps. The paintings in the centre of the church have been much restored. None are intrinsically of special merit, but as we pass from one grave figure to another, our eyes fighting with the darkness, we are left with a general sense of the reverence and fitness of the decoration.
In the small apse on the north side there is a representation of God the Father, with the Spirit in the form of a Dove perched on His right forefinger. Behind the nimbus can be faintly distinguished the words “The Ancient of Days.” The superscription is not usual in Byzantine art, and we are grateful to the artist who set his own thought here, striking the note of Eternity for this little church set in the wilds.
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