It was pure coincidence that we arrived in Valencia in the second weekend of May during the preparations for, then the procession of, the Festival de la Virgen de los Desamparados (Virgin of the Forsaken), patron saint of Valencia. Smaller than the more well known Las Fallas held in Valencia in March over a whole week, the festival celebrates a 15th century legend whereby an image of the virgin was believed to have cured a blind women in a Valencian hospital for the mentally ill (hence ‘the forsaken’).
It seemed like a festival that involved everyone, from the very young to the very old: in and around the church, in the procession, and as spectators lining the streets. A whole community appeared able to integrate their traditions with their modern life.
It was an occasion, and the participants took evident pride in their costumes and their participation. Thousands of them were involved in the procession, even more lined the streets.
As we had crossed and re-crossed the Plaza de la Virgen on Friday, we saw how preparations had progressed: the enormous 10m x 10m collage of some groups of figures set in ancient times was assembled against the wall of the church (was it made of flower petals, or small, coloured scrunched up pieces of paper? I couldn’t tell). Huge balls made up of bunches of white daisies were hung from the lamp posts in the square. People began to arrive after 9pm for the concert to begin the festival, but we were too tired to hang around until it kicked off, no doubt around midnight like many celebrations in Spain.
In the morning there were loud bangs (firecrackers?) and smoke, and everyone was out on the streets once again. We found a place to sit and watch the procession at around 6pm.
And finally it started. By standing on benches we could see men, women and children dressed in traditional costumes processing down the streets. No slick flamenco costumes, but hooped skirts in satin material for the women, and knee-length fitted knickerbockers, stockings, shirts and waistcoats for the men. Most of the women in the parade wore copious make-up and elaborate hairstyles, many with modest caps or hats, and many men also had hats matched to their outfits. Sometimes the processors walked in silence, accompanied only by the chattering and clapping crowd, sometimes there were brass bands that accompanied them. It seemed like the whole city of Valencia was either watching or participating in the procession.
Where was the effigy of the virgin? After more than an hour and a half, what looked like a religious procession was arriving, with an old man carrying a tall sceptre topped with what could be a sculpture of a virgin. We intensified our camera work. But the procession continued. Perhaps that was not the virgin? There was no doubt though that the composition of the participants was changing. There were less and less men and women in costume, and more groups of men well-dressed but in ordinary suits; more brass bands; and more military configurations. At last we could make out, incongruously to us, a group of men in modern military uniform carrying a shrouded figure, leaning forward rather precariously.
Yes, this was the virgin, and the crowd responded. From overhead balconies they gathered handfuls of rose petals and flung them down, chanting. One man, looking middle-aged, respectable and no doubt well connected in his balcony just above the street, shouted out something like ‘you are the beloved virgin and we honour you.’ He led the chant, ‘virgin, virgin’ and the crowd took it up.
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After the procession, the people flowed onto the road and followed the footsteps of the processors. It was the end of the procession and the beginning of the family celebrations.
Our timing for religious engagement was just as inspired in our second brush with religious ritual in the pilgrim town of Santiago de Compostela, patron saint of the whole of Spain.
After a long but relaxing train journey from Madrid, we arrived in Santiago de Compostela (Saint James of the star – alluding to the guiding star that is believed to have led a religious hermit to the disciple’s grave in the 800s). The countryside had become progressively greener as we travelled north, and the temperature seemed much cooler than central Spain.
The day after our arrival, we walked to the square, the Praza do Obradoiro, where the pilgrimage to see the saint’s tomb ends in a grand cathedral, intricately carved with images of the apostles and musicians in heaven. We wandered around the square, took some photos and accepted the offer of a cruise-holidaying American Morman to photograph us together. There were pilgrims everywhere, identified by their backpacks, walking sticks in aluminium or wood, and seashell insignias, and they emanated a weary but convivial atmosphere.
Noticing that we were able to enter the Cathedral despite a service being underway, we followed the pilgrims and tourists through a side door. We had entered from the western side and could just see the priests conducting the service, but not the congregation along the central aisle. There was standing room only. We moved forward to get a better view and perhaps see the choir that was singing a slow, solemn hymn.
It is not often that you attend a church service that is overflowing with people, even less so in such a large cathedral. It is not the same as standing in an empty church, however beautiful or elaborately decorated. Just as legends and artwork were brought alive in songs and dances in traditional Aboriginal culture, so the weight of history of the catholic faith seemed to transmit itself in the Cathedral through the presence of so many pilgrims and believers.
After a few minutes, several priests untied the rope from the botafumeiro (incense dispenser). As the singing continued, they used the pulley to raise the botafumeiro so that it swung from the top of the Cathedral to just above our heads. It was the size of my head, and deposited incense smokily as it was swung, gently at first, then rather recklessly. Here are a few seconds of footage:
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We had stumbled in to the Cathedral not only in time to see a service, but also to experience the rare event of the botafumeiro in use during a special pilgrim’s mass. Because we had entered late, we had accidentally come in by one of the side doors that enabled us to have a good view.
There was something moving about this ceremony, just as the procession of the virgin had been. Perhaps that is the nature of ceremonies. In the end, for all the dwindling influence of religious tradition on the lives of many people I know, religious ceremonies still have the power to sweep us up. In both Valencia and in Santiago de Compostela I had an insight into the mesmerising spectacle of spiritual fervour. In these places at least, it is alive and well.
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