Yerevan itself offers plenty to see, but what stayed with us most were the places just beyond it — close enough to reach in a day, yet far enough to feel distinct. Our last day in Armenia unfolded largely on the roads around the city, moving outwards and back again, never quite settling.

We began west of Yerevan, in Vagharshapat, at Echmiadzin Cathedral. Barely twenty kilometres from the capital, it felt older than distance allows. This is considered the oldest state-built Christian church in the world, and while that fact is often foregrounded, the experience of being there is quieter. The complex is expansive, but not overwhelming. Movement slows naturally — partly because of scale, partly because of what the place represents.

Echmiadzin is the mother church of the Armenian Apostolic Church and the residence of the Catholicos. Its origins lie in the fourth century, shaped as much by vision and belief as by stone. The current form — cross-shaped, domed, and rebuilt over centuries — carries the marks of adaptation rather than permanence. Inside, light moves gently across frescoes and relics, and the sense is less of spectacle than continuity. It’s a place people return to, not simply pass through.

On the way back towards Yerevan, we stopped at the ruins of Zvartnots Cathedral, another UNESCO-listed site, though very different in mood. Where Echmiadzin still functions, Zvartnots exists only in fragments — a ring of columns set against open ground, framing Mount Ararat in the distance. It’s one of those places that feels designed for photographs, yet standing there, what struck me was how brief its life had been. Built in the seventh century, damaged by an earthquake a few centuries later, and then lost for a long time, Zvartnots now reads as an idea rather than a structure.

Traffic thickened as we crossed back through the city and continued east. Even by midday, the roads into Yerevan were dense, the rhythm noticeably different from the quieter southern stretches we’d just left behind.

Not far from the village of Vokhchabert, we stopped at the Charents Arch. The arch itself is modest — easily missed — but it frames Mount Ararat with deliberate precision. Dedicated to the poet Yeghishe Charents, it’s said to mark a place where he spent time simply looking, returning again and again to the same view. Standing there, it was easy to understand why. The mountain dominates the horizon, distant yet present, more idea than landmark.

From there, the road led us to Geghard Monastery, tucked into the Azat River valley. Geghard is often included in half-day tours from Yerevan, and it shows — there’s a steady flow of visitors — but the setting absorbs that easily. The monastery’s rock-cut chambers, carved directly into the cliffs, change the way sound behaves. Voices soften, footsteps echo briefly, and the boundary between built and natural space dissolves.

Geghard’s history stretches back to the early centuries of Christianity in Armenia, though much of what stands today dates to the thirteenth century. The name, meaning “spear”, refers to the relic once kept here — now housed at Echmiadzin — but again, that story sits lightly on the experience. What lingers is the sense of enclosure, of stone yielding just enough to human intention.

Below Geghard, in the Garni Gorge, we walked through the Symphony of Stones. The basalt columns rise in tight, geometric formations, like an interrupted rhythm, shaped by cooling lava and erosion over time. With the Azat River flowing through the gorge, the walk feels less like visiting a site and more like passing through a corridor briefly opened to you.

The day ended at Garni Temple, Armenia’s best-known pre-Christian monument. Built in the first century and later reconstructed after an earthquake, Garni stands apart from everything else we had seen — Hellenistic in form, pagan in origin, unmistakably classical. It’s carefully restored, perhaps inevitably so, and while its setting is dramatic, the experience felt more observational than immersive. A full stop rather than a pause.

We returned to Yerevan knowing we’d barely touched the city itself. Time had run out, and extending the trip hadn’t been possible. Yerevan would have to wait — not as something missed, exactly, but as something left intentionally unfinished, for another return.