Bitter tears of the Virgin

The day before yesterday was Good Friday, and we went into Antequera in the evening to see the climax of the religious processions, when the images from three of the churches would be paraded through the dark, narrow streets. It was a cloudy evening, threatening rain, and as we walked into the Plaza del Portochuello, we felt the first drops ...

In this year, of all years, each day of the Semana Santa brought new heights of passion. There had never been more people in the streets. Many were strangers. They came to pretend that they, too, understood. They watched the Hermanacos sweating under the weight of the Trono. What did they know of the sorrow and the pride? But little Paco knew. His father would be the Hermano Mayor on Holy Friday; the leading man. Every other man of the district, trembling beneath the Tronos, the throne of the Virgen de los Dolores, would look to him for the word. His voice would raise the image to their shoulders. This thought alone caused Paco's chest to burn. It always did. He was small, but his father was strong, and he wanted to be like him. One day he, Paco, would be Hermano Mayor. But for now he would watch from the crowd. Being Good Friday, the Salida, the moment of carrying the Virgen from the church and out into the world, would happen late. Maybe not until darkness had fallen. Each church, each Cofrade guild, took its turn. Not until the Desfile des Armadilla arrived could the Hermano Mayor gather his disciples. All listened for their cornets and the muffled drums. There were always cornets and drums. At first the air in the narrow street vibrated only. But the Desfile approached and now stomachs and chests felt the throb of the drums. Paco looked up at his father. He felt his father's firm grip tighten on his small hand. "It's time now," his father said. "I must leave you with your mother, the others are ready." Above the church a sudden flash. Heavy drops of rain. A moan rose from the street; not this, not at this last moment! Paco watched his father across the square. A man among men, his father fought to hold his Cofrade to its task. Ignore the rain. All faces turned to the sky and then to the street. The cobbles glistened, and the moan became a silence. Paco's father walked apart from the crowd, ran his foot along the slick surface; he opened his hands to the falling rain and his thick fingers tested its wetness against calloused palms. The Virgen de los Dolores was a precious weight to bear; the rain changed everything. Alone now, he would decide between the danger of a fall, the shame of discomfiting the Virgen and staisfying the yearning of the crowd to see Her borne through the town. The rain changed everything. Paco watched his father turn to the people; saw the shrug and the lowered eyes.
The image would not leave the church this Holy Friday. Instead, the people would crowd inside to see her. They would wonder why She had decided to disappoint them.

Paco slipped away from his mother. Quietly he joined his father, who still stood in the plaza. Boy looked at man; man at boy. They became one, together sharing the burden of the Virgen de los Dolores in the rain that was still falling.


Enormous apologies to Ernest Hemingway, but the rain had just this effect! At some point in the proceedings, after the Desfile had entered the church of Santa Maria de Jesus, somebody made decision that the streets were too wet to risk the processions. Immediately everyone crammed into the church to see the images in situ, the drums and cornets played melancholy music, some people were crying and many took single carnations from the Tronos to give to the disappointed children who would have been Penitentes (wearing robes and conical hoods) taking part in the procession.

Faith and I walked through the slippery cobbled streets - they were emptying fast as people went home instead - and found a place where we could dry off and eat. We had a 'menu del dia'. I ate an interesting asparagus soup and fish; Faith had a salad of cod with orange followed by Huevos Flamenca! These were eggs, baked under a mixture of tomatoes, ham, peppers and chorizo sausage in a stoneware dish. It think it must have been called Flamenca because of its vivid rosy colour, because the rotund, dishevelled and slightly tipsy waiter certainly didn't look the dancing type. We had a bottle of wine and coffee and the whole lot came to only 12 Euros. Actually, I think the waiters just make up the amount on the bill according to what they think you'll pay, because almost every time we've eaten out, whether in restaurants or bars, eating full menus or single courses, we've paid around 12 Euros with drinks. We obviously don't look too well-heeled.
We drove back home just after midnight through a dramatic thunderstorm that lit up the mountains in brief flashes as we peered through the rain, looking for the
little sign that points to La Hoya, 7km!