Family Funishment Field Notes: Ostrog Monastery

The Serbian Orthodox Ostrog Monastery was not a place we stumbled upon by accident—although we could see it from miles away, suspended in a mountain as if gravity were optional. Built in the 17th century and carved directly into a sheer limestone cliff, it clung to the face of Mount Ostrog like a deliberate act of faith.

Getting there on our way to Albania required effort, and the road did not ease us in. It coiled upward in tight switchbacks; a ribbon of asphalt pressed against gray rock—the kind of road that made me grip the door handle and pray. Far below, the Bjelopavlići plain dropped away in green folds, both beautiful and terrifying.

For many of the faithful, there is another option. Each year, thousands of Orthodox, Catholic, and Muslim pilgrims walk the final three kilometers uphill—often fasting, often barefoot—carrying their hopes, grief, gratitude, and desperation. Ostrog is one of the rare religious sites in Europe revered across faiths, known as a place of healing and answered prayers whether you belong to the church that built it.

Even without making the pilgrimage on foot, arriving at the monastery felt deeply moving. The complex is divided into two parts: the Lower Monastery, home to the Church of the Holy Trinity and the monks’ living quarters, and the Upper Monastery, with its ancient rock-hewn chapels embedded directly into the cliff. The walls of the Church of the Holy Cross and the Church of the Presentation of the Virgin, weren't built so much as revealed, with uneven limestone surfaces still visible beneath layers of frescoes darkened by time and candle smoke. Many of the paintings dated to the 17th century and were attributed to local monks rather than formal iconographers.

In a narrow inner chamber, pilgrims moved slowly toward the reliquary of Saint Basil of Ostrog, whose remains are believed to be incorrupt and are kept behind glass. People pressed notes with handwritten prayers into the cracks of the stone, as if the mountain were part of the ritual, too.

Ostrog Monastery was a quick stop on a long road trip, but we couldn’t force ourselves to rush through it or skip ahead. I relished the rare opportunity for the kids to simply exist without entertainment, without explanation, and without a takeaway other than presence.

We didn't visit to learn facts about Montenegro, Orthodoxy, or the Ottoman era in which the monastery was built. We sought something harder to measure: a lived understanding that the world holds places of deep, shared meaning, where perseverance and faith are written directly into the landscape.

Traveling with kids is often framed as compromise, but I don’t think it should be. Before our gap year, taking the twins to a silent monastery would've made me cringe. But while traveling, we set higher expectations for their curiosity, respectfulness, and fortitude—and they almost always met them. Growth happened in the uncomfortable, messy, and humorous moments when everything and everyone fell short.

All of it compelled us to keep choosing the winding road to hidden gems like Ostrog, which became the foundation of our Family Funishment adventure.