Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 33 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill, Paris, start of Pilgrimage route "Follow in the footsteps of medieval pilgrims?" I asked.
"Of course."
It would be fascinating, Sherrill convinced me, to travel the same ancient roads that the faithful trekked a thousand years ago. And why did they do this? Because they'd been told that if they prayed to the remains of saints preserved in the churches and abbeys along the route they'd be saved from the horrors of eternal damnation, which they believed in quite literally. We didn't want to either walk or pray, but did want to see the Romanesque churches and the often spectacular reliquaries that held the bits and pieces of the saints. The pilgrimage routes crisscrossed much of Europe, but the ones that interested us the most led from Paris to the great church of Santiago de Compostela in Spain.
Sherrill, ever resourceful, found a small group tour led by a pair of married professors that would follow one of those pilgrimage routes. As it turned out, the group was just five, plus the husband and wife profs, and, although we traveled in a van, often we felt as if we'd ridden a time machine back to a feudal world.
We flew on TWA (soon to be extinct, although we didn't know it) to Paris, where we started our pilgrimage—as many of the original pilgrims did—at the Sainte-Chapelle on the Ile de la Cite', where the actual Crown of Thorns reputedly had ended up. The light, I remember, seemed particularly beautiful that day, pouring through the sixteen colored glass windows of Sainte-Chapelle onto our little band of travelers. The walls around us might have been prisms capturing all the light in the universe.
"Of course."
It would be fascinating, Sherrill convinced me, to travel the same ancient roads that the faithful trekked a thousand years ago. And why did they do this? Because they'd been told that if they prayed to the remains of saints preserved in the churches and abbeys along the route they'd be saved from the horrors of eternal damnation, which they believed in quite literally. We didn't want to either walk or pray, but did want to see the Romanesque churches and the often spectacular reliquaries that held the bits and pieces of the saints. The pilgrimage routes crisscrossed much of Europe, but the ones that interested us the most led from Paris to the great church of Santiago de Compostela in Spain.
Sherrill, ever resourceful, found a small group tour led by a pair of married professors that would follow one of those pilgrimage routes. As it turned out, the group was just five, plus the husband and wife profs, and, although we traveled in a van, often we felt as if we'd ridden a time machine back to a feudal world.
We flew on TWA (soon to be extinct, although we didn't know it) to Paris, where we started our pilgrimage—as many of the original pilgrims did—at the Sainte-Chapelle on the Ile de la Cite', where the actual Crown of Thorns reputedly had ended up. The light, I remember, seemed particularly beautiful that day, pouring through the sixteen colored glass windows of Sainte-Chapelle onto our little band of travelers. The walls around us might have been prisms capturing all the light in the universe.
Bruce & Sherrill, France, en route to Santiago Our journey, we learned, would combine parts of several of the medieval routes that started at different towns in France and then merged as they entered Spain. One of the original starting points was the little hilltop town of Vezelay, with the spectacular Romanesque Church of the Madeleine, which reputedly housed the bones of St. Mary Magdalene. Whether or not the church's relics were authentic, the carvings of the Last Judgment over the door—crowded with sinners being tortured by Satan's troops—made it an appropriate place to begin our pilgrimage.
"They loved all this." Sherrill gazed up at the fiendish devils energetically tormenting the sinners. "Didn't they?"
She was right: the Church of the Middle Ages delighted in showing the horrible punishments waiting for the damned. The Last Judgment carvings on the cathedral at our next stop in Autun were even more violent, with vast numbers of the damned being clawed, chewed on, and pulled apart by demons. As we traveled from one church to another, we developed a new appreciation for the wicked imaginations and great craftsmanship of medieval sculptors. Only the saints, it seemed, were worthy of sympathy and respect.
Sherrill was eager to visit the great abbey at Cluny, the world's largest and richest church until St. Peter's in Rome was built, and also famous for once housing the most important manuscript library in Europe. Most of the abbey, however, was destroyed during the French Revolution and the surviving manuscripts scattered. Only one of its eight great towers still stood, but its remains were impressive, even so.
She was right: the Church of the Middle Ages delighted in showing the horrible punishments waiting for the damned. The Last Judgment carvings on the cathedral at our next stop in Autun were even more violent, with vast numbers of the damned being clawed, chewed on, and pulled apart by demons. As we traveled from one church to another, we developed a new appreciation for the wicked imaginations and great craftsmanship of medieval sculptors. Only the saints, it seemed, were worthy of sympathy and respect.
Sherrill was eager to visit the great abbey at Cluny, the world's largest and richest church until St. Peter's in Rome was built, and also famous for once housing the most important manuscript library in Europe. Most of the abbey, however, was destroyed during the French Revolution and the surviving manuscripts scattered. Only one of its eight great towers still stood, but its remains were impressive, even so.
Bruce, Romanesque Church, Vezelay The married profs were as low key and pleasant as they were knowledgeable. They shared what they knew, didn't trouble us with long lectures, but were happy to answer questions. The earthen-hued houses and buildings, even the church, of our next stop in the village of Conques seemed to have emerged from the rocky earth of the steep hillsides. As with many of the villages we visited, we encountered few cars there. The local people were used to walking on their narrow, twisting streets. Whenever we met them, carrying their shopping baskets, they smiled sympathetically as we stumbled over the cobblestones.
In Conques, Sherrill was able to add quite a few saints to her reliquary list. The pilgrimage route had come through there, in fact, because of this church's reliquary collection, and especially because of the bejeweled, gilded reliquary that held the remains of the much loved St. Foy, a young girl tortured to death over a red-hot brazier by the Romans because she refused to renounce her faith. The Romanesque church in the center of the little hillside town, although not huge, was one of our favorites on the trip. We especially admired the elaborately carved scenes above the western doors: 124 very expressive figures, most of them hideous devils tormenting the damned, eating their brains, ripping out their tongues with meat hooks, roasting them, and flaying them alive.
Sherrill, Conques Village & Church, France As we explored these medieval villages built of weathered local stone we began to look at the past with different eyes. Sometimes, gray clouds swept in to darken the skies, softening the scene, creating shadows that suggested the patina of the centuries. Other times, we encountered families of pigeons in residence, refusing to respect either the age or the seriousness of the carvings.
Wouldn't it be nice to live here, where it's unspoiled and full of history? I asked Sherrill as we wandered through Conques.
"There you go again," she said. "You're such a romantic. Maybe the people here don't love it so much and would like to get away, but can't afford it."
"I still think it's beautiful."
She patted me on the back. "Never mind."
Wouldn't it be nice to live here, where it's unspoiled and full of history? I asked Sherrill as we wandered through Conques.
"There you go again," she said. "You're such a romantic. Maybe the people here don't love it so much and would like to get away, but can't afford it."
"I still think it's beautiful."
She patted me on the back. "Never mind."
A day or two later, we continued on to the city of Cahors, with its fine medieval bridge and cathedral and then on to the abbey at Moissac, where we found even more impressive carvings. Leaving the countryside behind us, we explored the modern city of Toulouse, which once was a crossroads for the pilgrimage routes. The Basilica of St. Sernim, the largest Romanesque church in Europe, was crowded with relics, even—according to legend—the head of St. Thomas Aquinas, although we didn't see it. The glittering silver and gold reliquaries with their histories of working miracles sat there behind glass, placidly ready to perform still more wonders.
Carcassonne, Southern France
Bruce, Pamplona, Spain, Hemingway Monument, by Bull Ring We detoured for a day in the fortified medieval French town of Carcassonne. However, it seemed to us that it had been restored in the nineteenth century until it became more a representation of the Medieval world than the real thing. It might have been built by Cecil B. DeMille for his fanciful movie epic The Crusades, but we still enjoyed exploring it—not that we would've wanted to live there in the old days. If nothing else, the plumbing would've been unpleasant.
Finally, we drove into the Pyrenees and through the historic pass where the French pilgrimage routes crossed into Spain, where we stopped at Pamplona, famous now, of course, for the annual running of the bulls and The Sun Also Rises.
That first evening, since we'd been riding much of the day, Sherrill and I decided to go for a stroll. Our hotel stood isolated on a triangular island bordered by busy streets, the new city across one and the old city across another. In the newer part of town, a few blocks away, we came to the bull ring and a rectangular monument topped with Ernest Hemingway's bearded head. Eventually, we wandered over to the older, more picturesque city, where we were surprised to discover large piles of garbage, broken furniture, and even mattresses, piled on corners at the intersections.
Finally, we drove into the Pyrenees and through the historic pass where the French pilgrimage routes crossed into Spain, where we stopped at Pamplona, famous now, of course, for the annual running of the bulls and The Sun Also Rises.
That first evening, since we'd been riding much of the day, Sherrill and I decided to go for a stroll. Our hotel stood isolated on a triangular island bordered by busy streets, the new city across one and the old city across another. In the newer part of town, a few blocks away, we came to the bull ring and a rectangular monument topped with Ernest Hemingway's bearded head. Eventually, we wandered over to the older, more picturesque city, where we were surprised to discover large piles of garbage, broken furniture, and even mattresses, piled on corners at the intersections.
That night, in our hotel room, we heard voices and clattering noise from the streets below and saw the glow of fires burning. In the morning, when I went out for a walk, I discovered that the triangular block with our hotel was surrounded by empty parked buses, like a circle of covered wagons in an old western movie. Continuing into the old city, I saw that all those heaps of mattresses, broken furniture, and garbage now were scattered ash heaps, still smoldering. Several people I asked about it agreed that it had been some kind of symbolic gesture by Basque separatists.
Sherrill, Visigoth Church, Spain Following the Way of St. James (or Santiago), our van crossed the Puente de la Reina, a medieval bridge where several pilgrimage routes joined on their way to Santiago de Campostela. Eventually, we reached the ancient crossroads city of Burgos, once home of the legendary El Cid—yet another heroic figure once played by steel-jawed Charlton Heston. However, we were more interested in the magnificent cathedral and nearby monastery, both rich with carved sculptures.
While staying in Burgos, we went out each evening to join the paseo, when families, couples, and groups (especially teenagers) strolled along the sidewalks and pedestrian streets, shopping, gossiping, flirting, and then, when the hour was late enough, stopping someplace to dine. We saw no cars trying to "drag main," such we'd seen in California when we were young, just this tradition that engaged the whole community from babies to grandparents and probably great grandparents.
While staying in Burgos, we went out each evening to join the paseo, when families, couples, and groups (especially teenagers) strolled along the sidewalks and pedestrian streets, shopping, gossiping, flirting, and then, when the hour was late enough, stopping someplace to dine. We saw no cars trying to "drag main," such we'd seen in California when we were young, just this tradition that engaged the whole community from babies to grandparents and probably great grandparents.
Sherrill at Church of Santiago de Compostela, Spain After a few more days visiting churches and shrines and their reliquaries, we reached the great pilgrimage goal of Santiago de Compostela, where we stayed in a hostel founded in 1501 by Ferdinand and Isabella for Santiago pilgrims. Tradition says that the huge cathedral, architecturally a blending of Romanesque and Baroque, was built over the tomb of St. James, one of Jesus' Apostles. Day after day, as we'd followed the pilgrims' route across northern Spain, we'd seen the medieval markers with his scallop shell emblem along the way. Sometimes, especially when gazing at the gory Last Judgment carvings, we felt as if we might've been wandering across the dark landscape of Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal, watching plague victims dancing to their deaths behind the black-hooded figure of Death and knowing very well that if it ever came down to a game of chess with Death we'd never have a chance of winning. No one ever did.
To be continued....
To be continued....
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You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link. Or click HERE.
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