When hearing the name Montserrat, one thinks of two things, the hefty but endearing opera singer, or that mountain refuge and monastery in the hills, clutching the sierras like the Potala, a few hours from Barcelona.
We had thought of coming here on previous visits but they had been in winter, and even today, with a warm summers breeze blowing, it was definitely chillier here, after a train ride and the fonicular taking you higher and higher from Barcelona, to the abode of the Black Madonna, Mary, her mountain sanctuary with its foundations dating back to the 9th century, when hermit monks inhabited caves. Not even Napoleon could destroy faith in this holy place. It is there for you to make a pilgrimage to or just wonder at. We wondered.
Climbed stairs, lifted our eyes to rounded peaks, and let them fall into the chasms and dangerous shadowy places far below. A colour of gold permeated all buildings with paint- brush cypresses swishing at the sky and hidden, secret gardens where only the minks trod, changed into a very busy and mundane cafeteria where you hoped to get a table for that fast-line food you snatched up. We had been warned. After all, the monks never needed this, but it was nice anyway when in a monastery mode. Cant go on with an empty stomach.
A group, or more like an army of school children, had a day out and ran about with rack-sacks and laughter, but settled down like lambs for Mass inside the church. Above the altar a continuous queue of pilgrims silently walked past the statue of the Black Madonna, kissing her with reverence, while the priest tried to hold the attention of the nippers. They were very still really and only let out the natural hoops and jumps once out side again.
Far away in the mist lay Barcelona, and with a bit of imagination you could spot the Sagrada Familia.
We had thought of coming here on previous visits but they had been in winter, and even today, with a warm summers breeze blowing, it was definitely chillier here, after a train ride and the fonicular taking you higher and higher from Barcelona, to the abode of the Black Madonna, Mary, her mountain sanctuary with its foundations dating back to the 9th century, when hermit monks inhabited caves. Not even Napoleon could destroy faith in this holy place. It is there for you to make a pilgrimage to or just wonder at. We wondered.
Climbed stairs, lifted our eyes to rounded peaks, and let them fall into the chasms and dangerous shadowy places far below. A colour of gold permeated all buildings with paint- brush cypresses swishing at the sky and hidden, secret gardens where only the minks trod, changed into a very busy and mundane cafeteria where you hoped to get a table for that fast-line food you snatched up. We had been warned. After all, the monks never needed this, but it was nice anyway when in a monastery mode. Cant go on with an empty stomach.
A group, or more like an army of school children, had a day out and ran about with rack-sacks and laughter, but settled down like lambs for Mass inside the church. Above the altar a continuous queue of pilgrims silently walked past the statue of the Black Madonna, kissing her with reverence, while the priest tried to hold the attention of the nippers. They were very still really and only let out the natural hoops and jumps once out side again.
Far away in the mist lay Barcelona, and with a bit of imagination you could spot the Sagrada Familia.