Exclusive Itinerary: Montserrat and the Festa dels Romeus of Monistrol

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We set off early towards the Abbey of Montserrat. As we got closer, the fog was closing in on the mountain and the road was left almost empty. From the northern slope, the imposing monoliths appeared and disappeared in the mist, at moments outlining a ridge that seemed impossible.

El Cavall Bernat, la Paret dels Diables, el Patriarca, els Frares Encantats... The names already say enough. It is as if someone had built an Olympus of stone there, millions of years ago, and then let each rock receive its own character.

We stopped at Santa Cecília de Montserrat. The Romanesque hermitage was practically alone. The mountain disappeared and reappeared behind the fog. We stayed a while without saying much. The place had something strange about it, but there was no need to look for an explanation. We were at peace.

Then we continued towards the monastery. Before going in, we bought some provisions at the traditional farmers' stalls: mató cheese, pure honey and sweets from the region. Also some caramelised peanuts that we ended up mixing with the cheese. It was not exactly a tasting designed by a specialist, but at that hour it seemed like an excellent idea.

We walked through the entrance arch and reached the courtyard of the abbey. There the façade appears, the old medieval portal and, behind it, the whole monastery complex. There are tourists, pilgrims, groups and people taking photographs. Montserrat has that inevitable mix of place of devotion and tourist destination that has been part of its reality for a long time.

We went into the basilica to listen to the Escolania de Montserrat. We made our way forward until we found some pews halfway down the nave, near an image of Saint Sebastian. In the pews in front of us, two elderly people sat down with a boy; from the way they treated each other, he seemed to be their grandson. He was a tall boy, with a very handsome face, with a motor disability that made it hard for him to stay still. He kept reaching for the woman and the man, touching their faces with trembling hands in search of calm, while they accompanied every movement with infinite love.

That went on for quite a while. Then the choir began and, even so, our attention was already elsewhere. It was not a spectacular scene, just a grandmother, a grandfather and a boy trying to pass through his own body, like the arrows of the Saint Sebastian at our backs. It held us completely. We both cried, in silence, until we slowly got up and left the basilica. Outside, we crossed paths with him again; he was talking on the phone, lively, distracted and moving with a vivid, unnoticed lightness, like the unpredictable flight of a bird.

We needed to eat. We drove down and looked for a nearby village, following the signs towards Monistrol de Montserrat. When we arrived, we did not find exactly what we expected.

The whole town had been transformed into a vibrant historical re-enactment: it was the Festa dels Romeus, a recreation that brings back the Monistrol of the 16th century under the onslaught of the bubonic plague. There were carts, artisans' stalls, taverns and actors in period costume playing the sick, the doctors and the old trades of Renaissance Catalonia. Even the town's old brothel was part of the staging, with a good deal of humour. The setting was so well done that it made you completely forget the mobile phones and the cars parked a few streets further down.

We ate, took a walk around the period market and finally headed back. The return was quiet, leaving behind the winding hairpin bends while the mountain closed in on itself again in the fog. We left behind the abbey and Monistrol. We took with us the taste of the cheese with the caramelised peanuts, images that are hard to explain and that scene in the basilica that we would remember much more than the choir itself.

See you soon, Montserrat. Sacred mountain, dream of pilgrims, giants of stone and fog. We will meet again.