Sacred Sierra (30 page)

We drove up deep into the Maestrat towards Vistabella, a village lying to the north of Penyagolosa. There was a shift in the landscape as we rose higher and higher: at first greener and more wooded before bare, high plains began to appear, stretching away to the north. The weather on this northern side of the mountain was harsher than on the southern and eastern slopes where our
mas
was, and the thick, dark clouds were clinging to the summit, smothering it from view.

We sat at a crude wooden table in a bar outside the village on the edge of a wide, flat expanse of land. At over 3000 feet it was curious to see something so open and level here, ringed by mountains on almost all sides.

‘The Condor Legion – the German troops Hitler sent to help Franco – used this as an airstrip during the civil war,’ El Clossa told us as we waited for plates of lamb and snail stew –
tombet
– to be placed in front of us. ‘There’s still a swastika visible up where they had their base.’

We slurped the hot, thick food down greedily, a buffer against the increasingly cold and wet world outside. The clouds had suddenly descended and it had started to rain. One bottle of wine was quickly dispatched: El Clossa ordered another.

‘The pilgrims will be getting soaked,’ Salud said, looking out of the window. By now they would be passing by Xodos and the land of the Truffle King, and heading up the slopes of the Marinet mountain towards the Pla de la Creu – the Plain of the Cross. Yet they still had a few hours ahead of them.

‘Some years it’s blisteringly hot,’ said El Clossa, ‘others it rains. They’re prepared for all kinds of weather. Have to be, walking at this time of year – have to expect snow, even. Snowed on them a few years back, I remember.’

His face was reddening with the wine. Perhaps it came from being so fit, I wondered: the booze went straight to his head.

‘You’ve never,’ he said, raising a finger, ‘had a
carajillo
if you haven’t had the ones they make here.’

And before we knew it he’d ordered a round for our table.

Carajillo
is a great Spanish institution, a gloriously alcoholic coffee typically taken after a particularly indulgent meal, although some drink it on a regular basis, hence the term ‘a
carajillero
voice’ for the gravelly, cement-mixer type voices of so many Spanish men – and women, too, in some cases. The proper way to make it is by dissolving sugar in rum or brandy which is warmed with a coffee bean and a tiny slice of lemon peel floating in it, the coffee then mixed in before being served. Pieces of cinnamon stick are also a common ingredient. The problem is that this is a rather elaborate process, with the result that in many, if not most, bars in Spain, what is called a
carajillo
is simply an espresso with a splash of liquor. What we were going to get here, El Clossa assured us, was ‘even better than the real thing’.

It arrived in terracotta cups, rough-edged and rounded so they sat comfortably in your hands, slowly warming you through before a drop had been drunk. A light foam sat on the top, almost like a cappuccino, quickly dissipating as I blew down to cool it. Aromas of sweet black coffee, lemon and sharp spirits rose up to greet me. Already I was being seduced by the claims that this was the best
carajillo
you could get. It is
normal
for the Spanish to claim that anything that comes from their local area is ‘the best in the world’: the best wine, olive oil, food, bread, weather, water, whatever, always comes from within no more than a five-mile radius of where they live or were born. It was a natural prejudice I had grown used to over the years. This time, though, it seemed it might be justified. Raising the
carajillo
to my mouth for a first sip I was met by a velvety, rich, hot liquid that seemed to slip effortlessly over my tongue. Immediately there was a sense of being wrapped in a warm, comforting eiderdown, sinking, relaxing: a feeling that you would never want to cast off the protective veil it had magically cast over you. Outside, the rain was intensifying, and the poor pilgrims up on the mountain, whose path we were meant to be following, would be getting drenched. Yet here inside, with hot, thick
carajillo
sliding down our throats, it was an easy and happy business to forget all about them for a few moments. It had more than just the usual flavours: the tiny piece of cinnamon stick floating on top next to the lemon peel showed they took the preparation seriously, but there was something else.

‘Vanilla essence,’ El Clossa said with a belch when I asked him. ‘And whisky – they add that to the brandy. But don’t tell anyone. Shhh. It’s the barman’s secret.’

He’d said it so loudly everyone there had heard anyway. Up near the kitchen I saw the barman rolling his eyes. It looked as though this wasn’t the first time he’d seen El Clossa in this state.

It was getting dark by the time we came to Sant Joan de Penyagolosa. The small sanctuary lay near the foot of the mountain, tucked in on its north side on the edge of a great Scots pine forest that stretched up towards the summit. Great column-like trees rose into the sky forming a dark, protecting canopy high above our heads. Where the road ended a group of stone buildings was visible, forming a three-sided courtyard. There were already hundreds of people there, and a similar carnival atmosphere to the one we had left at Sant Miquel de les Torrocelles, despite the inclement weather. In a pause in the rain a group of stalls had been set up, while inside an open covered area people huddled around a blaze in an inglenook fireplace. El Clossa looked at his watch.

‘They’ll be here soon.’

Children were running around a dead tree near the centre of the courtyard, singing and shouting.

‘An ancient sacred elm,’ El Clossa said. ‘Died some years back.’

He seemed to have sobered up quite quickly, filling us in on the history of the place. Personally I felt the
carajillos
were only just beginning to kick in.

Sant Joan seemed very small and humble for such a holy place. People had mentioned it to me many times before, Concha and Marina in particular stressing its ancient origins. Was it actually a pre-Christian site? ‘Probably,’ murmured El Clossa when I asked. The present-day building, however, dated from the fourteenth century.

We pushed through the crowds to get a better look. Inside was another, tiny courtyard, with a small chapel on one side. Seventeenth-century frescoes painted in dark tones and showing religious scenes decorated the outside walls under an overhang from a balcony running overhead. On the other side, a bar seemingly twice the size of the chapel was placed underneath guest rooms where walkers performing the pilgrimage alongside the official procession would be staying. Crude and basic, often they were booked up years in advance.

We could barely move for the crowds, and decided to head out again in the direction from which the pilgrims would be arriving. From out in the depths of the forest, once again we heard the strange chant accompanying the silent walkers as they approached. First the horsemen, as before, then the singers, and finally, behind them, the drenched, exhausted-looking pilgrims and their guide. Salud pulled on my arm and pointed: this time they came barefoot.

A priest in a golden robe from Vistabella came out to greet them, and the chant changed from the melancholy call of earlier to a song of celebration. Then the procession circled around the sanctuary before entering the tiny courtyard and the chapel, to pray. We edged forward to get a glimpse of what was going on inside, but it was almost impossible to squeeze through. Mass was being celebrated, by the sounds of it, and we withdrew to the bar opposite. El Clossa filled us in on what happened next.

‘This is where the mystery and secret at the heart of the pilgrimage lies,’ he said ominously as – thankfully – he poured himself some fizzy
water
out of a bottle. He paused for a moment as he swallowed, put his hand on his stomach, closed his eyes in concentration, belched, then resumed.

‘After mass has finished, in about half an hour, the pilgrims will be taken into a small side-room off the chapel known as the
Cova
, the “Cave”. There they will spend most of the night engaged in secret spiritual exercises. Branches of green pine trees and other herbs and plants from the mountain are burned in a corner to produce a heavy smoke that will induce special states of consciousness in them as they spend the entire night without sleeping, in prayer.’

He opened his eyes wide for dramatic effect as he told us this. Bloodshot and dimmed from the hangover that seemed already to be creeping over him, there was something quite demoniacal about his appearance, while the smoke and high-volume chat coming from the patrons of the bar around us were in danger of producing unusual states of consciousness of their own. I felt certain someone somewhere in there was smoking some powerful weed, although I could scarcely credit it given the official, churchy nature of the event.

El Clossa continued.

‘The details of what goes on are sketchy. They say that firstly the guide, who represents Jesus, asks forgiveness of the twelve pilgrims, or apostles. Then he washes and kisses their feet. The pilgrims then do likewise to one another. Afterwards each one is told his sins, so that they might be absolved, and then, and only then, are they told the secret – the reason for the whole pilgrimage. They are given some dinner – beans and cod, the same dish always – and then they spend the rest of the night in prayer, although no one’s really sure what happens in there. Then at dawn tomorrow, after mass, they’re given breakfast – fig bread and strong liquor – and they set off back over the mountains to Les Useres. But now they’re no longer ‘pilgrims’ but
els sants
– the saints. People line the streets with flowers and put leaves on the ground for them to walk over, while they hand out pieces of
pa beneit
– blessed bread. They finally make it back to their own village tomorrow night, but aren’t allowed to get there, according to the rule, till it’s impossible to tell a white thread from a black one. So it’s got to be completely dark, in other words.’

I had come across this custom before: it was part of Islamic tradition, particularly during Ramadan when it signalled the end of the day’s fast.

‘What happens then?’ I asked.

‘There’s a big fiesta to celebrate their return.’

‘They must be tired by that point,’ Salud said.

‘Pilgrims have been known to stay up all night dancing,’ he said. ‘It’s a spring festival – fertility and all that.’

‘This secret they get told inside there,’ I said. ‘Does anyone outside know what it is? Hasn’t anyone ever spilled the beans over the centuries?’

‘Never,’ he said firmly. ‘They are forbidden from telling anyone, and no one has ever disobeyed. The pilgrimage has continued through wars and famine and natural disaster, and yet still they come back every spring and men in the village wait years for their chance to take part in it. And they cross the mountains come what may, exhausted, silent, stuck in a tiny room full of smoke all night, praying, not allowed to sleep, then have to do it all over again the next day. I think that’s the secret, right there – the power this has over the local people. It has carried on for years and it will carry on for years to come, and no one can explain why, or what is really happening here, or why it is such an important event. The people outside don’t want to know what the secret of the
Cova
is. They don’t need to know, or, rather, they need not to know. They just want to think something special and holy is taking place. That’s all it is.’

Outside the rain had returned and was hammering the stone floor of the little courtyard between the bar and the chapel. A flock of walkers, now wearing their brightly coloured waterproofs, surged in through the door looking for shelter. Many were carrying sleeping bags and were clearly concerned about finding a dry patch of floor, somewhere to spend the night. We picked up our things, paid and headed out into the downpour. After the hot, dry winter months it couldn’t rain enough, I thought, and I imagined my trees back at the farm soaking up every drop of the precious liquid now falling finally from the sky. Whatever the pilgrims did to make this happen had worked. It seemed a shame they limited themselves to only once a year: we could do with more miracles like this.

El Clossa had fallen asleep when we dropped him off in the village. He grunted a goodbye and scuttled off into the darkness, pulling his jacket up over his head to stay dry. Outside, the land was quietly coming to
life
.

The Story of the Golden Bull

WHEN THE MOORS
were chased from these lands, abandoning their kingdoms in the face of the Christian advance, they decided to hide all the treasure they had accumulated over the centuries until their eventual return. And so in the village of Xodos, they placed a hoard of gold in a secret corner of a cave on the slopes of the Eagle’s Rock, near the Marinet mountain. To make the treasure as safe as possible, an enchantment was placed on one of the King’s sons and he was left to guard the gold in the form of a giant bull.