Straight Into Gyumri: Day 1 on the Road Through Armenia

Almost everyone arrives in Armenia the same way. You land at Zvartnots, outside
Yerevan, and if you are heading anywhere else you get in a car. Gyumri, the
country’s second city, is about three hours northwest of the capital across the
Shirak plateau — close enough that the drive is normal, far enough that it makes
the day disappear.

This time we skipped that. There is a small airport at Gyumri, Shirak
International, and a two-and-a-quarter-hour flight from Larnaca lands there
directly. The plane leaves Cyprus while it is still dark and is on the ground in
Armenia before mid-morning. You step off onto the apron, walk to a low terminal
building with flags snapping over it, and you are already where you meant to be.

What the descent looks like

The last twenty minutes of the flight are the argument for taking the window seat.
The Shirak plateau opens up underneath in long strips — wheat gold going to
stubble, ploughed brown, sudden hard green where the irrigation reaches, and then
a reservoir catching the light. It reads as a patchwork from the air because that
is exactly what it is: small parcels farmed individually, running right up to the
edges of the villages.

The aircraft comes in low over that for a long time before the wheels touch.

An afternoon that turns into a festival

Gyumri’s historic centre is called Kumayri, and it is built out of black and
orange tuff — volcanic stone, cut into blocks, weathered into something between
grey and violet depending on the hour. The district survived the 1988 earthquake
in fragments, and much of what stands has the scars.

Its most distinctive feature is the dalan — the arched passageway that runs from
the street through a building into a courtyard behind. They are everywhere in the
old town, and they are the sort of architectural detail you walk past a hundred
times without registering.

Unless there is a band playing under one.

Gyumri Dalan Rock Fest puts live music into those passageways. On the day we
arrived that meant a group of teenagers set up under a stone arch with a scarred
tuff wall behind them, playing to whoever stopped walking. The line-up on stage
was the thing worth staying for: an electric guitar and a drum kit alongside a
kanun — the plucked zither played flat across the lap, the instrument that
gives so much Armenian music its shimmer — and a wind player working through the
melody line.

That combination is not a novelty in Armenia. It is just what a young band sounds
like when nobody has told them the traditional instruments belong in a different
category from the amplifiers.

The stadium fills up

By early evening the city had moved to the football. Shirak FC, Gyumri’s club
and one of the oldest in the country, were at home to FC Noah. The terraces
filled properly — families, teenagers in club colours, older men who clearly have
a fixed seat and a fixed opinion.

Before kick-off both squads lined up across the halfway line for the Armenian
national anthem, Mer Hayrenik.

There is a particular quality to a national anthem heard in a provincial stadium
rather than on television: you hear the crowd more than the recording.

Then Shirak won a free kick in a dangerous position, put a man over it, and scored.
The wall jumped, the keeper went the right way and got nothing, and the noise that
followed was the reason you go.

Why start here

Gyumri is usually a day trip from Yerevan — you arrive at eleven, you look at the
tuff architecture, you eat, you drive back. Starting the trip here inverts that. It
makes the second city the front door instead of the detour, and it puts you in a
place where a rock festival in a stone passageway and a full football stadium can
happen in the same six hours.

This was Day 1. The road from here runs south — Lake Sevan, then down the length of
Syunik through Tatev and Goris and Kapan, as far as Meghri on the Iranian border.

Practical notes