The Georgian Valley is so called because it used to belong to a Georgian kingdom, a Christian kingdom, in the Middle Ages.
The Lonely Planet to Turkey (which we do not recommend, although their treatment of other countries has been excellent) gives a short history of the Christian presence here.
Without going into detail, the whole thing sounds like a story out of Tolkien with larger-than-life heroes and their valiant beautiful and warlike daughters.
The bottom line is that when they left, the Georgians didn't take their churches with them and so these massive stone buildings have been sitting up here rotting the centuries away.
There is one notable exception to this rule in the tiny village of Bagbasi (Haho) which you really need a Range Rover to get to.
It was a rainy day and we ran into the town hall to ask for the keys which are held by the local Imam, since the church has been transformed into a mosque.
We had to wait awhile, but the bearded holy man did show up and let us into this truly schizophrenic building.
For unlike Aya Sophia in Istanbul (or Saint Sophia in Constantinople for the unforgiving) which is round, this church had a definite orientation, which was north.
The Moslems therefor had cut a mihrab into the south-eastern wall to face Mecca when they pray.
You can only imagine the place at prayer time on a busy Friday: the church facing the Georgian homeland and the mosque facing the heart of Arabia and you wonder how the place doesn't tear apart like a broken heart.

But for the most part, these churches stand idle and rotting with trees growing on their roofs and graffiti climbing the ancient plaster to the feet of the Apostles.
My favourite it must be said was in the village of Osk Vank.
You could say that the village was built around the church, but in this case the empty thousand year old stone carcass is bigger than the village it seems to protect.
In some places, the fine carving skill of the Georgians was still in place: vine leaves or pomegranates carved into the grey rock.
We went twice to that church, once on the way north and once on the way back south, and the second time we stayed for about an hour, I sat at the table of an outdoor tea house and Marie-Do sat on a garden wall about 100 metres down.
I sat to write and she sat to paint and we were both immediately surrounded by children, gaping and curious.

But amazing thing - these children were totally silent. There were no Hellos and no What's Your Name's.
Just a kind of silent wonder as they sat around me while I wrote.
The only sound I could hear was the occasional whisper and the rhythmic cracking of sun-flower seeds. I suppose they had never seen an adult who was not their teacher write before, and certainly not in a hard covered notebook.
Marie-Do, it seems had a little bit less success. It wasn't long before the children who were her groupies began to recognise the object of her water colour and get all excited.
Also, she is a woman and little boys want attention.
When I finished my writing I went looking for her and saw her in a distance sitting on that wall and trying to mediate a dispute, get some silence and continue her painting all at the same time.