ST. MARTÍn's church
My room [in a hotel in Frómista] is on the second floor and has a commanding view of the area, and the church of San Pedro across the street. But the church I want to see is on the other side of this small town. It’s the Iglesia de San Martín, which is said to be one of the finest remaining Romanesque churches in Spain. It is all of that, and more.
San Martín is a beautiful church in every respect. It is as different as possible from all the gothic cathedrals that I know and love so well. From the outside, it seems earthbound and heavy. It is a solid structure, planted on solid earth, and intended to last for eternity. It might just make it.
Inside, it is composed entirely of arches, vaults and barrel vaults. There is something almost perfect about these shapes. They give an extraordinary sense that everything within these walls is in a magical balance. It is a heavenly balance, like the music of the spheres. I am reminded of entering a huge portico in Agra, India, and seeing the Taj Mahal for the first time. It was literally breathtaking—meaning that it takes your breath away, and that in an involuntary, reflexive action of the body, you gasp, “Ahh!!”
Frómista’s San Martín church doesn’t do quite that. There is no “Ahh” moment. It is more subtle than that. But as with the Taj Mahal, the final effect is the same. I feel awe to be in the presence of a man-made, divine-inspired structure with such perfect and heavenly proportions. It is as though, after thousands of years of trying, someone created something that could never be improved.
I have the church almost entirely to myself. It is filled with mystical silence. It is both overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time. After snapping a few obligatory photos, I just sit there for about an hour. The church’s silent beauty speaks a language seldom heard in this world.
Then I leave. I am suddenly back in the more mundane world of everyday wants and necessities. Food, drink, sleep.