At Orheiul Vechi the Răut has looped almost all the way round a limestone promontory, and the buildings that matter are inside it rather than on top. The rock is an old seabed, soft enough that monks cut into it with hand tools. You stoop through a low doorway into a passage bored through the cliff, cool and dim, with cells opening off it one after another. The chapel is lit by candles: the icons glow, the ceiling is black with old soot, and the air holds wax and incense. At the far end a window cut through the rock frames the green loop of the river a hundred metres below — the reason the monks chose this wall.
On top, a small white church stands alone on the grass spine, and the meander closes around the spur you walked up: cliffs on one side, orchards and vineyards on the other. At sunrise the low sun takes the cliff from grey to ochre and mist lies along the water. The ridge runs far enough that you can walk out and leave everyone behind. The biggest thing that ever stood here is the hardest to see. Out on the flat ground below lie the outlines of Şehr al-Cedid, the New City the Golden Horde planted here in the fourteenth century: a caravanserai, a mosque beside it, baths heated from underneath. The coins stop in the 1360s. Settlers moved into the ruins around 1370 and built their own town from the Tatar stone, and that was gone by about 1540. Almost nothing stands above knee height, so a capital survives as a floor plan. In the village under the cliffs lunch comes out of guesthouse kitchens: plăcinte, sheep's cheese, mămăligă and house wine on a long table in somebody's yard. Monks moved back into the cells in the 1990s, cleared the chapel and repainted its icons, so the rock is not a ruin for you to wander through: shoulders stay covered and voices stay down.