Thunderstorms the next morning meant blogging and planning the next few days and a route to Burgos. Under clearing skies, with the driver, onboard sat nav and dog-eared road atlas map navigator all in agreement, we set out for the nearby motorway.
Neither of us still has any idea how we ended up lost in remote Rioja vineyards and in the middle of a vast stone quarry.
Thankfully, being Sunday, the narrow and unpaved road was quiet without construction or heavy plant traffic. There were no passing places so how, on a normal working day, the quarry and vineyard traffic keeps flowing escaped us.
Navigating slowly around hair pin bends and under overhanging rocks we eventually found a turning space within the quarry and retraced nervous kilometres, eventually squeezing back through a skinny tunnel on a blind bend with the main road in sight down below.
We have form with this sort of unexpected jeopardy. Four years earlier, our then sat nav system sent us up steeply to cross the Sierra Subbetica on a dusty single-track lane from which we couldn’t turn back. Berti, like Bertha before her, was proving to be an intrepid spirit.
Arriving in Burgos at mid-afternoon it was too hot at 31 degrees to retrace our former steps, so we agreed to wait until 6pm to visit the magnificent Gothic Cathedral, previously out of bounds to our trip budget.
Burgos was the capital of the united kingdoms of Castille and Leon from 1073 until losing that honour to Valladolid after the final retreat of the Moors from Granada in Andalucia in 1492. The wide river Arlanzon is crossed by the city’s main bridge, Puenta de San Pablo, and is home to the gigantic statue commemorating the city’s legendary hero, El Cid.
We strolled through the stunning medieval gate of Arco de Santa Maria, created in celebration for the occasion of a visit by King Charles V in the 1500s and decorated with stone figurines representing local notables of its time.
Inside it was bustling with suited and booted men, women and boys posing for photographs in front of a candle laden alter. Incense was pouring thickly out of two swinging thuribles, or censers. It felt both cleansing and choking.
Entering the grand central Plaza Rey San Fernando lined with brightly painted and shuttered apartments above its arcaded sides, we saw an army of diocese workers unrolling and draping huge colourful banners across the stone walls of the front terraces of the Cathedral. Something was afoot.
Santa Iglesia Catedral Basilica Metropolitana de Burgos was founded in 1221. Its enormous dimensions make it Spain’s third largest cathedral and it took three hundred years to complete. Its Gothic design features a myriad of towers, spires, flying buttresses, turrets and minarets. It is a wonder to gaze up at, and down at from the steep gardens of the Castille above it.
With time to spare, we had climbed up the steep stone steps behind the sombre Iglesia de San Sebastian, grateful for the shade proffered by the arboretum of green trees. Up above the rooves of the Old Town we looked down on the winding street patterns, dotted with arcaded squares and canopied by the covered tables of diners at the multitude of bars and restaurants.
We could see the beautiful stonework of the church of St Nicolas de Bari and the nearby Castifale Palace. Both sported enormous carved wooden doors under stone porticos. A pair of storks circled below us, having made a home in one of the many spires of the surrounding churches.
Descending through the narrow back streets behind the Cathedral, we saw weary peregrinos arrive gratefully to register for a night’s stay at one of the many pilgrim hostels, some of them delayed by a welcome glass of beer at a pavement café and others already bathed and gaily dressed up for an evening out in the town.
The giveaway beneath the flowing dress or loose trousers was always a tanned sock line and a comfy pair of flip flops or soft slippers. Who could blame them?
It was time to venture into the vast cool interior of the Cathedral and take refuge from the still hot evening sunshine. Except it wasn’t. Best laid plans came to rest on the barred entry doors of the reception and information centre. There was no explanation.
Disappointed I meandered up the stone terraces to take a picture of the triple wooden doors of the Puerta de Santa Maria. One of the three was tantalisingly open by a couple of inches and I could hear voices behind it. Pushing it slowly aside and peeping around I saw nuns bustling about papers and several young and nervous looking vicars in black suits and dog collars.
There was an air of serious preparation. A colourfully dressed woman saw me and asked smilingly ‘Esta usted aqui para la messe de locales?’ In my rusty and basic Spanish I replied, ‘No gracias, yo soy aqui para visita turistica’. ‘De donde?’ she asked. ‘Inglaterra, losciento, yo hablo poco Espanol. Que tal aqui?’ ‘Hoy la Obispo esta de visita, hoy es especial fiesta!’ It became clear. The Cathedral was closed for a special visit by the bishop, and it was a festival.
Crowds were massing in the square outside and an intriguing line of giant clothed figures were about to process through the Arco de Santa Maria. Men in sashes stood alongside them and it was evident they would carry the hollow figures by standing inside and supporting the tall papier-mâché torsos which were attached to wooden frames and covered by costumed clothing.
We speculated on their purpose. The figures seemed to depict a laughing Mexican man and woman, a sombre European looking knight in chain mail and his lady wearing his image on a medallion, two monarchs possibly Isabel and Ferdinand, two Native American Chieftains, a turbaned Moor, an African prince, and lastly two Asian nobles.
An American woman confidently informed everyone in earshot: “They’re the rulers at the time of the Middle Ages”, but it felt unlikely. Researching later, we discovered the Gigantes are a European tradition, first recorded in Spain in Pamplona in 1265.
The Pamplona Gigantes were evidently in action after the First World War when Ernest Hemmingway made several visits to the annual San Fermin festival. He wrote about seeing the strange, twirling dances of the giants in his first novel, The Sun also Rises, which I was reading with enchantment. In Pamplona, thanks to Simon’s better Spanish, we were able to visit Hemmingway’s favourite corner – closed at the time to the public – and see his sculptured figure in his favourite position, propping up the bar downstairs from the Café Irun.
The Gigantes are always in pairs for dancing in a procession and celebrate the country’s cultural heritage. Given the stretch of Spain’s conquering interests throughout the ‘Golden Age of Exploration’ (1492-1659) it made sense to see the Americas (north, south and central) together with the Caliphate of Al Andalus represented alongside European and Asian monarchs.
It was an intriguing sight and as we left through the giant archway for the cooler stretch of river walk, under the avenue of leafy and pollarded silver plane trees, the drums started banging behind us in rehearsal for the procession, still a hot two hours away.
