And then there were two

AS SHE comes forward to greet me, the huge grin creasing Mother Thekla's face and the outstretched hand belie my first impression of one of the most isolated communities in Britain. "Sit down, sit down," she says, gesturing at the plain wooden chairs around a plain wooden table. "We don't have many visitors now. We got rid of those," she chuckles.

This is the Hesychasterion, or prayerhouse, of the Komisis, or Assumption, the only Greek Orthodox monastery in Britain to adhere to a strict tradition. Down a narrow track described by Mother Hilda in her directions as "uninviting", through a gate marked "Private", you arrive at another gate. "Monastery enclosure, do not enter", a sign warns, above another reading: "The monastery does not receive visitors. There is no guesthouse. The monastery, church yard, church services are closed to visitors."

This is not a place where you would expect a warm welcome.

That Mother Thekla and Mother Hilda have agreed to my visit does not indicate an end to their self-imposed seclusion, but they are looking for new recruits, and, as 84-year-old Mother Thekla says, the need is becoming pressing.

"I'm very old now, as you can see, and the future of the monastery depends on nuns. And there is the question of leaving poor Mother Hilda alone when I pop my clogs, which can't be so very long now," she says, with not a hint of sadness.

The monastery began in the south of England in 1965, but nine years later, overwhelmed by visitors, it moved to a former farmhouse a few miles south of Whitby in North Yorkshire. Mother Thekla was accompanied by Mother Maria and Mother Katherine. Mother Maria died in 1977, Mother Katherine 11 years later. Mother Hilda joined in 1994.

"Mother Maria and I fled up here. We had Mother Katherine with us as well. They have both gone to their rest and I was left alone and then this thing joined me," grins Mother Thekla, waving a hand across the wooden table towards Mother Hilda.

"You were on your own for six years," says Mother Hilda.

"It seemed longer than that to me," replies Mother Thekla.

Even together, theirs is largely a solitary life. Most of their time is spent alone and each cell has its own door to the outside, so there is no need for their paths to cross. Prayers and some meals are the only times they normally meet. They rarely leave the monastery, apart from doctor's appointments and Mother Hilda's trip to the supermarket every three or four months.

Nor is this a monastery dedicated to good works in the community. Mother Thekla says the best way to describe their way of life is "enclosed contemplative".

"Our work is prayer. The rest of it is a necessity for survival, as one might say, but the work of the monastery is to pray for the world. Not being of the world, we're not confused by irrelevant questions," she says.

"People in the world haven't time to pray because they're busy running around for their families. The world has to look after itself and its families, and we balance it by looking up and not sideways."

The monastery, a narrow, L-shaped building, is simply decorated and furnished, rather than spartan. All the walls are white, and the furniture plain and wooden, but brightly coloured icons are scattered throughout. Those in the church - a converted stable - were painted by Mother Hilda.

Both nuns wear black habits, with black scarves wrapped tightly around their heads. Mother Hilda has the benefit of a black gilet as well. They pray for eight hours a day, with all-night vigils on feast days, and fast during Lent.

There is a washing machine, microwave and computer, and a tape recorder, used by Mother Hilda to translate Byzantine melodies into English. But the nuns recognise that their way of life would not appeal to many people.

"By the standards of the world, this would be a very uncomfortable place," says Mother Hilda, an American who is perhaps in her 50s and wears large round glasses. "It is always cold in the winter, and some people find fasting difficult. A lot of people in the world can't imagine life without radio or television."

She says joining the monastery is a form of martyrdom, becoming dead to the world. "I think that is why we have difficulty getting people. Martyrdom isn't a popular career choice, is it? In the world, people think of self-fulfilment. This kind of monastic life is self-emptying. The vows of poverty, chastity and obedience are a reversal of the three most attractive things in the world, which are power, sex and wealth."

The past few years have seen a few inquiries about joining the monastery, and even a handful who came to visit, but no one has taken it any further. Mother Thekla thinks one of the main reasons is that life has become too comfortable.

"I think it is because they are spoilt. In a way suffering is being eliminated, and suffering is essential for Christianity because Christ showed the way on the cross. We have to die to the world, and now the world is so pleasant, they don't want to die to it.

"The demands of people now are extraordinary. They all want to have three holidays. They all have to go to that island off Spain and when they get there they only want fish and chips anyway," she says, giggling. "I have never been on an aeroplane, by the way," she adds, with a twinkle in her eye.

"We have had a few letters from people who think of it as an escape," says Mother Hilda. "In a way you leave the world, but you go to something harder, so it is not an escape."

Both nuns are reluctant to discuss their lives before joining the monastery. Mother Hilda says she originally came for a visit, never intending to join.

Mother Thekla, a Russian whose parents fled to Britain in the aftermath of the Revolution, also had no plans for a monastic life when she stayed with Mother Maria, who she refers to with obvious affection just as 'Mother', at the Buckinghamshire monastery. But for her, it was an instant realisation that this was the direction her life should take. "It's not really a decision, is it?"

"It was for me," says Mother Hilda.

"It sort of takes you over," Mother Thekla is unbending. But Mother Hilda does not give up.

"The decision to enter monastic life is very different with every person and sometimes you tend to think that the way you made your decision is how everybody else does it," she says, bringing the subject to a close.

While they are eager for new recruits, Mother Thekla and Mother Hilda are determined not to depart from the monastery's traditions - which have their roots in the Fourth Century - to make their life more attractive.

But there are some things they are prepared to conceal, if it makes prospective nuns more likely to join.

"We have a sense of humour, but make us look as sober as possible," says Mother Thekla, failing to suppress a giggle.

As well as prayer, their daily lives revolve around their rule of three activities to develop the whole person: manual labour - they grow their own fruit and vegetables; intellectual pursuits - Mother Hilda has her music, Mother Thekla translates texts from Slavonic into Russian; and creative work - Mother Hilda paints icons and Mother Thekla writes books.

Far from a quiet life, Mother Hilda complains there is never enough time to do all they want.

Although they have a telephone, only four or five people know the number and their only regular visitors are the nuns from the Holy Paraclete in Whitby. But they make a point of answering every letter.

"I learned to work the computer at the age of 82. Aren't I clever?" beams Mother Thekla. "I use it as a sort o f wonderful typewriter. I don't do anything fancy, but I can do colours."

As well as growing most of their own food, they get dairy products and eggs from a neighbouring farmer. Unless they are fasting, they also eat fish once a week.

"From the Co-op," explains Mother Thekla. "They deliver, in those plastic bags. I don't like plastic."

The nuns have Mother Thekla's pension and a few investments, but budgets are pretty sparse. But then their needs are pretty sparse, too.

But what will happen to the monastery if they are unable to find people willing to take on their life of isolation and hardship?

"We're not worried and it won't close," says Mother Hilda.

"I am. I'm very worried," chips in Mother Thekla.

"The monastery would be given to a strict women's community," says Mother Hilda.

Mother Thekla explains that the Orthodox Church does not have orders, who could take over the monastery. "It would simply be two old nuns who have kicked the bucket."

"Of course," says Mother Hilda, "we would like to see it continue as it is, but it really isn't in our hands."

AS Mother Hilda goes outside to pose for photographs - although neither nun will have her face pictured - I ask Mother Thekla if it is a hard life. Her eyes twinkle as she chides me for the question.

"It is not a question of easier or harder. There is an inevitability about it. The normal criteria of easy-hard, happy-miserable, these fall away." Then her eyes mist over as she thoughts turn to Mother Maria.

"In my very early days, one day I said to Mother 'I'm so unhappy'. She said: 'Why not?' That finished me, there is no answer to that," she says as she erupts into giggles again, before the wistful look returns. "I never said it again. She was a wise woman."

They have no newspapers or magazines, but as I leave Mother Thekla asks if I will send her a copy of this article when it appears. "I like to read what people write about us," she says, and her face creases up and she starts to giggle.

For information about joining, write to: The Greek Orthodox Monastery, Normanby, Whitby, North Yorkshire, YO22 4PS.