Ayrivank Monastery

Anyone visiting Lake Sevan almost inevitably makes their way to Sevanavank—the iconic monastery perched on the peninsula. Yet, far from the crowds on the lake’s western shore stands a much older and nearly forgotten sanctuary: the modest monastery of Ayrivank.

Calling it a monastery may be generous—it’s essentially a solitary church, small and reserved, built in the 9th century. Over time, the site acquired the name Ayrivank, and with it, the aura of a monastic complex. The church stands high above the lake, seeming to hover over the water. From the main road that skirts Sevan, it is barely visible—unless you know where to look. Tourists rarely venture here; instead, it is locals who come, for the church remains active.

The original structure is the Church of Saint Stepanos, built from roughly hewn black limestone in the 9th century. A chapel and a gavit—once a space for religious and communal gatherings—were added later. Few historical records about its construction survive. What is known is that a small chapel dedicated to Saint Stepanos once stood here near an ancient cemetery. In 1211, the Vardapetyan brothers restored the chapel, which had fallen into disrepair, expanded it into a full-sized church, and added a spacious vestibule. Thus, the humble church became a monastery, named Ayrivank—derived from “Ayr Hovhannes Vank,” meaning “Monastery of Father Hovhannes.”

Local legend weaves a mythical past into the name. In the 13th century, as Tamerlane invaded Armenia, razing everything in his path, he approached Ayrivank. Seeing the coming slaughter, the priest Hovhannes is said to have flung himself into the lake rather than witness the destruction. But instead of sinking, he walked upon the water. Stunned, Tamerlane summoned the priest and offered him any wish. Hovhannes asked only that as many people be spared as could fit inside the church. The conqueror agreed. People poured into the chapel, and somehow, they all fit—none left outside. Then, one by one, they turned into doves and flew free. Since then, the place has been known as Ayr Hovhannes—Father Hovhannes.

Beneath the outer wall of the monastery lies a walled garden strewn with khachkars and gravestones dating as far back as the 6th century. The ground itself is paved with burial slabs. Beyond the enclosure lie the ruins of monks’ quarters and other ancient structures.

Inside, the church is austere. Its blackened walls are stained with years of candle smoke. Light filters through narrow arched slits, and the interplay of shadow and sun feels intentional—as if the architect used light not for illumination but for atmosphere, letting the sun paint the silence of the stone.

Around the site, scattered tombstones and khachkars continue the story of the cemetery that once surrounded it. The monastery remained active until the 19th century, then fell into abandonment. In 1980, it was carefully restored.

When we visited, we were struck by the stillness of the place and the raw beauty of Sevan stretching into the distance. There was no one else around. To fully appreciate the view, one must climb the nearby hill, scrambling over loose rocks until the entire monastery and the lake below come into full view. Ayrivank captivates not with grandeur, but with its quiet, timeworn dignity—an ancient refuge set apart from the noise of the world.