On the rewards of persistence.

After turning on the TV, the second thing you and B did in Moscow was visit B’s newlywed friend A and his bride. Which was a lot of fun.

About halfway through the evening, A said, giggling, “Do you remember the time we went to the monestary?”

Sure do:

The social call to B’s monk at his monestary had already been put off twice first as it seemed to have escaped the men’s attention that the first date was actually (orthodox) Christmas day, and secondly as even for the purity of your soul you are not travelling two hours on an electrichka in minus twenty.

But when the weather zoomed up to a tropical zero, the excuses had run out so there you were at 8am, you and B, staring slightly resentfully at A who had messed up the train times and got you to the station over an hour before the train was due to leave. Still, it left some time to do the shopping.

Now, many people know that you have strong partisan feelings towards the Metro. And a trip on an overnight train is also a reason for rejoicing. Electrichka’s however, are a bit more hit and miss.

In the summer months, despite the fact that the trains are so wide you can fit 12 seated people across the carriage on benches and have space down the middle for walking, you usually find yourself standing squashed in the corner amongst the babushka with 5 sapling fruit trees and trays of young tomato plants, the man with the stinky fishing tackle and the young lady with the dog, the cat, the chicken and the pig. Well, perhaps the pig is a bit of an exaggeration. In the winter, you get stuck on the only unheated carriage and are too stubborn to give up your seat to find warmer climes, the result being advanced pneumonia.

But this journey was relatively comfortable, being warm, seated and en book. Although since you had, after all, just come back from Britain, land of the alarmingly wizzy trains, you couldn’t help noticing the truly relaxed pace of travel as you amble down the tracks for over two hours.

The walk through the forest was also nice. Blue skies, white snow, trees, total silence. Lovely.

Then you get to the minefield.

“That’s the military base I was telling you about,” says B.

“What’s that?” you ask, pointing to the official looking entrance way up ahead.

So it turns out that the monestary is, in fact, inside the military base.

Under strict instructions not to speak, certainly not English, and preferably not Russian, you stand there smiling hopefully as B and A proceed to blag you through the checkpoint.

“She’s my wife,” says B.

“Documents?” says the rather bored military chappie behind the window.

“Yes, well, I sort of forgot hers.”

The man rolls his eyes. ”And so she could be anyone, yes? Your wife. Not your wife. A saboteur. A spy.”

You attempt to beam even more inoffensively.

“Smiles a lot, doesn’t she?”

Anyway, they let you all in and you pootle through the base – with eyes front in case curious glances are misinterpreted – and eventually get to the monastery, situated behind the missile silo and next to the chemical weapons dump. Or perhaps that was a pig pen and a holy water spring.

It’s clear that this is a working monastery. The buildings – built around the quadrangular wall – are a little bit shabby and all the monks are wandering round in jeans and tatty jumpers, carrying buckets and things. Hammering can be heard. There are some kids from the base messing about and sweeping snow, and a mother taking her daughter to the library. Cats are stalking possessively about and underfoot are a few chickens. Round the back are some snowed in greenhouses next to the bell ringers platform. The church in the centre is a hive of activity. It’s being restored and so there’s a smell of paint overlaying the smell of burning wax – the incense hasn’t had a chance to soak back into the stone yet - and all the decorations are shiny and new. You mooch about for a bit, and then tackle a monk and ask for yours.

He’s not there. He’s been reassigned to Vladimir. Still, it was a pleasant spot to have a picnic, so you did.

Then you went home.

This was a good five years ago or so now. You still haven’t met the man.

A, on the other hand, spent a bit of time chasing him from monastery to monastery, but by the time they met he’d left monking for good.

And had got married. And his wife introduced A to a nice young lady called N and now they are married. There’s almost certainly a moral in there somewhere.