A Nudge Toward The Abbey of Eskirotz

Sometimes God nudges you by giving you insight into the spiritual state of people around you.

 

            It was May 8, 2023, when my friend and I left Zubiri, Spain to continue our journey on the Camino to Santiago, Spain.  We had started our Pilgrimage three days earlier in Saint Jean Pied de Port (France) and worked our way over the Pyrenees for two days to Roncesvalles, Spain.  From there we began a bone cracking, knee destroying descent, slowly working our way down the southern slopes to the village of Zubiri.  Zubiri is a small village in Navarre, Spain that sits along the Arga River. An ancient stone Roman Bridge crosses the Arga River as one enters the village proper. The cool, lazy waters of the Arga gave us the opportunity to wade in the shallows, giving our feet a much-needed break from the previous days of hiking.

            Today, we wake to a cloudy but mild day, and we take to the trail early.  We both feel eager to start, realizing that we will be in Pamplona later in the day, also relieved to know that we now have the Pyrenees behind us.

            We walk briskly, occasionally glancing at the skies in hopes of seeing more blue sky and less threat of rain, but there is no change.  A gray fluffy quilt of clouds thrown over the sky blocks the blueness; I know is there. Not far out of town we begin to pass a large Magnesium plant and for several kilometers’ we walk alongside mountains of slag and tall smokestacks before entering the woods, following an overgrown dirt and gravel path, winding its way toward our destination of Pamplona.  We pass a few small farms, their tiny plots of vegetables fenced with a variety of materials: a sheet of metal, a broken wooden pallet, a few stones and a few strands of wire corral the well cared for garden.

            Up ahead, I see the woods opening to a larger area of green fields and a few small stone buildings. I assume we are coming upon another small farm, although this one appears to be larger than the others and by far better cared for, it too has a small plot of land dedicated to farming, but the fence is made totally of stone, and although ancient, it is well crafted unlike the ones before.

            As we get closer, I realize that the main stone structure, just off the path to the right, is a small church. We approach slowly wondering if we should stop and explore.  We see a few other Pilgrims congregating underneath a small porch at the entrance.  They take off their packs and enter.  We follow suit, leaving our packs and entering through an ancient wooden doorway into a hush of darkness. It takes my eyes a minute or two to adjust to the dimness.  Candles burn, sending their flickering of light, into the darkness, but deep dark shadows crowd the candles glow. There are whispers, a shuffling of feet, as we wander into the unexplored dimension in time. 

            Even having been on our Pilgrimage only for four days, we had discovered that Cathedrals and Churches were the best places to get our Pilgrim Passports stamped. Not only are they usually the most elaborate, but to me, and others, they hold a special importance. As my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, and having explored the small chapel, I search for where I might get my passport stamped.  I find a small table in a darkened corner next to the door that has the stamp and I proceed to stamp my passport.  As I am doing so, I feel a hand timidly touch my arm. I turn to see who it might be.  There before me is a nun.  She is wearing a very casual tunic of light gray and a white collar. On her head is a simple white coif. She is elderly, late sixties maybe, and looks frail but converses as one much younger and moves with steadiness. I turn and smile, wondering if I had mistakenly, done something wrong.  I am not Catholic and unfamiliar with their proper practices and customs.

 She smiles in return and in very broken English she says, “Please pardon, where are you from?”

            I say, “United States.”  When I say it, I realize it sounds as if I was asking a question.

            She smiles again and says, “So you speak English?”

            “Yes Ma’am.”  I say and wonder if Ma’am is an indiscretion within Catholic customs. 

            She reaches for my hand and as she holds it in both of hers, she questions, “May I bless you?”

            “Yes.”  I respond in a whisper.

            As she continues to hold my hand she questions, “What is your name?”

            “Jeff, Jeff Morgan,” I say            and I begin to feel something within me. A warmth, a feeling of peace.

            Her eyes are gray, gray as the clouds that blanket our sky.  There is a twinkle, a bit of joy, perhaps, but as she continues to stare into my eyes it seems as though she is witnessing all my sorrows, regrets, worries and pains.  The twinkle in her eyes fade and there is a look of sorrow and worry that exudes from the grayness. She continues holding my hand in both of hers, staring into my eyes for it seems several minutes.  My heart races, even though I am feeling a calmness overwhelm me.  I see her gray eyes piercing into my soul, just before a tear finds its way down her pale cheek. She says softly, “Please kneel Jeff.”

            I kneel to one knee and bow my head. In a hushed whisper she says, “Now the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means.  The Lord be with you.”

            Her hand is upon my bowed head and she once again whispers, “May I place this pendant of Saint Lucia on you?”

            “Yes,” I whisper breathlessly.

            She places the pendant, with a simple string, about my neck and reaches for my hand to help me stand.  She smiles and I notice that although her eyes are still gray, the twinkle has returned.

            I feel different, renewed, as I find my way through the darkness to the door of the small chapel. I see other pilgrims waiting their turn to enter on the porch outside.  They are taking off their packs, complaining about their feet, their aches and pains and they question me as I pass, “Do they have a stamp for my passport?”

            I smile and nod, “Yes.  Buen Camino.”

            As I approach the trail, my buddy is waiting for me.  I glance to the sky and realize that the gray is gone.  All I see is blue sky and sun-drenched fields of green.

            I look at my friend and say, “Wow that was quite an experience.  I’ve never felt that way in my life.”

            He grins and says, “I felt the same.  God has a way of nudging one on the right path.”

            We spend the rest of the day continuing our journey to Pamplona. We walk mostly in silence for I can not think of anything but that little stone church and the ‘blessing’.

            It takes us thirty-eight more days to complete our walk to Santiago.  I will witness many blessings, miracles, revelations and yes……..nudges along The Way!

 

Side Note:

            It will be weeks later before I take the time to do a little research about that small church, that we came to just outside of Zubiri. The little church is known as the Church of St. Lucy (Santa Lucia), but collectively the buildings are listed as The Abbey of Eskirotz. It is believed to have been built in the 12^th Century.  Originally, it had been built as a fort, of possibly Templar origin and converted to an abbey church in the 13^th Century - The Abbey of Eskirotz. As I delve deeper into the history of this little church I discovered an unbelievable story behind it.

            For years the Church of St. Lucy sat empty. Slowly decaying over hundreds of years, it was left to be swallowed by the ground it sat upon.  It’s contents, sculptures, mosaics, and murals considered to be too ancient to be of value. It sat forgotten and ignored and left for ruin.

            Around 2010 a gentleman from South Africa, Neill Le Roux, walked by the ruins of the little church while walking his Camino.  He was retired then but before in South Africa, had worked restoring historical buildings.  He took interest in the little church and after his Camino was over, he found himself, along with his new Wife, Catherine visiting several times over the next few years.  He had met Catherine, an English lady, in Madrid while doing his first Camino. They both shared the same interests and decided that now Neill was retired, it would be a perfect place to live and raise their new baby.

            The legalities of purchasing such a property were difficult to say the least, but around 2012, he was able to work a deal with the Archdiocese of Pamplona to purchase the Abbey of Eskirotz for 150,000 Euros. The price of the property at first glance would seem fair, but Neill estimated that a proper renovation would cost near 500,000 Euros more. 

            After the purchase, Neil began his work on the Abbey and working with art historians, he discovered 12^th Century wall paintings behind the altar.  The church’s hand-painted altar was dated as being from the mid-13^th century (which was exposed after the church’s 16^th century altar was stolen during the time it stood abandoned).

            During the beginning of the restoration, the local governments of Navarre, Zubiri and Eskirotz took issue with the purchase and filed many legal documents claiming the purchase was not legal.  They claimed that the Archdiocese had no right to sale the property.  The filings continue, costing Neill a fortune in legal fees.  To my knowledge the legal issues continue today.

            Not long after the purchase of the property and Neill began his renovations with the help of volunteers and donations, his Wife Catherine would leave him, taking with her their young child Evalyn.  They moved to England where they continue to reside.  The separation also led to many legal disputes which basically left Neill without any parental rights.

            Close to this same time, Neill was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer, given only a few years to live.  Even with all that had happened to him and his dream of renovation of the little church, he continued to move forward with it. Many volunteers came to work, and donations poured in while he continued to fight the legal battles with the local governments, his Wife’s refusal for him to see his daughter and now his fast-approaching death from cancer.

               The last post I found of Neill, was around 2018 where he was finally able to win a small battle legally, to see his daughter.  He was elated to be able to travel to England to see his dear Evalyn, only eight years old, to say his good-byes for he knew his time was near.

            When I read this story of the little church and realized all the pain, sorrow, and burdens that has walked through it’s doors yet it still stands welcoming more.  Just as it welcomed me and gave me a reason to live.  In one of Neill’s last post, he had taken a picture of several of his closest friends at the little church.  Some of the photos were volunteers, some were pilgrims that had returned several times to visit, but there was one that caught my eye.  She had gray eyes, a simple gray tunic and a smile that I will never forget.  It was the nun that had blessed me.  It was Maria Asunción.

            When I began researching this little church, I kept finding more bits and pieces of information that I found extremely intriguing.  Unfortunately, the information I came across would be from unverifiable sources and I don’t know for sure if everything is true. Regardless of the validity of it’s entirety, I find it a remarkable story.