More on Montserrat



The Path of the Walk of the Virgins is to the right of the Monastary 

In a previous visit to Montserrat, the seven year old in our group chose a cane as a souvenir from the tourist shop.

On this visit, she brought the cane back with her, and both her younger sister, and David wanted canes as well.

That purchase paid off. The canes became the toy of the day, running them along balustrades, using them to practise limping, and having them doube as weapons for imaginary wars. The mom in that family has torn a ligament in her knee and is using a cane while healing takes place. That made our group on the path even: 4 on the path with canes, and four without.

We walked on the Path of the Tiles of the Virgin Mary. To the right hand side of the path was a sweeping view of the valley below. I was 1300 metres high and looking down upon a river that looked as though it is just a thin piece of yard winding its way down the river valley. To the left of me were the high cliffs onto which the small tiles of the Virgin Mary have been nailed, each a little chapel of its own, the tile or tiles with a roof to help the rain to slip off to one side or the other. Joaquim had to correct me, for I had understood him to say that this was the Path of the Many Virgins. I asked him why the idea of many virgins is valorized in a country that oozes such a healthy sensuality. He corrected my misunderstanding. This is the path of only one virgin, the Virgin Mary, but the path marks her identity for she belongs to each town. And each of the towns there has a place of its own there, marked for her.

David skipped along the path and saw small nuts that had fallen from trees. They were the size and shape of filberts and he pocketed them until the left side of his coat was bulging. Bonnie stopped to talk to him about the nut shells, having three of them in her hand. She was rolling them back and forth by gently moving the tendons in her hands, and they reminded me of the Mexican Jumping Beans that we used to buy some Christmases long ago.

¨Oh no, they are live. Look at them move,¨ I called out in memory of those old days.

Then I saw David´s feet dancing, the nuts that had been in his pocket arcing through the air in waves as he tossed them out of his pockets. Just as fast, his seven year old cousin was picking them up and putting them in her pocket, since they had become a desired commodity as soon as he had started to collect them.

Some of the religious songs that would be sung on this path, Joaquim translated for me as we walked along. Then the seven-year old and her grandfather walked along the path behind us, singing one of the tunes together, He has been singing in the church choir for 30 years and his voice could have overpowered hers. Instead I could hear the rich tones of his vibrato blending with her the new strength of her 7 year old voice.

Some moments are precious. Hearing those tunes sung along that path was one of them.

Arta