How I Celebrated Alfonso X's 800th Birthday

Showing the king my birthday present for him 
All photos in this post 2021 Jessica Knauss 

I've been looking forward to Alfonso X's 800th birthday on November 23, 2021, for a very long time: since before I moved to Spain, before so many things, before I went to study cantigas in England (of all places). 

I was hoping to participate in lots of events for this grand occasion now that I live in Spain and could easily go to any one of Alfonso's favorite cities. Then the pandemic happened. I'd had Our Lady's Troubadour in the works for while, and thought since I can write a book under practically any circumstances, that it would be an apt tribute. 

And so Our Lady's Troubadour came into being, with a lot of help from friends and Encircle Publications. But meanwhile, the conditions of the pandemic relaxed, and some conferences and theatrical experiences celebrating the 800 years started to take place. Mostly, I heard about them and sighed wistfully because travel is still difficult or because I heard about them too late to do anything. 

Jesús Lozano plays Alfonso X in Alfonso X: La última cantiga, Sevilla, August 2021 

I was able to go to Sevilla for my own birthday and see the play La última cantiga, twice. It tells the story of the last years of Alfonso's reign and life and is punctuated by cantigas played by Cantica and Emilio Villalba (wonderful artists!). I know the history well, and to see it played out before my eyes was truly thrilling. Too few have been the times I've been to an event with cantigas played live. This is how they were meant to be enjoyed, in all their foot-tapping glory! 

But that was my birthday. Was I going to spend Alfonso's great anniversary stuck at home among piles of my own books? 

I didn't have to! I found out about Eduardo Paniagua doing a limited tour with the basic members of Música Antigua, ostensibly to promote their latest discs, about a month before the anniversary. With his group, Eduardo Paniagua has been recording all the Cantigas de Santa Maria, every last one of 427. They've been at it for about thirty years, and have some 380 done. The goal is on the horizon... 

The closest thing you can get to the instruments of Alfonso's court. 

The group uses instruments created from medieval miniatures and sculptures and a variety of voices and techniques. The approach they take, recording the entire text of each cantiga and developing the story with dialogue and interplay, has influenced my literary interpretation of the texts more than any single cantigas critic. Singing along with the recordings has helped me enter into the medieval mindset to write the stories in Our Lady's Troubadour, and given me a burning desire to perform cantigas in public (which I will do on December 10 if the worsening COVID figures don't stop me!). 

The city crest of Ciudad Real appears to feature Alfonso X! 

I've been listening to Música Antigua's work since 1998. So when I found out that they were going to do a concert on November 23, the exact birthday, in Ciudad Real, which Alfonso founded (and where I'd meant to go and see a Manolo García concert in 2008, but that's another story), I leapt at the opportunity! 

Ciudad Real isn't close to where I live. I reserved the Hotel Alfonso X, because how can you not, and tried to find out how to guarantee a seat when it was going to be first come, first served. I wrote to the cultural ministry, and at great personal cost, called, but never got to speak with the organizers. I had to just go and trust. 

Another element of this story is that I have a shiny new boyfriend (shiny as in "knight in shining armor"), whom you will probably hear more about. His name is Mario, and when he suddenly got the opportunity, he offered to go to Ciudad Real with me, doing the driving. We had a delightful road trip to Don Quijote country through snow and sunshine. It was sleeting when we go to the town of Milagros in the mountains north of Madrid, and Mario took this photo showing a book of miracles in a town called Miracles so I could hold the umbrella and keep the book from getting wet. What a great guy! 

We toured Ciudad Real. It has a strong current of Don Quijote going on, less so of Alfonso X. The mural in the above photo was done last week, just in time for the 800th birthday. But I couldn't be stopped. We saw the mural, a couple of statues, and a fountain, and it was enough to keep me happy. I was coming full circle, finally seeing a concert in Ciudad Real--not Manolo, but Alfonso, and I was comparably excited. 

The old casino building 

In the morning, we headed to the concert venue, which is the headquarters of the cultural ministry in the old casino building. We wanted to see if they would guarantee us seats because we had come so far and, after all, I'd just published a book for Alfonso X. We met with the organizers, and my social ineptitude took over. I let Mario do the talking, but when he couldn't make a very strong case for us based on how far we'd traveled, he started explaining that I'm an Alfonso X expert. I took up the challenge finally when he said, "But she can explain it better than I." 

I shakily removed Trovador de Santa Maria from the bag we'd been carrying around to protect it from the rain and explained that it had ten stories based on the plots of Cantigas de Santa Maria, and that I thought the City of Ciudad Real should have a copy. Everyone's demeanor changed. They said to come back when they opened the doors, and they would make sure we got in. (They didn't seem to feel the urgency I did about the limited number of seats.) 

Santiago, the oldest church in Ciudad Real,
might've seen Alfonso X cross its threshold. 

That done, we had a busy morning sightseeing, and all the while my mind was roiling with how the concert was going to go coupled with the excitement of hearing Cantigas live by the best musicians. 

In the afternoon, I read the introduction of Trovador de Santa Maria to Mario, both to share with him the importance of this occasion and to get used to speaking about these things I so love. He suggested we go to the Plaza Mayor and read the introduction out loud at the fountain with Alfonso X's statue so he could hear his present. I wept copiously at the suggestion, thinking about all the years I've studied Alfonso X and how I wish I could know whether he likes my gift to him. 

Front row, baby! 

We showed up at the casino early in our enthusiasm, and were told to come back later, not to worry, even if there were no seats available, they'd make room. Even with that hint, I still didn't imagine what ended up happening: we were personally escorted to the section labeled "protocol" in the front row! We were joined by members of the press and the organizers. 

Oh, the anticipation! The instruments were laid out as in the photo near the top of this post, and the air seemed to spark as, indeed, every last seat filled in behind us. 

And then, Wafir Sheik, Luis Antonio Muñoz, Eduardo Paniagua, and Jaime Muñoz walked out and took their seats to play instrumental versions of Cantigas 388 (295) and 1. The sound, without amplifiers of any kind, was as perfect as on the discs, but so much more alive. It was like lifting a veil and opening a passageway to a thirteenth century full of richness and beauty. 

I knew most of the cantigas in the concert well. They're like old friends, and I couldn't help tapping my feet and mouthing the words as I stared unabashedly at the wonders taking place in front of me. Mario was also overcome with the masterful playing of the marvelous instruments. The photos don't do it justice. Videos wouldn't have, either. 

Eduardo Paniagua talked with the audience between cantigas. He explained the miracles and their context, his perceptions of Alfonso's contribution to world culture, and how moved he was to be playing cantigas in Ciudad Real on November 23, 2021. I'd seen interviews with him before, and he always struck me as a very practical, no-nonsense kind of guy. But you can't be strictly practical and head a project of this magnitude for thirty years. Perhaps he's both down-to-earth and unbelievably passionate about this best of all medieval books, rather like I imagine Alfonso X himself. 

Afterward, they had discs for sale and the musicians stayed to chat with any audience member who wished to ask about the instruments or cantigas. I stood, my knees like jelly, my brain mush, and couldn't force myself to get in line to talk to Eduardo Paniagua just yet. Mario seized the opportunity to chat with Jaime Muñoz about the various flutes. While participating in that conversation, I also observed the others interacting with everyone and got the sensation that everyone in that large room loved cantigas and treated each other with kindness and respect because of that mutual understanding. 

Rather than calming me down, that rush of love wound me up more. When it was finally my turn to talk to Eduardo Paniagua, I could only start by buying the latest two discs, which are in fact two-disc sets. But then somehow I managed to say my fangirl speech about how I think the cantigas project is the best project in the world and how I've been listening for twenty years, and being able to listen to the music has influenced my writing. 

Luckily, Eduardo then asked me what I write. I accepted Trovador de Santa Maria from Mario, and showing it to Eduardo, I explained that it's a book I wrote for the 800th anniversary, and that the short stories are based on the plots of cantigas. And that I would be honored if he accepted this copy. He was incredibly gracious, insisting I sign it and gifting me a triple-disc set in return. (So I'm seven discs richer in cantigas than before I went to Ciudad Real!) 

Two Alfonso enthusiasts exchange works of art. 

Afterward, I went over to where Luis Antonio Muñoz, who did most of the singing, was showing the psaltery to a journalist, and told him (forgive my schmaltz), "Thank you for being the voice of Alfonso X." He was a very good sport about it and had a more-than-pleasant conversation with us. We were also able to congratulate Wafir Sheik on his excellent lute playing before we left. 

A journalist overheard Mario and me talking with Luis Antonio Muñoz and came to ask us why we'd come so far to see a free concert. By then, I was warmed up, not to say on fire, and launched right into Trovador de Santa Maria. Look at the last paragraph of this article. I feel so proud looking at that! The organizers said they'd be in touch about a possible book event, too. A triumph all around. 

I'm so grateful for these moments! I honestly don't know if I could've gone through with talking to everyone without Mario's encouragement. So I'm unspeakably grateful that he was able to come with me! 

In the end, Alfonso X's 800th birthday was better than I could've imagined. Happy birthday! 

See more Alfonsine photos here:

Beautiful, Fun Music: The Cantigas de Santa Maria

A good troubadour in Cantiga 194, T codex. 
Cantiga 194 gives Our Lady's Troubadour its title. 
RB. Patrimonio Nacional.

With music, poems, and pictures, the Cantigas de Santa Maria are still a true multimedia experience. The music was the most enigmatic aspect for a long time, but since the code was unlocked in the early twentieth century, musicians have leapt at the chance to re-create the sounds of Alfonso X's court. 

A major reason Alfonso X is considered “the wise king” is because he placed himself at the center of the constant exchange of hybrid cultural currents of his era. He fostered an avid interest in the both the sciences and the arts and was obsessed with setting it all down in writing. This mania for compilation led to the Cantigas manuscripts becoming one of the largest songbooks of medieval Europe, with musical notation for more than 400 songs.

Alfonso holds up the musical prologue in the T
 manuscript of the Cantigas. RB. Patrimonio Nacional. 

I’ve studied the Cantigas de Santa Maria, mostly as literature, for more than twenty years, and I’m accustomed to English-speaking people having some strange preconceptions about this marvel of the Middle Ages. Now that I live in Spain, where the people ought to have these rhythms in their blood, I thought I might be able to skip the introductory lecture on what the Cantigas are really like.

I was wrong. My wonderful musician friends who are helping me put together some cantigas for my book launch in December made the same assumption non-Spaniards have made in the past. Since the stories tell the miracles of the Virgin Mary, they think the melodies are going to be droning, stultifying church music heavily influenced by the apparent shapelessness of Gregorian chant.

Cantiga 380 (E manuscript) with exotic hats and written music.
RB. Patrimonio Nacional. 

Now, I don’t consider Gregorian chant to be boring, but it’s true it never captured my imagination the way the Cantigas have, with their virtuosic earworms and lively rhythms. Although the Cantigas have a single line of text and music, this doesn’t reflect the influence of church music, which at the time was largely polyphonic. Here, monophony is a way to avoid obscuring the words and the meaning of the stories.

It’s important to remember that this music was written by the best troubadours at the most sophisticated moment of their age, and in some cases by the cosmopolitan king himself. It was meant to be heard at court, possibly accompanied by dance or even some type of drama. The story was all-important. The Cantigas’ music is more like the movies, singer-songwriters, folk music, and even marching bands of their time than like something a monk would sing.

This illustration for Cantiga 130 from the E manuscript
shows a multicultural environment. RB. Patrimonio Nacional.

Additionally, the Castilian court likely welcomed the influence of the Andalusians or Moors, who brought the latest innovations in instruments and theory to the Iberian Peninsula. Although no one has discovered a manuscript describing the style with which Alfonso wanted the Cantigas to be played, the melodies, the stories, and even the miniatures point clearly to Muslim musicians, who were, culturally, the posh kids of the time everyone wanted to imitate.

These seemingly opposite currents of northern troubadours and southern musicians, and ostensibly religious themes in a secular court setting, came together to create what I consider some of the most beautiful and just plain fun music in the world. 

I leave you with a version of Cantiga 166, which features in the introduction of Our Lady's Troubadour, because when I heard it for the first time, it changed my life. 

Our Lady's Troubadour lets you experience this rich world in a fun new way with ten exciting stories! 

Alfonso X's Greatest Work on His 800th Birthday

This illustration of Cantiga 235 in the F manuscript of the Cantigas
shows Alfonso X meeting a diplomatic retinue during his travels to meet with
the Pope in Beaucaire in 1275. The trip ended in disappointment, and 
much worse was soon to come... 

The historical figure of Alfonso X, el Sabio, has accompanied me through travels, trials, and tribulations for most of my life. As a human being, he was probably as complex and hard to live with as anyone, but I will always love what he stands for now: thirst for knowledge and the application of that knowledge to live better and improve the world. 

I've written about Alfonso X many times. Perhaps most important is his contribution to world culture. It gives some indication why I feel such tremendous respect for this king and scholar. 

Our Lady's Troubadour, which came out yesterday, celebrates Alfonso's 800th birthday on November 23, 2021, by adapting ten of the plots of the Cantigas de Santa Maria so modern readers can easily enjoy them and understand something of Alfonso X's world. 

The Cantigas de Santa Maria are one of the medieval compilations of miracles of the Virgin Mary. This collection is unique because: 

the miracles are told in the form of song; 

it’s a very large collection, with more than 400 of these songs, including every musical style in the Europe of their time; 

the manuscripts themselves are unique;  

the way the songs are organized has no equal; 

and most importantly, the Cantigas de Santa Maria are unique because of the personal involvement of the king. 

Alfonso X's court in the presentation miniature of the E manuscript. 
RB. Patrimonio Nacional. 

Here we see the king, Alfonso X himself, in the center of this illustration of his court from the first pages of the E codex. On the sides we have musicians tuning up, noblemen seated on pillows ready to listen, and tonsured monks ready to take dictation. Gold leaf, bright colors, happy feet jutting over the border, and blissful expressions complete a dynamic portrait of the royal workshop. The king's centrality in this picture is not casual: this is one of many ways Alfonso put his personal signature on the Cantigas. He wanted future generations to know that this wonderful book came about because of him. 

As we read the different miracles in the Cantigas, we witness all levels of daily life as well as extraordinary times. We spend time with people who have nothing to eat or are ill as well as with princes and an empress. 

For an introduction to how wonderful the Cantigas de Santa Maria are with examples, read here. 

For a more thorough but no less enthusiastic introduction to the Cantigas, read the introduction to Our Lady's Troubadour. 

For an even more thorough, documented, and scholarly approach to what the Cantigas are (where you'll still note unadulterated joy shining through), read the second chapter of Law and Order in Medieval Spain. 

I'll write more about the wide variety of topics to explore in the Cantigas in the weeks and months to come. It's going to be a fun ride! 

I'll end this strange introduction to an extraordinary king and his favorite book with my take on Cantiga 295. 

Cantigas 295 is one the happiest of the Cantigas de Santa Maria. In it, some nuns the king himself brought in to worship a certain image of St. Mary have a vision of St. Mary herself calling for the king. When he comes to lay prostrate before her, saying he would kiss her hands and feet in devotion, St. Mary says no, she wants to kiss his hands because of all the great things he does in her honor. A dream come true for Alfonso X! 

This is me singing unaccompanied, and yes, there are mistakes. But I hope you can hear the joy with which I share this music with you! Thanks for listening. 

Announcing Our Lady's Troubadour, Historical Fiction from My Heart, with Cover Reveal

I've been pounding away at the keyboard, seriously. You can hardly see the letters anymore, my nails have been scraping them off so much! This has been almost all to bring you a book that's really important to me: Our Lady's Troubadour and Other Miraculous Tales from the Cantigas de Santa Maria in Honor of Alfonso X, el Sabio. 

Alfonso X is my favorite king because he has a reputation for loving learning. His legacy includes histories, astronomy, legislation, and his masterwork, the Cantigas de Santa Maria, which is the largest collection of Marian miracles ever set to music. They survive in four deluxe manuscripts that emphasize how important these songs were to the king. 

November 23, 2021, marks 800 years since the birth of Alfonso X. There are a few conferences, concerts, and plays scheduled in places such as Toledo and Sevilla, but for a while there, the pandemic made it seem none of that would be possible. So I ramped up a project I'd started years ago, adapting some of the stories from the Cantigas into a short story collection. 

With a last push during confinement (lockdown), and the go-ahead from my publisher, Encircle Publications, years of love, devotion, writing, and editing, have resulted in Our Lady's Troubadour, ten short stories set in an ideal medieval Spain with problems and perils, but always happy endings. It will release on November 17, 2021, in hardcover, paperback, and ebook. 

November 17 was the birthday of my beloved husband, Stanley, so I'm touched to be able to add that small tribute to this project that's so important to me. 

The cover is based on one of the miniatures in the most important Cantigas codex. In it, Alfonso X himself points out to St. Mary and attendant saints and an angel all the wonderful ways he's sung her praises. Alfonso is shown to have direct access to St. Mary many times in the Cantigas, and this (unorthodox, bordering heretical) close relationship is unique in medieval European art. I always love something wonderful that much more if it's unique. 

More about this joyful new book coming soon!

Este tributo desde el fondo de mi corazón sale el mismo día 17 de noviembre en castellano con el título de Trovador de Santa María. El 3 de diciembre, habrá en Zamora una presentación del libro con música, y con un poco de suerte, también en Toledo.

(This heartfelt tribute will appear simultaneously in Spanish as Trovador de Santa Maria, and I'm planning an in-person book launch in my medieval city of Zamora, hopefully with an appearance to follow in Toledo.) 

Short and Sweet Radio Interview on Chat & Spin

These people in the Cantigas de Santa Maria
are listening to oldies from the 1280s. 

Click here to listen to the Interview with J. K. Knauss on Chat and Spin Radio. Fast forward to 1:36:00 to skip an hour and a half of awesome 80s music to just hear the chat. 

Chat and Spin Radio is an indie Internet radio station based in the UK and broadcasting to 750,000 listeners daily. They play the best music, which is to say 80s jams (they take requests!), and have little chats with an astonishing variety of literary personalities. Ron Clark was kind enough to sit down with me for a short spell (less than ten minutes) yesterday evening. As I mention above, click here and fast forward to 1:36:00 to listen. 

Here's a transcript in case you have technical issues: 

Ron: And the time now on Chat and Spin Radio in the UK is 7:36 pm, and we've got our next guest on the line right now. Who's calling and where are you calling from?

J. K.: My name is Jessica Knauss. I'm an American, and I live in Zamora, Spain. 

Ron: Jessica, you've written books, you're an author, and you want to mention a book that's coming out in December.

J. K.: Yes, so, my medieval epic novel, Seven Noble Knights is going to be released by Encircle Publications on December 11. 

It takes place in Spain, in the year 974. Gonzalo, a brave but hotheaded knight, unwittingly provokes tragedy at his uncle’s wedding to beautiful young noblewoman Doña Lambra: the adored cousin of the bride dead, his teeth scattered across the riverbank. Coveting Gonzalo’s family’s wealth and power, Doña Lambra then sends Gonzalo’s father into enemy territory to be beheaded, unleashing a vengeance that devastates Castile for a generation.

A new hero, Mudarra, rises out of the ashes of Gonzalo’s once great family. Raised as a warrior in the opulence of Muslim Córdoba, Mudarra must make a grueling journey and change his religion. Then, he chooses to take his jeweled sword to the throats of his family’s betrayers. But only when he strays from the path set for him does he find his true purpose in life.

So, as you can hear, the book is in two parts. It's a substantial read, and that’s because the feud that starts at the wedding continues for years, with the villain laying waste to the beautiful land, never knowing that the hero is just waiting for the right moment to stop him and put things right. Mudarra does this at great personal cost. He’s perfectly competent to avenge his family, but he has a lot of doubts about whether he’s doing the right thing. 

I personally really like to get lost a book, and feel transported to another world when I’m reading. Seven Noble Knights, is, I’m happy to say, one of those books. You can let it absorb you into its sights, sounds, smells. So, if you’re looking to escape from this dismal year the whole world is having, Seven Noble Knights could be a great option. 

Ron: It certainly can. The book is is great thing to read during all this. It's a form of escapism to read the book, and possibly to write it, as well. 

J. K.: Yes, indeed. In times of great anguish, we always to turn the artists, and so we should appreciate them. 

Ron: Seven Noble Knights is coming out on December the 11th. Just tell me how can people purchase that book, and also if anyone wants to get in touch with yourself, how do they do that?

J. K.: Seven Noble Knights is now available for preorder in both ebook and softcover at Amazon. It will be available at many more outlets on December 11. 

Preorders are very helpful to the book and the author, so if you’re interested at all, order Seven Noble Knights now and receive it on December 11! The ebook is specially priced at only 99 cents for preorder in America, that's only 77 p in the UK. And December 11, the price goes up! It won’t be on sale after that, so take advantage of the bargain. 

You can find much more information about Seven Noble Knights and my other books, which are a world apart, at my website, JessicaKnauss.com.

Ron: Okay, Jessica. Is there anything else you want to mention?

J. K.: I thought I would mention what inspired me to write this book, if that would be of interest. There I was, innocently studying for my PhD in medieval Spanish literature, when my thesis advisor handed me an article she’d written about the meaning of the bloody cucumber incident in a lost medieval epic poem. I’m naturally attracted to the bizarre, and this was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever heard. So of course I had to read the historical records of the legend, and it turns out, throwing random vegetables at your enemies was a common enough occurrence in the Middle Ages in Spain that there are a couple of laws against it. And this ended up being one of the least interesting things about the legend. 

I didn’t get to focus more on this material until long after I’d finished my PhD, when it seemed to me that the best way to handle the exotic locations and complex characters would be to write a novel. The legend has had many adaptations in the Spanish-speaking world, including comic books and movies, in the hometown of the main characters, they have a rock opera that they do every year, but I strongly felt that readers in English would love this story, too. 

Ron: Okay, then, Jessica. Thank you very much, and the very best of luck with the books as well. 

J. K.: Thank you very much for having me. It's been a pleasure. 

Ron: That was Jessica on the line from Zamora, Spain. Thanks very much for coming on. 

A Weekend in the Life: A Wedding and a Pilgrimage

San Julián de los Caballeros, Toro, after the wedding
All photos in this post 2019 Jessica Knauss
unless otherwise specified 

Though I usually blog about the history I find on trips I've taken, sometimes you can have an extraordinary weekend staying close to home. Especially when you live in Spain. To start it off, on Saturday, my choir, the Coral Ciudad de Zamora, sang at a wedding in Toro. I haven't mentioned Toro on this blog before, but that's my bad. It's Zamora province's second capital and about as packed with thrilling history as Zamora. We carpooled to get there, and the lady I rode with, who sings tenor (although she would like to sing bass), parked next to the castle. This is not something you can do at all in the United States, but isn't worth batting an eye in Toro.

The wedding took place in the Church of San Julián de los Caballeros, a sixteenth-century Gothic structure on the site of a much more ancient sanctuary. Gothic letters on the facade proclaim, "Here the Christian faith was publicly practiced in the time of the 'saracens.'" Alfonso III gave the "repopulation" order for Toro in 910, so this is a reference to worship taking place here in the ninth century and earlier. Such antiquity shouldn't surprise in Toro, which was probably established before 220 BCE.

Gothic pulpit 

We had the chance to look around in the church, change into choir robes in the sacristy, and warm up before any guests arrived.

Hardly anybody came into the church before the ceremony started. A fellow soprano said they were waiting around outside to catch a glimpse of the bride. No way! Rather than follow the rules, the Spanish don't mind spoiling the surprise.

An alto's husband took this photo of us during warmups. 

The groom was handsome, the bride elegant. The choir didn’t make any obvious flubs, and word from the family is that our contribution was thoroughly appreciated. Although there didn't seem to be a videographer, as I've seen at most American weddings, two photographers pestered the bride and groom and ignored us completely. Choirs at weddings in Spain must be so normal as to not need a photographic reminder.

Main altar 

There was mass while the bride and groom were seated. They exchanged vows, rings, and arras, coins symbolic of dowry and bride price, though they said they were symbolic of the fortunes the bride and groom would enjoy together.

The groom's brother carried a cardboard sign nicely lettered with "Don't worry, ladies, I'm still single!" Well, that's a relief!

The groom’s new aunt read a text of blessing as a surprise, and a nervous friend sang a short song, sitting in the pews. It wasn't the performance of the year, as the choir commented afterward, but I was moved by her sentiment.

A meet-and-greet instead of a recessional 

Though we sang an upbeat song by Monsignor Marco Frisina as a recessional, the wedding party didn't leave the church at the end. All the invited friends and family went up to them near the altar to congratulate them. Outside, there were three baskets with different things to throw at the couple when they did come out: rice, rose petals, and confetti cannons.

This is the first wedding I've been to since I became widowed. I almost broke down in tears during the exchange of rings, thinking widow thoughts that would be a real downer to anyone who's been spared losing the love of their life. And then, looking at the happy couple being pelted with the modern remnants of fertility symbols, I couldn't help but feel optimistic. The day was emotionally exhausting because of these ups and downs. Grief always comes back around with the same intensity, but at least I find that now, nearly three years in, I recover from such triggers quickly, with a little rest.

Singing at a wedding on Saturday would've been enough to distinguish this weekend from any other in my life, but Zamora can be relentless. It provided another unique event to transport me to yet another world.

The highway is blocked to car traffic on the morning of Pentecost Monday every year. 

June in Spain is synonymous with weddings, but also with romerías. The translation is "pilgrimages," but yet again, something is lost in that transfer. A romería, unlike what we usually think of as a pilgrimage, is a local affair, something that can be undertaken in a single day by an entire community. It turns out looking like a mass migration to the countryside for the day. The most famous is the romería from Sevilla to El Rocío, but I've seen national news reports on many others all over the country. 

Guess what? Zamora's romería claims to be the oldest continually performed such ritual. The media claims this is the 729th year! In about the year 1290, it's said young King Sancho IV (Alfonso X's son) was out hunting in the area of present-day La Hiniesta when the Virgin Mary appeared to him in a broom shrub (hiniesta). He had the church that is now the center of town built to commemorate that auspicious moment. And people have been making the pilgrimage out here from Zamora on Pentecost ever since. 

Someone who goes on romería is a romero,
so sprigs of romero (rosemary) are required. 

Last year, the romería came up without enough warning for me to consider doing it. Besides, walking seven kilometers there and seven more back by myself in a crowd didn't appeal when I was finishing up my first school year and preparing for an epic journey with my wonderful mother.

This year June 10, a Monday, was a holiday in Zamora and nowhere else. Chatting with my roommate, Fernando, the romería to La Hiniesta came up casually with enough time beforehand for him to consider that since I love Zamora and haven't done it before, perhaps he could do me the extraordinary favor of guiding me through the experience.

The Cross of Don Sancho, one of the important stops along the way 

I needed a local guide because these things are hard to pin down, even if they've published schedules and itineraries. I wouldn't have known what time to be at the church from which the Patroness of Zamora, the Virgen de la Concha (Our Lady of the Shell), makes her grand exit. I also wouldn't have had the motivation to get up so early.

We showed up at San Antolín at 8:30 a.m. Only bakers and romeros (pilgrimage-goers) are up at that hour in Spain. Everyone else I'd talked to about it had said they were going to be away from Zamora on Monday, so I had the impression of a deserted city. That impression was the first thing corrected.

The Virgen de la Concha came out of San Antolín punctually to a march played by flute and tambor, a harsh type of oboe, and bagpipes. These musical groups spread out over the course of the route, but were most impressive when they were all together. The Virgen has been the Patroness of Zamora since 1100, but the current iconographically unique dressing image is from the eighteenth century. She stands proudly with a flag, and her Child stands next to her, united by a silver chain. The shell that gives her her name is also silver and tied around her waist over whatever elaborate robes she's dressed with. Because she's a dressing image, under the robes, she's a skeletal framework, making her relatively light, which must be a blessing on her romería day. Seven kilometers (4.35 miles) to La Hiniesta, a trip around the large church there, and seven kilometers back on the same day would test anyone's devotion.

As she made her way down the sloped street to exit what was once the Fair Gate in the city wall, people in balconies threw confetti. This wasn't just any confetti. It had been cut with care from multicolored paper after being printed with all the Virgen's honorifics: Crowned Queen of Zamora, Crowned Patron of Zamora, Virgin of the Pilgrim's Way!, Mother-of-Pearl Shell, and Crowned Shell were the ones Fernando caught for me.

The idea is not to simply leave the temple and arrive at La Hiniesta in a timely manner. Several diversions, planned and improvised, kept boredom at bay throughout the trip. Among the spontaneous events, some people waited by the side of the road for the procession to pass by, holding flowers. If they held the flowers up while the Virgen approached, the float stopped and allowed the people to make votive offerings of the flowers. One of the brotherhood members would take the flowers and arrange them on the float as he saw fit.

The first programmed stop was just outside the Fair Gate. The Virgen entered the Church of San Lázaro, prayers were said and reverences made, and she made a triumphal exit accompanied by music.

Fernando said when he used to do the romería as a kid, only "four cats" would show up. That's the Spanish way of exaggerating to say "nobody." Monday, the street near San Antolín was crammed with people, more people watched from their balconies, and more and more people joined the parade as it wended out of Zamora. It was truly a community affair. I saw people from my choir, a former student played in one of the bands, and Fernando was constantly running into people he knew.

By 9:30, we'd already arrived at the Cross of Don Sancho, a little wooded area where the procession stopped and prayers were said. 

Then a couple of the brotherhood members ceremoniously unchained Christ from his mother and cradled him reverently for the faithful to come and kiss his feet. Given that I'm not Catholic and Fernando is lapsed (apostate, he says), we only watched. At this point, though we didn't realize it, Christ was taken ahead by car.

We passed the sign that indicated we were leaving Zamora and broke out into open country. I admit to getting a thrill for doing that on foot. I've only ever seen those signs from cars before. Sadly, the landscape looks almost as dry as it did when I first arrived in 2017. Last year, it must've looked much greener after a lot of refreshing spring rain we didn't get this year.

We were able to keep up a brisk pace, and the day was clear but not hot. The highway was closed to automobile traffic, which made for a lot of peace of mind. Red poppies lined the highway.

The fork leading to the route back if you stay with the procession all day 

We came up on the refreshments stop less than fifteen minutes after leaving the Cross of Don Sancho. The free "lemonade" was an insipid red liquid I chose not to do more than taste because restrooms were clearly going to be scarce. Fernando had brought roasted peanuts, and we walked and shelled them, shooting the breeze under the protection of hats.

We entered industrial farmland, and considerate farmers had laid down carpets of rose petals and rosemary to attenuate the "fresh" smell of animals.

At 10:30, we came across an informal stop. "What are they giving out there?" asked Fernando. We looked closer, and it was the car with Christ. They'd stopped to allow for more foot kissing and claimed that donations were welcome. For the brotherhood, of course. I thought it was highly amusing.

Only a little farther on, large groups of people were sitting by the side of the road, eating sandwiches and other second-breakfast items they'd brought. They likely knew exactly how little room there was to do this kind of thing in La Hiniesta.

When we arrived ahead of the procession at the entrance to the village at about 11, we found a place set up with barriers where the action would clearly take place. I said I needed to get a look at the church before it was overrun with pilgrims. We hotfooted it to the center of town and made it just in time to see the Brotherhood of La Hiniesta leaving to meet the Virgen de la Concha at her arrival.

The church, one of the few pieces of Gothic architecture in Zamora province, is spectacular. The grand doorway has the ball decorations no one can tell by sight alone whether they are Romanesque or Isabelline Gothic. In this case, history shows us they are Isabelline. The interior is a single nave with impressive Baroque pieces and three fine Gothic statues. We read that there were Gothic paintings, but didn't find them. They may have been behind the main altar.

The main event is the facade. It's packed with masterful Gothic sculpture you simply don't expect in Zamora, highlighted by colorful paint.

Being Gothic, the scenes are all strictly religious, illustrating the life of Christ. But I could've stared at the sinuous, expressive forms for much longer than the three minutes we spared before running back to meet the procession. Looking at the photos, I dare say this Gothic style is influenced by the Romanesque symmetry all around the province.

Horses weren't allowed to participate in the ceremonies this year,
but they came to watch. 

Back at the entrance, we got a pretty good spot to watch the arrival of the Virgen. The brotherhood members intoned a song. A couple of children doing their first communion read poems including the phrase "I will never forget this day." The mayors of Zamora and La Hiniesta traded the canes that are the symbol of their responsibilities. They trade them back after the mass, before the procession heads back to Zamora.

What everyone wanted to see was this, the dance of the brotherhoods' flags.

Then we processed again, to the church!

Ringing the bells 

The Virgen made a circuit of the whole church, accompanied by the bands and the bellringers, before making a triumphal entry. Not nearly all the pilgrims would fit into the church for the solemn mass, and it seemed as though most didn't try.

Fernando said in the old days, plenty of the town's bars were open to provide restrooms and refreshments to the pilgrims. This time, only an outdoor events place was open--right on the side of the church. They were doing excellent business. Something must've happened over the years to make the local bars give up, because absolutely nothing was open. If not for the thousands of pilgrims, La Hiniesta would've been a ghost town.

One of my devious roommate's ideas for not having to walk back to Zamora was to limp, moaning, into the Red Cross tent, and keep up the act until they take you home in an ambulance. There was no way I was doing that, but the Red Cross had port-a-potties, for which I will be eternally grateful. At about 1 p.m., after an incredible morning, and having our photo taken by someone else Fernando knew, we were confronted with this:

Four kilometers back to Zamora, plus the kilometers from the city limit to our house. On foot. Although the day was fine for walking, the return was tiresome because the highway was now open to traffic and, importantly, it was getting close to time for the midday meal.

We started toward Zamora, and Fernando tried what had always worked before: hitchhiking. "Nobody really hitchhikes anymore, do they?" he said after seven or eight attempts, echoing something I'd said earlier. Then we saw someone carrying an oboe wave down what was obviously a prearranged ride.

"He has a ride," I said, and we ran up the road a way. After they'd turned around, Fernando's trusty thumb finally worked.

Riding with one of the musicians afforded us a conversation about how much the romería has changed and a comment about the way the mayors exchange canes. "Just think, the Mayor of La Hiniesta could make a decree during those few hours and Zamorans would have to live by it!"

And we made it home in time for the midday meal after a nice shower. It was hard to believe the rest of the world, and even the rest of Spain, had been going about normal business on this extraordinary day, the day of the romería to La Hiniesta.