A little piece of Heaven by Alan White.
"Have you ever been in Lourdes before?" the elderly gentleman with the panama hat asked me in an unmistakable Mancunian accent.
"No," I replied, grabbing my bag from the luggage carousel. "First time."
His mild blue eyes sparkled. "Well, you're in for a treat, then." It was then that I noticed the black, clerical shirt and white collar beneath his cardigan and guessed that he was no stranger to the place.
We boarded our waiting bus and left the little airport. It was a glorious morning, hardly any sign of clouds; and within minutes we were surrounded by arid, but impressive looking foothills. In the distance the Pyrenees, jagged with patches of snow, rose magnificently to meet the hazy blue of the sky. The bus turned at a roundabout and the name Lourdes appeared on a sign. I was suddenly very excited, and the long sleepless night at Manchester Airport was suddenly forgotten. I was almost there! I was going to see for myself what this hill town, huddled beneath the towering peaks of the Pyrenees, close to the Spanish border, was all about. I'd heard and read so much about it; and here I was, only a few miles away from the very place where St Bernadette had met the Blessed Virgin Mary no fewer than eighteen times in 1858.
We arrived about half an hour later and were allocated in our respective hotels. Over an excellent lunch I met up with a group of pilgrims from Liverpool, led by a very charismatic and humorous middle aged priest, called Father Pat.
After lunch a guide took us across the bridge that spanned the green, fast flowing River Gave, and we had Mass in a lovely little chapel that had once been part of an old hospital. In his homily, Father Pat gave us a brief history of Lourdes and the Grotto, and appropriately likened it to a ‘little piece of Heaven on Earth'.
I was to remember those words before the day was out!
The guide took charge of us again after Mass and we were led down to the Grotto via narrow streets bustling with pilgrims - many of whom were in wheelchairs. Hotels of all shapes and sizes were also in great abundance, surrounding the more picturesque old part of the town, and I was suddenly aware of the commercial side Lourdes. I passed dozens of souvenir shops, all crammed with statuettes of Our Lady, Rosaries and pictures of St Bernadette. However, the magnificent castle that dates back several hundred years remained unobstructed on its rocky pedestal and continued to dominate the town. A white staff pointed up from the main turret and the blue, white and red of France flapped lazily against the cloudless sky.
A wide, very busy street came up next, and with the aid of a long zebra crossing, we were led across to where a wall ran parallel to the road. Crowds of pilgrims were gathered at what I was told was St Joseph's gate, and we waited our turn to enter. Policemen stood in little groups, watching for unsavoury characters. (Pickpockets apparently targeted pilgrims on a regular basis). A pleasant, tree lined path wound its way down to where a tall, beautiful, statue of the Blessed Virgin stood on a high pedestal, her head crowned in gold and her hands clasped in prayer. The base of the pedestal stood in the midst of a large circular garden, resplendent with just about every type of flower you can think of. Following Her gaze I looked round to the left, and there, at the end of a vast esplanade, were the stunning basilicas. With one main spire, and two shorter ones, they appeared, at first glance, to resemble Sleeping Beauty's castle in Disneyland. An arched ramp, on either side, dotted at strategic points with statues, formed a huge crescent and provided access to the upper basilica. Both ramps were thronged with pilgrims, and down below on the esplanade many had gathered to say the Rosary. On the raised altar in front of the large, ornate arch of the lower basilica, volunteers led the prayer in English. French, Spanish, Italian and German, their amplified voices echoing all round the Grotto. It all took my breath away.
But there was one part I just had to see immediately, and that was the Rock of Massabielle - the very spot where Bernadette had seen the Blessed Virgin. Excusing myself from the group, who were happy to follow the guide to another part of the Grotto, I hurried through the arches of the right hand ramp, weaving between pilgrims, and found myself on a wide thoroughfare to the left of the swift, waters of the Gave. Dozens of pilgrims, with bottles of all shapes and sizes, queued up at a wall boasting several taps. These, I learned later, supplied the water from the spring. Towering high above was the Upper Basilica which sat upon the Rock of Massabielle like a mother hen protecting its egg. The grey rock was gnarled and twisted, but somewhat softened by an abundance of ivy; and there, deep in a recess, blackened by years of candle burning, the famous marble statue of Our Lady - white with blue girdle - stood in a little, oval shaped niche, about fifteen feet from the ground. I froze and gaped slightly, hardly aware of the crowds. It was almost as if She had been waiting for me! It had only been two hours since I had left the airport, and now here I was - standing at the very spot where Bernadette had first met Her. I could hardly believe it. For over a hundred years She had welcomed popes and dignitaries from all over the world - as well as millions of pilgrims. And now, here She was welcoming me - an ordinary painter and decorator from East Kilbride!
A little piece of Heaven on Earth indeed.
