This gem of a Romanesque 10-12th-century abbatial church resides in Conques, France. It is dedicated to Saint Fides (Foy in French, Faith in English). It is one of the major pilgrimage stops on the Chemin de Saint Jacques, the Via Podensis, that begins in Le Puy and ends at Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the last French town before crossing the Pyrenees into Spain to Roncesvaux (French), Roncesvalles (Spanish).
The late Hannah Green published a wonderful book, Little Saint (NY: Random House, Modern Library, 2001), about the life of Saint Fides and the town of Conques, which is rapidly becoming gentrified. When she discovered Conques in the 1970s, it was pretty shabby, but in the 1980s, people realised its historical importance and began to fix it back up again.
Green's book is a love-song to Saint Fides. It begins:
She is the sacred center. Around her the wheel of the story with its thousand starry spokes spins. It might begin in any time, from the hour when she was born at Agen in December of the year 290 to the hour of her martyr-death less than thirteen years later, and at as many shining points as there are gemstones on her statue or silver nails in arabesques on the coffer that holds her body's bones; but the story opens now in the mountains of the Rouergue, here at Conques, where, since 866, her bones have been enshrined and guarded.... I was given through Sainte Foy the gift of seeing into that zone which has been held sacred since the beginning of human consciousness.
I loved Conques. We walked down into the town (this view is before we got into town), going down into this shell-shaped basin between the mountain ridges (yes, every town on the chemin is at river level, so it means going downhill at night and uphill in the morning). One comes in above roof-level, and so one first sees the slate tiles of the abbey church. I understand pilgrimage — I spent years studying la Chanson de Sainte Foy for my doctoral dissertation, and with all that was wrapped up in the writing of that dissertation, I found my heart beating hard as we descended into the valley because I was finally arriving at a place I knew well but only through books.
The abbey church still has a very live community of monks that worships there. That sense of prayer imbues the interior of the church. I found myself wordless as I wandered around inside, a lit votive in my hand, wanting to find the perfect place to set it down. That place was a side niche in the wall, probably left behind from the construction of the edifice. Later at night, as we came back, I could see the light (in its little red plastic container), flickering over on the side wall.
I left behind in Conques some spiritual garbage and truly, as I walked out the next day (a very hot and humid day to boot), I did feel some release.
For that reason, I would love to return to Conques and spend more time there, a few days, just sitting in the church and being still.
And I would dearly love to return to the B&B where we stayed: our room looked out over the abbey; we were so close we could see and hear the bats and swallows flying around, and we could hear the great bourdon bell ring out the hours. Our time there was too short, too precious.
One light recollection: after wandering around in the abbey church, while waiting for dinner, we stopped for a beer at a restaurant on the plaza facing the cathedral. There was something rather incongruous about sipping a beer while looking at one of the most reknown tympanae of the Last Judgement (circa 1130-1165).
As I row, as I run around, my heart and mind return to Conques, a spiritually restful and soothing place. May I someday physically be able to return there as well. Meanwhile, I have a medallion I bought from there, that I wear with other medallions from the pilgrimage walks, that help keep me connected.
[I rowed my annual half-marathon, 21097m, today, finishing in 1h42'25"2. It puts me at a fairly low ranking, 15/42, 47% (one year I was 30%), but I am at the oldest level in my age bracket (40-49).]
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