Revolutions, regimes, and rulers come and go, but a spellbinding Orientalism that arrived in Russia a thousand years ago is, if anything, enjoying a resurgence. Gully Wells gets to the heart of it, encountering some unforgettable mushrooms on the way

The Metropolitan (archbishop) Valentin's gold teeth sparkled in the sunlight as he poured the steaming tea into my glass. I took some sugar and a slice of lemon. A monk who looked alarmingly like the youthful Rasputin's twin brother silently passed around a plate of sweet cakes, bowed, and then withdrew from the room. The walls, floor, and sofas were all covered in heavy Oriental carpets. High up, near the ceiling, hung faded portraits of Czar Nicholas II and his czarina, gazing into the middle distance—and their ill-fated future—with unblinking, regal complacency. A clock on the desk chimed. Almost simultaneously, church bells rang in the distance.

It was a statement rather than a question, and almost immediately, Rasputin's ringer reappeared with a dish of bloodred sausages, black bread, an enormous knife, and some shot glasses. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice might have said.

The "white tea" turned out to be vodka, and the irresistible spicy sausages were, presumably, typical of the kind that Rus-sian Orthodox archbishops are in the habit of whipping up when they aren't busy tending to the spiritual needs of their flocks. I had a momentary vision of the metropolitan standing at the kitchen counter, an apron tied over his voluminous robes and even more voluminous waist, combining the pork, paprika, and Lord knows what else in a mixing bowl (a selfless culinary exercise, by the way, since the Russian Orthodox religion prohibits its monks from eating meat).

The conversation became noticeably livelier as the bottle of white tea was passed back and forth, ranging from the provenance of the wine served during communion (Azerbaijan), to the metropolitan's disagreements with the patriarch Alexei (ongoing and seemingly insoluble), to the recipe for his sausages (secret), to the resurgence of religious faith in post-Soviet Russia (miraculous), to the cost of the reconstruction of the Church of Christ the Savior in Moscow (incalculable). I lost track of the time, but it was almost dark when I finally said good-bye and started to walk down the dimly lit streets of Suzdal toward the Pokrovsky Convent, where I was to spend the night.

Suzdal is just one glittering link in the necklace of medieval towns and monasteries that form a loose but brilliant circle around Moscow. Although the necklace, known as the Golden Ring, stretches as far south as Kiev and as far west as Pskov and Novgorod, most of its jewels are thoughtfully located northeast of the capital. If you have only enough time for a quick smash and grab, then Sergiev Posad, less than an hour from Red Square, will give you a taste of the glory that was Old Rus, but if you have four or five days, you can make a loop, as I did, that will allow you to visit Rostov Veliky, Pereslavl-Zalessky, and Vladimir, as well as Suzdal.