Travel with Beebe as she explores the 12th century Catalan Cistercian monastery of Poblet and its wine fields in the heart of Catalonia.
By Beebe Bahrami
My pal Mia had joined me for 10 days in the course of my investigate into the sacred websites of Catalonia. We were at the moment fixed at a community café across the street from the Monastery of Santa Maria de Poblet, positioned inland in the rippling countryside not far from the coastal city of Tarragona.
Obtaining there had been yet another one of individuals local bus adventures: The bus driver from Tarragona assured us he would allow us off in Poblet. But as we passed the scant four or 5 building site — granted, 1 of those ”buildings” was the Cistercian monastery complex — the complete bus load of elderly locals and youthful commuting workers erupted in an uproar. As one particular voice they chorused, “You didn’t end for the two Americans! Halt! Go back!” On the bus trip, curiosity and boldness, two superb Spanish capabilities, had currently led to other passengers finding out all about us and why we have been on the bus.
Momentarily embarrassed, our driver hit the brakes and reversed to Poblet. By the time Mia and I received off, his normal puffy self-confidence had returned, “I’ll be back at 4:45 p.m. sharp to choose you up at the fountain.” I craned all around, on the lookout for a fountain, refusing to step off the bus for worry that he would depart ahead of explaining. “The fountain?”
“Si, the fountain, back there.” He gestured with his thumb to an imagined place somewhere 180 degrees behind him.
“You promise?” I attempted to say sweetly, hiding my trepidation at his lapses in memory.
“Of program. Why do not you trust me?”
I stepped off the bus, determining that currently being left in Poblet permanently was not a lousy fate. As the bus door closed behind me, I heard our Greek chorus say as a single, “Would you trust you?”
We looked all over ourselves and took stock. Mia had been studying the place indicated by our bus driver’s thumb. After a number of minutes she noticed, a couple hundred yards down the street, a grove of trees overshadowing a crumbling semi-circular pool with a hovering cherub-like angel.
“I believe that is the fountain.” There was hope in her voice.
The bus was a white dot on the black stripe of street when I abruptly noticed the immense attractiveness of the place. A grand and ancient stone wall lined one side of that street and the other side was covered with rolling vineyards. The Torres vineyard’s fields have been nearest at hand. Behind us, increasing behind the slight hill was Poblet, a definitely tiny hamlet, and the golden-pink stones of one of the Cistercian world’s most attractive monasteries. The hamlet and monastery had been nestled in these vine-covered hills like a puppy in its basket with its brothers and sisters, all huddled and cozy. Wine fields radiated from the monastery forests, purple-green hills arrayed like the sun’s rays.
Later that afternoon, I was to study that the winemakers on this rare minor spot inside the monastery’s grounds predominantly generate Pinot Noir, a uncommon varietal in the Spanish globe of wines. This spot has the great problems, warm days and awesome nights in summer, to lure this delicate grape into a delightful vintage.
But for the minute, a mutt that had Rotweiler someplace in his previous ancestry lay at my feet snoring and drooling. When, he woke up and lifted his head toward me, making it possible for me to scratch his head. He looked Rotweiler but had the disposition of a retriever.
Arrayed ahead of us on our minor café table have been a variety of tapas: a ceviche of small neck clams marinated in red wine vinegar and spicy Spanish paprika (berberechos al pimentón) homemade chicken fritters (croquettes casera de pollo) succulent, compact, deep fried squid (calamares), and a green salad of baby romaine, radicchio, escarole, radishes, onions, carrots, and tomatoes dressed just with community olive oil and sea salt. We loved a dry white wine with notes of juniper, orange zest, and spring grass from the Campo de Borja increasing place in Aragón, to the west of Poblet. We would wait to consider the community Pinot Noir as soon as we got into the at this time closed monastery.
Poblet means “white poplar grove,” derived from the Latin, “populetum,” and I believe the brothers knew anything when they arrived right here and decided to develop. Mia explained it best when she stood taking in the monastery and fields. “There are angels all all over right here.” She paused, looking with the identical intensity she had when finding the crumbling fountain. “They’re even in the fields.”
This could possibly nicely be the secret to the outstanding Pinot Noir created on the monastery grounds.
When our lunch of tapas was in excess of, the monastery gates swung open. There have been other site visitors just like us, dining at the minor café just across the street. It was a superior set up. Get there for lunch, dine on great food in the one particular location in Poblet that has any foods at all, and then funnel in to the sacred grounds.
Poblet is even now occupied by monks. Visits here must all be finished as a portion of a guided group tour. The only tour for the afternoon before Mia and I had to catch our ghost bus was for a group of guests from France and was to be in French. Luckily, in graduate college I’d had to find out French in order to read through and translate texts for my research. I faux-confidently advised Mia not to worry, I’d translate. To assist, our tour guide unknowingly assisted. He spoke French with a wonderful robust Spanish accent (that means, extra letters acquired pronounced than typical), and he even threw in the odd Spanish or Catalan word to my delight and to the rest of the crowd’s confusion. Mia floated via, enjoying her one of a kind perch of hearing a patois of French, Catalan, Spanish and English as we soaked up the yellow-pink-light-from-within stone on the arches, and fountain, and the carved sacred symbols on walls all across the monastery.
The highlight of the tour was walking on the rooftop of the cloister below, and then descending into the monastery church through inner personal passages.
The Monastery of Santa Maria de Poblet was begun in the 12th century, with subsequent additions going on up to the 18th century. Like other monasteries in the region, Poblet was a component of the campaign to resettle territories in Spain that had been ousted from medieval Muslim Spain’s control. The new conquerors desired to safe the empty lands with adequate settlements so as to discourage Muslim attempts to take it back.
In its heyday Poblet was an critical monastery for the Aragonese and Catalan nobles and lots of are buried right here, including Jaime I (James I) whom you will discover in the church in a tomb embedded into an arched underpass near the apse. In his peaceful slumber, which you see in a beatific smile, he holds his sword hilt with his left hand and a vigilant lion lies beneath his resting feet. Other nobles lay in these curious in-the-air tombs, the goal is to be perpetually in the path of prayers and benedictions so as to assure blessings in the afterlife. This was a popular practice in quite a few churches for anyone who could afford to get this kind of an auspicious burial spot.
Poblet’s Cistercian church possesses exquisite acoustics, some thing for which the Cistercians have been well-known in their architecture. The bodily harmony that brings this about is equally delightful to knowledge. All through the monastery, the stones glow with an ethereal pink-yellow hue.
In 1835, all across Spain, monasteries were disbanded. Poblet, between hundreds of other monasteries, was abandoned and pillaged. The contents of the royal tombs had been taken to Tarragona’s cathedral for risk-free retaining, and they had been restored to their original resting location in 1946, shortly right after the Cistercian Abbot Basic brought 4 monks from Italy to revivify the monastery.
These 20th century refounding monks are credited with creating Poblet a vibrant spiritual center right now. Within the monastery grounds you will see vineyards, which are a component of the Cistercian wine-building revival begun in 1989. The alternative to grow Pinot Noir grapes, in addition to possessing the great climate, was also historical. The initially Burgundian Cistercians grew this grape in the 11th century and Poblet needed to retain its spiritual heritage, also stemming back to the Burgundians. When you enter the monastery by way of its outer gate, the Vins de Poblet cellar and wine store is right away to your right, in a 19th century farm building.
Our bus driver did return for us. That evening Mia and I dined in. Back in our dwelling base of Tarragona, we procured an array of cheeses, cured hams, fruits, child cucumbers, and vine-ripened tomatoes from the little shops on the plaza beneath our third floor balconied area perch. We uncorked the bottle we’d bought at the monastery — Les Masies de Poblet, one hundred% Pinot Noir, 2004, Denominació d’Origen: Conca de Barberá. Resting our feet on our balcony, we took a sip.
I really do not assume Pinot Noir achieves this persona anywhere else in the world, here on the edge of its ancient ancestral lands and in the hands of people today who have all the time in the globe, and the assist of angels, to make it.
Beebe Bahrami (www.beebesfeast.com) is a extensively published freelance author and cultural anthropologist. Her guide, “The Spiritual Traveler Spain — The Guide to Sacred Web-sites and Pilgrim Routes,” is due this May 2009 from HiddenSpring Books, an imprint of Paulist Press.
Comments
Post a Comment