Mont Saint Michel. The Abbey Rising Above the Tides of Normandy

Mont Saint Michel was one of the main reasons I wanted to visit Normandy in the first place. It was already one of those places that existed somewhere in the back of my mind – a landmark I had known by name for years, long before I knew much about its history. The visit took place during a longer journey through Normandy and Brittany last year. For part of the trip I joined an organised coach tour, something I rarely do but occasionally find practical when travelling through regions where several major sites are spread over a large area. It allowed me to concentrate on the places themselves rather than on logistics, and Mont Saint Michel was undoubtedly the highlight of the itinerary.

Unlike many travellers today, I arrived with surprisingly little prior knowledge. I knew what the place was, I knew why it was famous, and I knew that it was considered one of the great historic landmarks of France. Beyond that, however, I had done very little preparation. I often prefer to experience a place first and only afterwards dive into its history, architecture and cultural background. As a result, most of my first impressions were formed on site rather than shaped by articles, documentaries or guidebooks. I listened to the explanations of our guide, explored the complex with my camera, and simply absorbed what was around me. The deeper research came later, after I returned home and began sorting through photographs and notes.

Before looking at the abbey itself, it is worth understanding what makes Mont Saint Michel so unusual. Its fame is not based solely on architecture or history. Equally important is the setting in which it was built.

Mont Saint Michel stands on a tidal island in a vast bay shared by Normandy and Brittany. The surrounding landscape changes constantly with the rhythm of the tides. At high tide, the mount can appear isolated from the mainland, surrounded by water. At low tide, large areas of sand and mudflats emerge, transforming the scenery completely. For centuries, this changing environment shaped both daily life and access to the island.

The location offered clear advantages. The rocky outcrop provided a naturally defensible position, while the surrounding waters and tidal flats created an additional layer of protection. What may appear today as a picturesque setting was once a place of strategic importance. Yet the island’s significance was never military. Long before modern visitors arrived, Mont Saint Michel had already become a destination for pilgrims, travellers and religious communities. Its dramatic setting inspired stories, legends and acts of devotion, eventually giving rise to one of the most famous abbeys in Europe.

According to tradition, the origins of that story date back to the early eighth century and a vision said to have changed the history of the island forever.

The history of Mont Saint Michel begins long before the great abbey visible today was built. According to tradition, there was already some form of religious activity on the rocky island, then known as Mont Tombe, during the early centuries of the first millennium. The event that transformed the island into a major place of pilgrimage is said to have taken place in 708 or 709. According to medieval accounts, the Archangel Michael appeared to Aubert, Bishop of Avranches, and instructed him to build a sanctuary on the mount in his honour. Whether regarded as history, legend or a combination of the two, the story became the foundation of everything that followed.

For medieval Christians, the appearance of Saint Michael carried a significance that is not always immediately obvious to modern visitors. The Archangel Michael was regarded as one of the most important figures in Christian tradition. For travellers exploring historic churches and monasteries across Europe, Saint Michael is a familiar figure. In Christian tradition he is one of the archangels and is often depicted as the commander of the heavenly host, carrying a sword and defeating the forces of evil. Throughout the Middle Ages, numerous churches, monasteries and sanctuaries were dedicated to him, often in places associated with visions, miracles or dramatic landscapes. Mont Saint Michel became one of the most famous of them.

Over the following centuries, the sanctuary attracted increasing numbers of pilgrims, along with generous donations from local rulers, nobles and wealthy benefactors. The growing importance of the site brought both prestige and prosperity. Over time, Mont Saint Michel became one of the wealthiest religious communities in the region, supporting other institutions dedicated to Saint Michael and extending its influence far beyond the island itself.

Buildings were expanded, new structures were added, and the religious community flourished. Among those connected to the history of the mount was Rollo, the Viking leader who became the first ruler of Normandy. Earlier Viking raids had devastated parts of the region and damaged religious institutions, yet after converting to Christianity Rollo became a supporter of the very community that his predecessors might once have threatened. His patronage reflects the remarkable political and religious transformations taking place in Normandy during that period.

As wealth accumulated, however, concerns grew about the discipline of the resident monks. Medieval chroniclers describe a community that had gradually drifted away from the ideals of monastic life. The abbey’s growing wealth brought prestige, but it also created concerns that the monks had become increasingly detached from the discipline and austerity traditionally associated with monastic life. Contemporary accounts suggest that reform was becoming necessary.

Eventually, a reform was introduced and the Benedictine Order was invited to take over the abbey. The existing monks were given the choice of joining the Benedictines or leaving the mount altogether. The arrival of the Benedictines marked the beginning of a new chapter in the history of Mont Saint Michel. Following the Rule of Saint Benedict, daily life became structured around prayer, study and work. Under their stewardship, the abbey continued to grow, eventually becoming one of the most influential monastic centres in medieval France.

For centuries, Mont Saint Michel remained one of the most important religious centres in France. Pilgrims continued to arrive, the abbey expanded, and successive generations added new buildings to the growing complex. The mount became not only a place of worship but also a symbol of prestige, wealth and influence.

Like many religious institutions in Europe, however, the abbey was not immune to wider political and social changes. The late medieval and early modern periods brought challenges that affected monastic communities throughout the continent. Religious reforms, changing political realities and declining numbers of monks gradually reduced the importance of many monasteries, including Mont Saint Michel. The island’s isolation, which had once helped establish its reputation as a spiritual retreat, eventually gave it a very different role.

French rulers recognised the advantages of its location and began using parts of the complex as a prison. Initially, the prison occupied only part of the monastery, while religious life continued in the remaining sections. Over time, however, the penal function expanded and gradually came to dominate the entire complex. What had originally served as a place of prayer increasingly became a place of confinement. The prison function expanded over time. During the French Revolution and the Napoleonic era, Mont Saint Michel was used primarily to hold political prisoners, including members of the clergy. The former abbey became known less for its religious significance than for its penal function.

By the nineteenth century, attitudes towards historic monuments had begun to change. Growing interest in the preservation of France’s architectural heritage led to renewed appreciation of Mont Saint Michel. The prison was eventually closed, and extensive restoration work was undertaken to repair centuries of damage and neglect. Although monastic life briefly returned to commemorate the thousandth anniversary of the Benedictine community, the island never again became a major monastic centre. Today only a small permanent community remains. Yet despite all the changes it has undergone over the centuries, Mont Saint Michel continues to fulfil a role remarkably similar to the one it held in the Middle Ages – it remains a destination that draws people from across the world to a place unlike any other in Europe.

Today, only a small permanent community remains on the island, including a handful of monks and nuns. The number of residents is tiny compared with the millions of visitors who arrive each year. Yet this contrast perhaps captures the essence of Mont Saint Michel better than anything else. A place that once housed a thriving monastic community has become one of Europe’s most famous destinations while still retaining traces of the spiritual life that shaped its history.

For many visitors, Mont Saint Michel is defined by the famous silhouette seen in photographs. Once you arrive, however, the experience unfolds quite differently. The abbey may dominate every image of the island, but it is not the first thing you truly encounter.

Passing through the gates, I found myself not in a monastery but in what felt like a small medieval town. Narrow streets climbed steadily uphill between stone buildings, shops and old houses. The route towards the abbey was not a direct approach to a single monument but a gradual journey through layers of settlement that had developed around it over centuries.

We arrived relatively early in the day, which proved to be an advantage. There were already many visitors, but the largest crowds had not yet arrived. As the morning progressed, more and more people poured through the gates, making some of the busiest sections increasingly difficult to photograph. Even so, the layout of the village helped disperse the crowds, and there were moments when it was possible to step away from the busiest streets and enjoy a quieter corner of the mount.

One of the most striking aspects of Mont Saint Michel is that, once inside, you rarely see the monument as a whole. The iconic profile familiar from postcards and guidebooks disappears. Instead, the abbey reveals itself in fragments – a tower rising above a roofline, a section of wall appearing between buildings, a staircase leading towards another level. The closer you get, the less you are able to see the complete structure. That gradual progression is part of what makes the approach so memorable. Rather than standing before a single monumental façade, visitors slowly work their way upwards through the village until they finally reach the abbey itself. By then, anticipation has already become part of the experience.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Mont Saint Michel is that its history is visible almost everywhere. Many historic buildings give the impression of having been designed as a single architectural composition. Mont Saint Michel does not. Walking through the abbey, it quickly becomes apparent that the complex was created over many centuries. Different generations expanded it, altered it and adapted it to changing needs. Rather than forming a perfectly unified structure, the abbey resembles a collection of buildings that gradually grew around one another while sharing the same rocky foundation.

This is particularly noticeable in the walls and construction details. As you move through the complex, different styles, materials and architectural solutions begin to appear. One section may feel distinctly Romanesque, while another reflects a later period. The transitions are not always subtle. In many places, it is easy to recognise where one phase of construction ended and another began. The result is a building that often feels more like a small stone city than a single monastery. Staircases connect different levels, corridors lead unexpectedly into new spaces, and passages reveal yet another layer of construction. There is a constant sense that the abbey evolved rather than being completed. Perhaps because of this, Mont Saint Michel never felt static to me. Many historic monuments present a finished vision created by a single generation. Here, I had the impression of walking through centuries of continuous change. Every addition, reconstruction and alteration became part of the final structure, creating a place whose greatest architectural strength lies not in perfect symmetry but in the visible accumulation of time itself.

While the abbey itself dominates every photograph of Mont Saint Michel, some of my strongest memories are connected not with the buildings but with the landscape surrounding them. After moving through the narrow streets, staircases and enclosed spaces of the mount, stepping out onto the terraces and viewing points revealed an entirely different world. Beyond the walls stretched a vast open landscape with almost no visual boundaries. Instead of towns, roads or forests, there were tidal flats, patches of shallow water and broad expanses of sand reaching towards the horizon.

When I visited, the tide was out, exposing large areas of the bay. Rather than seeing the island surrounded by water, I saw an immense open space in muted shades of beige, grey and green. The scenery felt surprisingly calm and almost minimalist, especially when compared with the complexity of the buildings rising above it. What struck me most was the sense of scale. Looking out from the mount, it was possible to understand why this place had fascinated travellers, pilgrims and artists for centuries. The landscape seemed to extend endlessly in every direction, creating a feeling of isolation that is difficult to appreciate in photographs alone. I also remember noticing a few people making their way across the exposed flats below. Seen from above, they appeared remarkably small against the vastness of the bay.

If the views revealed the scale of the landscape, the walls revealed the scale of Mont Saint Michel itself. Standing at the base of the complex and looking upwards, I was often struck by how little its true height is conveyed in photographs. Only from within the mount does it become clear how dramatically the abbey rises above the village and the rock beneath it. In many ways, the contrast between the enclosed world of the abbey and the openness of the bay became one of the defining impressions of the visit. Inside, there were walls, passages, staircases and centuries of accumulated history. Outside, there was space, distance and horizon.

According to figures available at the time of my visit, around three million people were visiting Mont Saint Michel every year. That translates into an average of roughly eight thousand visitors a day. Given that most people arrive during the warmer months rather than throughout the entire year, the actual daily numbers during the main tourist season are significantly higher. On paper, this sounds overwhelming. The island is not particularly large, and everyone arrives through the same access route. It would be easy to imagine Mont Saint Michel as a place permanently overcrowded with tourists.

To some extent, that impression is true. The crowds are among the first things you notice. What surprised me was how at times rarely those crowds dominated the experience. The reason lies in the structure of the mount itself. Mont Saint Michel is not simply a village surrounding a single monument. Behind the famous façade lies a surprisingly complex network of streets, staircases, terraces, halls and passages spread across multiple levels. As a result, visitors naturally disperse throughout the site. There were always people around me, yet I rarely felt trapped in a crowd. In some places the flow of visitors was constant, while in others I unexpectedly found quieter corners and moments of relative solitude. The mount often felt less like a single tourist attraction and more like a small maze capable of absorbing far more people than its size would suggest.

Some famous places disappoint. Years of photographs, travel articles and documentaries create expectations that reality struggles to match. Mont Saint Michel is not one of them. Looking back on my visit nearly a year later, I still consider it one of the most remarkable places I have seen in Europe. Not because of any single building, view or historical event, but because of the way so many elements come together in one location. The tidal island, the medieval village, the abbey, the fortifications and the vast landscape of the bay create a setting unlike any other. What I remember most is not a particular room or architectural detail. Instead, I remember the overall impression of a place shaped by centuries of history. Mont Saint Michel has become an icon for a reason.

By the end of the day I was both impressed and exhausted. Exploring the mount involves far more walking and climbing than many visitors might expect. Yet that physical effort is part of the experience. Mont Saint Michel is not a place that is simply observed from a distance. It is a place that has to be explored, climbed and experienced. For me, it remains one of the great landmarks of Europe – not only because of its history, but because there is simply nowhere else quite like it.

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Mont Saint Michel. The Abbey Rising Above the Tides of Normandy

Monastery of Alcobaça. Space, Light and Stone

Some journeys stay in your memory because of a single place. Others because every day brings another unforgettable destination. My two-week journey through Portugal belonged to the second category. Travelling across the country by coach after arriving by plane, our small group visited an extraordinary variety of monasteries, castles, historic towns and Atlantic landscapes. Looking back, it remains one of the most rewarding tours I have ever taken.

Alcobaça was one of the highlights of that journey. Yet my first impression was not what I expected. Approaching the monastery through the streets of the town, I had no idea how enormous it really was. We walked past long monastery buildings before reaching the church entrance, but from ground level it was impossible to understand the true scale of the complex. Only after stepping inside did I realise that this was far more than a church.

It was only after returning home and looking at aerial photographs that everything made sense. The monastery is so closely woven into the surrounding town that its size remains hidden until you see it from above. What appears at first to be a single monumental building is, in fact, one of Europe’s greatest Cistercian monasteries – a self-contained world where prayer, work and everyday life existed side by side for centuries.

The Monastery of Alcobaça is far more than one of Portugal’s finest medieval monuments. Founded in 1153 by King Afonso I, the country’s first monarch, it became one of the most influential Cistercian monasteries on the Iberian Peninsula. The king granted the monastery to the Cistercian Order after the Christian conquest of Santarém, recognising both its spiritual importance and the practical role the monks could play in consolidating the newly established Portuguese kingdom.

The Cistercians were not only devoted to prayer. They were also highly skilled farmers, engineers and administrators. They drained marshes, cultivated farmland, introduced advanced agricultural techniques and managed extensive estates. Over the centuries, the monastery became one of the country’s largest landowners, contributing to the economic development of central Portugal while serving as an important centre of education, manuscript production and religious life.

Like many medieval monasteries, Alcobaça was a carefully planned complex rather than a single building. The church formed its spiritual heart, but it was only one part of a much larger community. Around it were cloisters, the chapter house, the refectory, the monks’ dormitory, kitchens, workshops, storerooms and the abbot’s quarters – each designed for a specific purpose. Together they created a self-sufficient world where worship, work and everyday life followed a carefully organised rhythm.

The monastery remained an active religious community for almost seven centuries, until 1834, when the Portuguese government dissolved the country’s religious orders and the last monks left Alcobaça. Today, it stands not only as an outstanding example of Cistercian Gothic architecture, but also as one of the best-preserved places to understand how a great medieval monastery once functioned.

Stepping inside the church was a completely different experience from standing outside. The monumental façade gave little hint of what awaited beyond the entrance. Instead of richly decorated chapels, gilded altars or colourful frescoes, I found an interior defined by space, light and warm-coloured stone.

The first impression was one of almost overwhelming simplicity. The long central nave stretched into the distance beneath elegant Gothic vaults, while daylight filtered through the tall windows, softly illuminating the pale limestone walls. There was very little to distract the eye. The architecture itself became the decoration.

That simplicity was no coincidence. It reflected the original ideals of the Cistercian Order, whose churches were designed to encourage contemplation rather than admiration for material wealth. Ornament was deliberately reduced to a minimum, allowing proportion, light and harmony to create a spiritual atmosphere. Over the centuries, however, many Cistercian monasteries across Europe were enlarged, rebuilt or remodelled, often acquiring magnificent Renaissance or Baroque decoration. Alcobaça has preserved the remarkable simplicity that defined early Cistercian architecture, making it one of the finest places to experience the Order’s original vision.

Walking through the interior, I realised that the church was only one part of a much larger story. Its vast, uncluttered space reflected the values by which the monks lived every day – humility, discipline and community. Those principles shaped not only the church itself but every part of the monastery beyond its walls.

Only in the transept does the eye meet an unexpected contrast. Here stand the magnificent Gothic tombs of King Pedro I and Inês de Castro, their richly carved decoration dramatically different from the restrained architecture surrounding them. After the almost austere simplicity of the church, these royal monuments immediately draw attention – not because they overwhelm the space, but because they are virtually the only place where elaborate sculpture becomes part of the visitor’s experience.

Although the monastery itself is an extraordinary monument, for many visitors the tombs of King Pedro I and Inês de Castro are the emotional heart of Alcobaça. Their story is one of the best-known legends in Portuguese history. Pedro, heir to the Portuguese throne, fell deeply in love with Inês de Castro, a Galician noblewoman who served as a lady-in-waiting to his wife. Their relationship was fiercely opposed by the royal court, which feared the growing influence of Inês’s powerful family. In 1355, on the orders of King Afonso IV, Inês was murdered while Pedro was away.

When Pedro became king two years later, he took revenge on those responsible for her death. According to a famous Portuguese tradition, he also declared that he and Inês had secretly married before her murder, making her the rightful queen of Portugal. An even more dramatic legend claims that he ordered her body to be exhumed, crowned and honoured by the royal court. Whether this actually happened remains uncertain, but the story has become an inseparable part of Portuguese cultural memory.

The Gothic tombs created for Pedro and Inês are among the finest works of medieval sculpture in Portugal. Every side is covered with intricate carvings depicting biblical scenes, saints, fantastic creatures and episodes from their lives. They are works of art that reward careful observation, revealing new details from every angle. One detail makes these monuments especially moving. Rather than being placed side by side, the two tombs stand opposite each other across the transept. According to tradition, they were positioned this way so that, on the Day of Resurrection, the first person Pedro would see would be Inês, and the first person she would see would be Pedro.

After walking through the monastery’s vast, almost austere interiors, these richly carved tombs create a striking contrast. They are not only royal monuments but also a reminder that, within walls built for simplicity and discipline, one of Portugal’s most enduring stories of love and loss found its final resting place.

Leaving the church, I entered a very different part of the monastery. While the church was designed for worship, the surrounding buildings reveal how the Cistercian community lived from day to day. Like many medieval monasteries, Alcobaça was carefully planned, with every space serving a specific purpose. Together, these buildings formed a remarkably well-organised community where prayer, work and everyday routines followed a strict rhythm.

At the heart of the complex are the cloisters, which connected the monastery’s most important rooms. From here, the monks could reach the church, the chapter house, the refectory, the dormitory and other essential areas without leaving the enclosed monastic world. Walking through these quiet arcades today, it is easy to imagine the daily routines that changed little for centuries.

One of the details that impressed me most was the shared dormitory. Unlike some other monasteries I have visited, where each monk had a separate cell, the Cistercians at Alcobaça originally slept together in one vast hall. Privacy was not part of the monastic ideal. Living, praying and resting as a community reflected the values of humility, equality and discipline that shaped Cistercian life.

I was reminded of this difference by another Portuguese monastery I visited during the same journey – Tomar, once home to the Knights Templar. There, the monks had individual cells, reflecting the different character and traditions of the order. Alcobaça offered a striking contrast. Here, community life was placed above individual comfort, and the architecture itself was designed to reinforce that principle.

Even small architectural details reflected the monastery’s strict discipline. Our guide pointed out one particularly narrow doorway and shared a popular local story: if a monk could no longer pass through it, it was a sign that he had been eating too well and should return to a stricter diet. Whether this was an actual rule or simply a tale passed down over generations, it perfectly captured the spirit of moderation that defined life in a Cistercian monastery.

Among all the monastic buildings, the kitchen was probably the greatest surprise. It is not particularly ornate, yet it immediately catches the eye because of its impressive scale. Unlike many Portuguese interiors, where colourful azulejos dominate the walls, the decoration here is relatively restrained. The focus is on functionality rather than appearance.

The kitchen was rebuilt in the 18th century, when the monastery was at the height of its prosperity. Its enormous chimney, supported by elegant iron columns, rises high above the cooking area and dominates the entire room. Even today, it is easy to imagine how much food had to be prepared here every day for one of the largest monastic communities in Portugal.

What makes this kitchen truly exceptional, however, is its water supply. A carefully designed channel brought fresh water directly from the nearby Alcoa River, allowing it to flow continuously through the room. The water still runs today, making it one of the monastery’s most fascinating surviving features.

According to tradition, the same channel was also used to deliver live fish from the river into the kitchen. Whether or not this happened exactly as it is often described, there is no doubt that the water system was an ingenious solution. Fish formed an important part of the monks’ diet, especially on the many days when the Rule prohibited eating meat. Having a constant supply of fresh water within the kitchen greatly simplified both food preparation and everyday work.

Standing in the kitchen, I was struck by how modern many of its ideas seemed. Running water, efficient drainage, dedicated work areas and an enormous ventilation system were not luxuries – they were practical solutions designed to support a large community. It is a reminder that medieval monasteries were not only centres of prayer and learning but also places where engineering and organisation were refined over centuries.

Unlike the church, which impresses through space and simplicity, the kitchen tells a different story. Here, every architectural element had a practical purpose. It may not be the most famous room in Alcobaça, but it is undoubtedly one of the most memorable.

While the church was the spiritual centre of the monastery, the cloister was its heart. Nearly every part of monastic life began or ended here. The covered walkways connected the church with the chapter house, the refectory, the dormitory and other essential buildings, allowing the monks to move through the monastery without ever leaving the enclosed community.

Known as the Cloister of Silence, this was far more than an architectural feature. It was a place for quiet reflection, reading and prayer, but also part of the monks’ daily routine as they walked between their duties. The rhythm of monastic life was shaped not only by worship but also by these repeated journeys through the peaceful arcades.

Like the church itself, the cloister relies on proportion rather than decoration. Slender Gothic arches, warm stone and carefully balanced geometry create an atmosphere that feels calm rather than imposing. Nothing appears excessive. Every element seems to have been designed to support the ideals of simplicity and contemplation that defined the Cistercian way of life.

Walking through the cloister today, it is easy to forget that hundreds of monks once passed through these galleries every day. The voices are gone, yet the architecture still preserves the sense of order and tranquillity that has defined Alcobaça for centuries. It is perhaps here, more than anywhere else in the monastery, that its title as a place of space, light and stone feels most appropriate.

Years later, after visiting monasteries belonging to different religious orders across Europe, I have come to appreciate Alcobaça even more. It helped me understand that a monastery is not simply a church with a few additional buildings, but a carefully organised world where every space had its own purpose. Looking back, I realise that Alcobaça was one of the places that first taught me to see monasteries in that way.

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Monastery of Alcobaça. Space, Light and Stone

Tomar, the Templars’ monastery

Portugal dissolved the religious orders in the XIX. But still, journeying in Portugal, you can visit the buildings of former monasteries. One of them is the Convent of Christ or merely the Templar’s order monastery in Tomar (see map). To be precise, the Military Order of Christ was the Portuguese successor of the Knights Templar after the latter was dissolved by Pope Clement V in 1312. Unlike in other countries, where the Templars were persecuted and executed, the Portuguese king protected the former knights Templar.

Templars were quite a wealthy order. You can see that visiting the monks’ cells. Each of them, as well as each of the novices,  had a separate room. In winter, each room was heated thanks to a heating system pushing hot air between walls.

The church /chapel is of a bit unusual construction of Charola – a round church, where the altar is located in the center of a round building. The guide told us that it was even possible for knight monks to participate in a mass while sitting on horses.

The Tomar Monastery was founded in 1160 by Gualdim Pais, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar in Portugal, it was established following the Christian reconquest of the land from the Moors. During its time under the Templars, the monastery served as a stronghold and a center for learning and arts, notably featuring the Charola, a round church influenced by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, highlighting the Templars’ connections to the Holy Land. The dissolution of the Knights Templar in 1312 led to a significant transition for the monastery. In 1319, the Order of Christ was established, inheriting the assets of the Templars in Portugal. This transition, facilitated by King Dinis of Portugal, saw the Order of Christ become a key supporter of Portugal’s maritime explorations during the Age of Discovery. This era brought significant expansions and architectural transformations to the monastery, particularly under the influence of Prince Henry the Navigator and King Manuel I. The addition of the Manueline style window in the Chapter House during this period is a notable example, reflecting Portugal’s maritime prowess. However, the monastery’s fortunes waned, suffering from neglect, damage during the Napoleonic invasions, and the devastating 1755 Lisbon earthquake. It wasn’t until the 19th and 20th centuries that concerted restoration efforts were undertaken to preserve its architectural and historical integrity.

Tomar, the Templars’ monastery