We woke to sunlight in Goris — a clean, open morning that felt almost deliberate after the rain and low cloud of the previous day. The weather alone would have lifted our mood, but there was also the quiet satisfaction of knowing we hadn’t rushed through. Staying the night in Goris had eased the logistics, yes, but it did something else too. It gave us a place that wasn’t framed as an interlude or a base — just a town we happened to be in, briefly, on its own terms. It may not be absent from itineraries entirely, but it certainly sits away from the main current, and that distance mattered.

The road from Goris to Tatev Monastery moves quickly from town to terrain. The landscape tightens, drops away, and then opens out again in long, exposed stretches. Tatev appears suddenly, set on a rocky plateau above the Vorotan Gorge, less announced than revealed. Its position feels deliberate, not defensive exactly, but assured — as if it had always belonged there.

Founded in the ninth century, Tatev grew into one of medieval Armenia’s important religious and intellectual centres. That history is easy enough to read about, but standing within the complex, what comes through more strongly is its balance. The churches — St Astvatsatsin and St Gregory among them — are finely worked but restrained, their carvings detailed without excess. Nothing here feels ornamental for its own sake. The setting does much of the speaking.

We reached Tatev via the Wings of Tatev cable car, choosing height over tarmac without much hesitation. The crossing is smooth and oddly quiet, the gorge opening beneath you in slow motion. It doesn’t feel like an arrival designed to impress; more like a gradual reorientation, a reminder of scale before you step back onto stone.

From Tatev, we continued north towards Zorats Karer, also known as Karahunj. The site sits in open ground near Sisian, its stones scattered and assembled at the same time — upright, weathered, unlabelled. Comparisons to Stonehenge are common and probably unavoidable, but they don’t help much once you’re there. Zorats Karer resists neat explanation.

There are theories, many of them, about what this place might have been — an observatory, a ceremonial site, a burial ground. The stones themselves don’t argue either way. Walking among them, the most noticeable thing is the lack of instruction. No obvious path, no single vantage point. You move slowly, not because the site demands reverence, but because it doesn’t offer clarity.

The last stop of the day was Shaki Waterfall, a short drive from Sisian. After the openness of Zorats Karer, the waterfall felt contained and immediate. Water dropped hard over dark rock, the sound doing more than the sight. It wasn’t dramatic in scale, but it didn’t need to be. By then, the day had already been full — of distance, of stone, of space — and Shaki closed it without asking for emphasis.