So in due course the Virgin herself descended, the Virgin of the Mountain, that is, protectress of San Lorenzo within whose hermitage on the hill her image dwells. Who protects whom is accordingly an open question. But here she comes on a Wednesday evening in August, borne down on her little float, four men actually carrying her, in a ragtag procession of about 30. Everybody has come a long way by the time they reach the outskirts of the village. One man wears a string vest with his armpits showing. There is thin singing, mostly from the women, and three horseback riders at the head. Of these one is a young woman in tall boots, another a lad in shorts. None wear helmets, the Virgin attending to health and safety – and in any case helmets are not a fashion item here, being regarded as deeply cissy.
All the way down to the village she goes, right past our house. There will be several little local masses, outdoors in the street, and then she’ll go back up to the ermita early on Sunday morning in time for the local pilgrimage to San Lorenzo, with fun and games, picnics, a tug of war, flag-waving and an August maypole.
Our neighbourhood mass is celebrated next evening, on the Thursday. I must say it’s a pretty sight, a table set out in a little cranny leading to a rock-strewn upper neighbourhood, reached by footpath only. There’s a flower-laden table in the cranny, houses to either side, balconies hung with best sheets and embroideries, and a view of boulders and low wild scrub ascending towards a few sun-hammered oak trees almost vertically above.
The crowd which assembles is really quite smart. No string vests here. I’m glad I’ve put on decent clothes for once. It’s not like a mass in church, all older women. Most people from our little neighbourhood are here, men as well as women, of all ages, and a few children who are politely shushed from time to time. Don Fulgencio, the priest, appears at the head of the procession – straight after the Virgin on her float. She’s placed beside the altar. A second priest, with long white wavy hair, unknown to me, has also shown up. He’s from a nearby village, a neighbour whispers, but few seem to have met him before.
Don Fulgencio runs a tidy mass, abbreviated, and goes up in my esteem when he places himself at the shoulder of a lay-reader, ready to help her out when she comes to difficult words. He does it gracefully, in a fatherly way. Kindness and decorum. And then he turns matters over to the priest with the wavy hair.
The visitor’s first offence is to congratulate himself on having made the ascent to the venue, he at his age – he’s younger than many of us who do this same climb every day. What’s more, he comes from another village on a hill so he should be used to it. He probably goes everywhere by car. Later he’s to describe his climb today as a sacrifice, not ranking with Christ’s of course, who gave his life for humanity. Second offence. Who does he think he is?
Soon he’s launched on a topical sermon on the Virgin Mary and this gives him a chance to air his views on family life. Some of it seems OK, such as the thought that fathers must not be domestic tyrants. But he has other targets in his sights. He doesn’t like the kind of family you see on television – soap operas, he must mean – with partner-changing all the time rather than the profound fidelity, the lifetime commitment, which is the essence of family life. Fair enough again, you might think, for a priest. But then he’s off into other types of ‘so-called family’, not the real family of man and woman bound by natural love, producing children, which all of us know is the real family, hum hum, but other, modern kinds of family. He has no time for these, no time, no time at all.
It’s not so long back that homosexual marriage became legal in the teeth of opposition from the bishops. That was in the days of the old Socialist government which went out in disgrace when the financial crisis started. There’s a new government now, highly conservative, and a new abortion bill going through parliament which would make any right to abortion as tight as Ireland was about 50 years ago, certainly way out of line with the rest of the European Community. That ought to please our visitor, I think. [One month on – I write in September, 2014 – this bill has been abandoned by the government, to its great embarrassment, since even the conservative majority in parliament will not have it.]
I’m not a great one for public demonstrations so I slink away quietly from the evening mass that began so well. Long years ago I heard a suffragan bishop in Leon preach on the virtues of Virginity and felt the same thrill of indignant irritation. What did he know of the alternative?
On Sunday morning the Virgin goes back up to the ermita, in a big crowd this time, right past the house. The tamborilero man leads with his fife and drum. Four middle-aged men, all of the same height, are carrying the Virgin on their shoulders and a relief team of four, all the same height but shorter, are walking along beside them, waiting to take their turn. Soon the young adults speed ahead, sun glinting on black hair as they get further and further ahead, rounding the corners of the mountain easily, in and out of our vision. Stray pines and oaks still cast long early morning shadows. The young children start to say they are tired quite early on. Mama, me cansa, me cansa Mama. But with a little help they will surely get there.
Burly Martín the builder will inevitably shine in the flag waving contest. I walk with him a while. He’s a good friend and sometimes tells me things, foreigner as I am.
‘What did you think of our visitor on Thursday?” I asked him finally.
‘Rubbish, absolute rubbish.’
And here we are, conveying the Virgin back to San Lorenzo, early in the morning in expectation of a good day. Community stronger than religion? I certainly hope so.