The Spanish Church | Summary | BICTE | First Semester | TU

                                The Spanish Church

This is a narrative essay written by Catherine Watson, a female writer. It is about hiking (trip) made to visit a famous Church named Portmarin (in short 'portal'). Her friends go on walking but she stops there and sits on a wall made of grey stone. She stopped there not because of footsore but she felt happy. She wanted to sit on the wall and enjoy Spanish sun and prolong the feeling. It was one of the best moments of the trip.

While she was sitting on the wall a couple of Italian bikers drove past her with a maximum speed.  Later she met them again at the bottom of the hill. They were repairing the ruptured tire. The writer thought of walking on foot instead of going on bike quickly.

 That night, the writer stayed with her friends in a modern posada. They were on the way to the great shrine of Saint James in Santiago. But, none of them were religious ones. Portmarino was near the end of Camino. It was a moved town, a reconstruction. Its original damaged village lies beneath the waters of a dammed up river. The remains of the wall seem to have broken the water surface. The writer had already known about the place. So, she was not surprised with the condition of the place. The village had been drowned but the government made a small walled church. It is a boxy looking church with few windows. It was at the centre of the plaza and it was the authenticity of the history.

 In the morning, her friends came and she led them for the shiny green doors of the church. She was alone to be at the church. But, a boy in a red jacket came in when she did. His presence in the church made her feel a little bit self-conscious.  As if by agreement, they walked in opposite directions, he headed to the right and the writer headed left. However, the writer was impressed by his youth. He was about 22. He had a plain, pleasant face, slightly freckled (dotted) with a wide mouth and sandy hair. After few minutes, the writer sat down near the front and closed her eyes, then prayed not being a true devotee of the god but because others and millions have done for thousand years. She was not praying for anything but sitting with her heart relax.

When the writer stood to leave, she saw that boy in the red jacket sitting down farther to the from on his side of the aisle. She stopped there to watch him but he did not notice her. He was staring upward at the window above the altar. Perhaps it was transforming him or her as well. She felt tenderness to the boy –the man, the child, all the ages he would be as if she had known him all his life being a mother, sister, lover, friend and all. The boy stood up, his eyes met her eyes, his face broke into a wonderful whole hearted smile. It was pure as the light. Then he walked back, the writer watched him along the passage. When the writer came out , he was already gone  and his red jacket was disappearing on the far side of the cobblestone and she never saw him again.