Hidden Gems & Local Secrets in Yerevan

In 1985, a local resident named Levon Arakelyan was asked by his wife, Tosya, to dig a small cellar to store their potatoes. Instead of stopping when the cellar was complete, Levon claimed to have received profound spiritual visions directing him to continue digging. Armed only with a hammer and a chisel, he spent the next twenty three years painstakingly excavating the hard volcanic rock beneath his home. Working tirelessly day and night, he removed countless buckets of stone entirely by hand. The project evolved from a simple storage space into an elaborate, multi level subterranean temple. He carved wide halls, twisting corridors, and perfectly arched doorways, decorating the walls with Romanesque columns and mystical symbols. The deeper he went, the more complex and precise the architecture became, reaching a depth of twenty one metres. He continued this gruelling, solitary labour until his death in 2008. Today, the underground complex stands as a mesmerising piece of outsider art and a testament to sheer human willpower. His widow, Tosya, proudly maintains the site, guiding visitors through the echoing chambers and sharing the incredible story of her husband's lifelong obsession. It remains completely hidden beneath an ordinary suburban house, far removed from the city's polished tourist attractions.

During the 1930s, the Soviet government initiated a widespread programme to build miniature railways across its major cities. These were not mere amusement park rides, but fully functioning educational facilities designed to teach children the intricacies of railway engineering and management. The Yerevan installation was completed in 1937, nestled deep in the picturesque Hrazdan river gorge. The grand, intricately detailed station building was designed by master architect Mikael Mazmanyan, reflecting the prestige placed on the project. For decades, the railway was a bustling hub of activity. Generations of local children proudly wore miniature conductor uniforms, operating the switches and driving the small locomotives under adult supervision. It was a beloved weekend destination, complete with surrounding fairground rides and bustling cafes. The echoing whistle of the small steam trains was a defining sound of the valley. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, funding dried up and the facility fell into a state of beautiful decay. While the trains still occasionally run today, the educational programme has long ceased. The ornate station and the rusting fairground rides now stand as a melancholic, highly photogenic monument to a bygone era of utopian civic planning.

Kond, meaning 'hill' in Armenian, is one of the very few neighbourhoods that survived the sweeping urban changes of the last century. Founded in the seventeenth century during Persian rule, it grew into a densely packed, thriving multicultural district. Its winding streets and irregular houses stand in stark defiance of the rigid, circular grid planned by Alexander Tamanian in the 1920s. While the rest of the city was flattened and rebuilt in grand pink tufa, Kond remained perched on its hill, largely untouched and slowly decaying. The quarter has a layered and complex history, having been home to prominent wealthy families as well as poor immigrants and refugees over the centuries. You can still spot the crumbling ruins of an old Persian mosque hidden among the residential houses, its collapsed dome blending into the tin roofs. The architecture is a fascinating, organic mishmash of different eras, built out of necessity rather than grand design. Today, Kond represents a raw, unfiltered piece of the city's soul. While developers frequently threaten to demolish the area to make way for modern high rises, the local residents fiercely defend their historic community. Walking through its narrow alleys offers an authentic glimpse into an older, slower way of life that has vanished from the avenues below.

The building housing the Mirzoyan Library is one of the few remaining examples of traditional, pre Soviet domestic architecture in the city centre. Built in the late nineteenth century, it features a classic enclosed courtyard surrounded by beautifully carved wooden balconies. For decades, it functioned as a typical communal residential space, quietly witnessing the dramatic political shifts of the twentieth century. As the city modernised, many similar structures were demolished, making this surviving courtyard a rare architectural treasure. In recent years, the space was carefully restored and transformed by a prominent local photographer. His vision was to create the region's first dedicated library for photography and visual arts. He filled the historic rooms with an impressive collection of rare photobooks, magazines, and independent publications. The restoration carefully preserved the rustic charm of the old wood and brickwork, creating an inspiring juxtaposition with the modern art on display. Today, the library operates as a vibrant, independent cultural hub. It serves not only as a quiet place for research but also as a lively cafe and exhibition space. It has become a vital gathering point for the local creative community, proving that the city's historic spaces can be brilliantly adapted for contemporary intellectual life.

The Katoghike Tsiranavor Church was constructed in the late sixth century during a period of intense religious and political upheaval. At the time, the Avan district was an independent settlement located significantly north of the main city. The church was built by the pro Byzantine Catholicos Hovhannes of Bagaran as a direct challenge to the authority of the primary Armenian church in Dvin. It was designed to serve as the seat of an alternate, rival patriarchate. The architecture of the church was highly innovative for its time, featuring a complex, multi apsed layout that influenced centuries of subsequent ecclesiastical design. For a brief period, it stood as a powerful symbol of Byzantine influence in the region. However, its prominence was short lived. When the Persian Empire reasserted control over the area, the rival Catholicos was forced to flee, and the church was subsequently abandoned and looted. Over the centuries, earthquakes and neglect reduced the grand structure to monumental ruins. Today, its thick, ancient walls still stand proudly in the middle of a modern residential suburb. It is a quiet, profound survivor that bears witness to the fierce theological battles that shaped the early Christian history of the Caucasus.