A peaceful oasis, scented by polish, incense and wax, icons glimmering in the light of tall, thin candles. The monastry, just 200 years old, is hot, stuffy, and powerful. Pilgrims kiss the icons as I watch, partly horrified by the hygiene of it, and partly mezmerised by their piety. A shop sells icons and bottles of annointing oil, little crosses and all manner of holy merchandise. Bright pink flowers hang over white and yellow walls, and beyond are cypress trees and cliffs above bays of turquoise water.