But even here, in one of the crown jewels of Russian tourism, the roads are riddled with potholes. Claire’s slalom-driving skills were sorely tested as she drove into town, and we asked at our hotel, the Boyarsky Dvor — one of several spare but functional hotels in the town center — if there wasn’t a better way to leave. The receptionist shook her head sadly. “There is, but it’s worse,” she said.

On our way to Yaroslavl the next day, we made an impromptu detour to the starkly impressive Borisoglebsky monastery. Getting there was not easy: we had to make a U-turn on the highway, only to be halted at a rail crossing. There we sat for a half-hour, in a line of cars that soon spilled over onto the highway, watching the trains go by, loaded with oil and lumber. It was like watching a documentary on the Russian economy, which was to have sequels all along our route, as we passed makeshift markets where people sold goods ranging from stuffed animals to mushrooms.

We finally made it to the monastery, built in the 16th century, with its massive walls and towers. The grounds inside were unkempt, full of lilac bushes in full bloom, and quiet, except for the sound of a single bell ringing at midday. Soon we ran into Brother Longuine, a red-haired monk in his late 20s, originally from Moscow, who had drifted to this place after what he hinted was a troubled youth.

At first, he was dubious about our right to visit the main church, pressing us on our religious affiliations. “Orthodox?” he asked with a piercing glance. I mumbled something about there being one God for all of us, which seemed to satisfy him.

He ran off to get a key, his black robe swishing through the uncut grass. The key looked medieval, but it opened the door, and we stepped into a high-ceilinged cathedral littered with birch branches, traditional for the celebration of the Holy Trinity. The only light came from the open door, and we got a dim glimpse of a magnificent carved wooden iconostasis (a traditional part of a Russian church, decorated with icons). Apparently, it had been “borrowed” from a nearby church destroyed in the Soviet era. That was when the monastery’s original iconostasis was destroyed, its cathedral, like so many others in Russia, turned into a warehouse.

We stopped in Yaroslavl where we spent the night at the Volga Pearl, a converted riverboat station. We had been looking forward to our stay there, and had agreed to take an expensive room, lured by the offer of a view on the river, and a two-room suite. It was, however, disappointing: the view was of the restaurant on the river, and the second bed was a pullout sofa.