On Pilgrimage

One of the greatest surprises we encountered on our trip to Spain was the hamlet of El Rocío (literally, “The Dew”), which lies between Cádiz and Huelva on the western side of the Guadalquivir estuary (and the largest natural park in Europe, the Coto Doñana). The sand streets, which after so much rain prompted the driver of the bus from Seville to announce rather grumpily “no entra,” spilling us all out onto the highway to walk into the village, were a revelation. Lots of horses use these streets and they prefer sand to asphalt and cobbles.

A few weary steps (we were dragging our bags on a hand cart and it found the sand heavier going than horses do) into the village and a memory, vague enough, about the Virgen del Rocío was triggered by the ceramic tiles on walls, the shops selling “ropa rociera” (flamenco, or sevillana, dress), and the few shops devoted to devotions and religious knick-knacks. It all seemed very quiet.

In June (around Pentecost), though, this hamlet of no more than 2,000 swells to nearly a million. Pilgrims come from all over, many of them making an arduous three-day trek by horse or on foot, in colorful dress, in carts garlanded with flowers. Apparently the cult of this Virgin Mary (who demurely looks down at the child she’s holding; her attributes include White Dove and Shepherdess) is growing fast. She has devotees throughout Andalucía (where she has no shortage of competitionthe Virgen de la Macarena, de la Estrella, de la Esperanza are all local Virgins with strong followings) but also in Madrid, Barcelona, Buenos Aires, and Adelaide. That’s Adelaide Australia. They sing a flamenco Salve to her every Friday in Madrid, punctuated with lots of olés. Many songs are written to her (and they are songs you can dance to); the pilgrims sing them as they make the journey and around campfires in the evenings. More come every year; they are not tourists. They are pilgrims. The cab driver who drove us to the airport in Madrid on Monday morning had a medallion of the Virgen del Rocío on his dashboard.

While this might all smack of hocus-pocus (and though the cult to Our Lady of the Dew only started in 1240, there seems little doubt that its origins are pre-Christian), it is worth pausing to look at the connection of place and the holy, which defines pilgrimage and not simply devotion. If a journey is involved in the search for the transcendent, the body can become a metaphor for the act of seeking. By moving in space with effort and blisters, it is purified. The longing can grow in proportion to the time and effort it takes to get there.

Our own pilgrimage, to find the Imperial Eagle in the adjacent Coto Doñana, inevitably took on a new hue in this village of pilgrimage. (We did not see the eagle; we’ll have to come back.) It was good to be reminded, meanwhile, that this was a journey of renewal and farewell for me. We spent the fourth anniversary of my father’s death with close friends of his and held him in our memory; we connected with a child whose journey back to China (someday) might bring her some greater awareness of who she is.

It’s easy to scoff at tourists with cameras yet I hope, somehow, that travelling to distant lands will give them what they seek, in part. To yearn is human. When it’s done to clapping and guitars, though, it’s Andalucian.