Pilgrimage and Prehistory

In the last week, we’ve either been at a major Catholic pilgrimage site or at a prehistoric one. We went into the town of Les Eyzies de Tayac, where a cave nearby , Font-de-Gaume, still allowed you to visit the original cave paintings. So we made our reservation for the afternoon, and waited in town while everything closed for two hours at midday. We were in the heart of foie gras country, and had seen the pastures filled with contented looking ducks, so I tried a foie gras sandwich for lunch for an unbelievably cheap price, and learned that, yes, it really is that good. I will probably never have it again, as it is generally outrageously expensive and ethically questionable, but was grateful for this one time -- just a perfect slice of foie gras on a perfect baguette. The sandwich wasn't beautiful, but our salads were.

On our tour of the cave, the guide brought us into the cave, and in the semidarkness used her laser pointer to trace the outlines of bison and reindeer, showing us how the figures came to life when lit by fire as opposed to the static electric lights. It was unbelievably moving to see the art work face to face, imagining the thousands of years between now and then, and the leap forward that the graceful and lifelike images represented. We were not allowed to take pictures (and the paintings were faint, so I‘m not sure pictures would have captured them), but here is an image I found online.

From the cave, we drove on to Lourdes as it became dark and snowy. Lourdes is in the Pyrenees, and it was bitter cold. We arrived late, and the GPS could not locate us in the narrow streets. Frustrated and tired, we took one last turn, and seemingly miraculously, there was our hotel right in front of us. The cathedral at Lourdes was three tiered, each expansion more modern and elaborate than the next. There were dozens of taps for holy water, which people took by the gallon, and more Catholic memorabilia than I would have thought possible in the shops nearby.

From Lourdes, we drove over the Pyrenees to the northern coast of Spain, in the snow again. We arrived at Santillana del Mar and met our hotel owner, a loquacious and charming lawyer who had left a high-powered career to raise horses and run a hotel in this little town. He told us hair-raising stories about the financial and political power of the Catholic church, and the way the church and the army are intertwined in Spain. He sent us to a restaurant near the ocean where we had fabulous grilled seafood, all the while listening to a table full of older drunken Spanish men sing sad love songs accompanied by guitar.

The next morning, we visited the Altamira cave sites, another site with cave paintings. The cave is closed to the public now, so we viewed a recreation of the paintings, carefully done, but not like seeing the real thing.

From the caves, we drove to Santiago de Campostela, passing signs pointing the way for pilgrims as we went. We visited the cathedral and the old city for a day. The cathedral was largely simple and unadorned, with the exception of a baroque explosion of gold leaf and giant angels at the altar, and a huge pipe organ with angels that hung both horizontally and vertically above the pews. The body of St. James is housed here in a silver reliquary, which is on view, but more popular is a more than life-sized statue of James at the head of the altar. It is the custom to embrace and kiss the statue, which we got in line and did (I kissed, Deane patted).

From Santiago, it was on to Portugal, and a stop at Bom Jesus, a church with 654 steps to climb. The stations of the cross were at each stop along the way, in life size dioramas with full gory detail. As you approached the church, there were fountains representing each of the five senses, with water pouring from eyes, ears, mouths, etc. There was a beautiful view of Braga, Portugal from the top, all white stucco with tile roofs.

Then on to Fatima, where we spent today, Sunday. There were masses going on in multiple locations, seemingly continuously, and the pews were packed. The cathedral has the remains of the three children who saw apparitions of Mary; two died in childhood, but one lived a very long life as a nun. The place was packed with people, including those traveling a long route along the plaza on their knees, accompanied by a child or adult holding their hand. In Lourdes and in Fatima, we were struck by the contrast between the innocence and simplicity of the children and the ostentation of the structures that now honor their visions.