We will never know the true reasons that led the Benedictine monk, Aymeric Picaud, to speak so badly of a land, Navarra, in that first guide to the Saint James Way, which is his famous Codex Calistino.
But what this traveller feels, early in the morning, when that metaphorical shroud that is the fog, barely allows a glimpse, in all its superb extent, of the imposing beauty of the Leire Mountain Range, is that he is, without a doubt, in a place that is not only mysterious, but also legendary and of course, very special.
He knows that in one of those peaks, where the deer and the chamois hide, more or less safe from the voracious attack of wolves that are practically in danger of extinction, there is also the ancestral path that leads to the fountain of Abbot Virila: that fortunate monk, whose remains remain in the crypt of the monastery, who is said to have personally verified the theory of the relativity of time, centuries before the genius of Albert Einstein spoke out. Indeed, all pilgrims, travellers, tourists and curious people who one day stop by this unusual place, know the story of that abbot who one day, on the heights of that mountain, fell asleep listening to the sweet song of a little bird - a story, by the way, that was repeated more or less around the same time, the 12th century, in the Galician monastery of Armenteira, with another monk named Ero - and woke up two centuries later, realising that time, after all, is nothing more than a simple blink in the eye of God.
The reverie, but not the magic of the moment, is broken when the first buses reach the monastery level and deposit dozens of tourists in front of its doors and the traveller, surprised, rushes to walk up the hundred metres that separates him from the first car park, to join -what a choice!- the visit to one of the key places on a magical path, that of Santiago or of the Stars, which he recommends doing at least once in his life.
In the distance, confused with the line of the horizon and the persistent clouds of a morning that threatens rain, the waters of the Yesa reservoir remind him that a few kilometres away, the old Roman baths that caused so much relief to the medieval pilgrim and that gave name to the abandoned town of Tiermas also flood: the price of progress.
It is also true that the monastery has changed a lot since those hazy times of the 11th century when, judging by the unmistakable signs of that main door, which here bears the well-deserved name of Porta Speciosa, mysterious master masons worked, such as Agüero or San Juan de la Peña, who left wonderful traces of their work, not only in the nearby church of Santa María la Real, in Sangüesa, but also in the main population centres of the neighbouring Cinco Villas in Aragon, such as Sos del Rey Católico, Luesia or the stately Ejea de los Caballeros.
And yet, despite time and modifications, the old monastery of Saint Salvator continues to carry out its work of assistance and lodging, offering rooms that, although austere, do not lack comfort and are scrupulously clean and sanitary.
The church, on the other hand, continues to be that imposing and masterful place, where every night, around nine o'clock, the monks continue to offer, to anyone who wants to listen to them and, in passing, have a truly surprising experience, that Gregorian chant, whose echo, in that incredible resonance machine that the old Romanesque temples really were before being invaded by the absurd presence of inconsequential modifications and the inclusion of other styles, such as the Baroque, sounds truly special.
On one side of the nave, in an arcosolium protected by a railing, the traveller stops for a moment, thinking, upon seeing the old chest that contains the remains of several of the kings of Navarre, that death, after all, is the most just of all magistracies, since there is no doubt that it makes us all equal, applying the same law to us, even if the graves try in vain to avoid them.
The crypt, however, continues to surprise as well, because, apart from the unusual and voluminous appearance of its ancient capitals, which are almost as tall as a person, not because they were built by dwarfs, but because the ground, over the centuries, reclaims what always belonged to it and has been eating away at its land, it is a place where time continues to be, as in the famous story of Abbot Virila, whose remains it guards, a simple blink in the eternal eye of God.
NOTICE: Both the text and the accompanying photographs are my exclusive intellectual property and therefore, are subject to my Copyright.
