The lure of Lourdes

08-08-2004

LOURDES, France -- Several weeks ago, when I heard that Pope John Paul II would be visiting the Sanctuary of Notre-Dame in Lourdes next weekend, my first thought was that I hope His Holiness knows how to stay cool. Last year on the same weekend, my wife, our son and I found ourselves in this small city in south-central France at the base of the Pyrenees mountains during an intense heat wave.

In fact, our presence in Lourdes was a result of that heat wave. Our plans to take a cruise down the Rhone River had been scuttled three days earlier. After many weeks of drought, water levels on the river had shriveled too low for the ship on which we were booked to sail. Left high and dry, we had to come up with a new plan on the fly.

Knowing how difficult last-minute hotel reservations are to come by in the middle of high season, we took a suggestion from our French hosts to visit the High Pyrenees. They helped us make a three-night booking at a small hotel in Argeles-Gazost, a resort town at the base of the mountains.

After a week broiling on the beach, we thought a trip to the mountains would be a nice change, and so we steered our rental car on the highway that crosses southern France and headed for Argeles-Gazost. Since Lourdes was on our way, we decided to stop and have a look.

Although we are not Catholics, we were somewhat familiar with the lore of Lourdes, primarily through the 1943 classic movie "The Song of Bernadette." On Feb 11, 1858, the story goes, Bernadette Soubirous, the 14-year-old, illiterate daughter of a poor, blind miller, was collecting firewood with her sister and a friend near the Grotte de Massabielle, a tiny cave in a rocky bluff by the River Gave de Pau, which takes a wide swing through the small textile town at the mouth of the mountain valley.

Hearing a sound like a gust of wind, Bernadette looked up at a crevice and beheld the figure of a young girl surrounded by light. Speaking to Bernadette in the local dialect, the apparition asked her to return to the cave. During 17 subsequent visits over the next five months, Bernadette came to believe the apparition was the Virgin Mary, who told her to dig with her hands and unplug a hidden spring with waters that would have curative powers. After she had done that, Bernadette was instructed to bring local priests and have them build a chapel on the spot.

Four years later, church officials had authenticated Bernadette's vision, and almost immediately believers began making pilgrimages to see the grotto and drink from the spring. Some who came found cures for their suffering, leaving their crutches and other tokens behind in the grotto, enhancing its reputation for miracles.

And today, people keep coming. From March through October, more than 6 million people from all over the world make their way to this charming but otherwise undistinguished town of 15,000 at the base of the Pyrenees.

Bernadette's spring still flows from the grotto, above which the massive double Basilica of the Rosary and Immaculate Conception were erected in 1871 and 1883. By the time Lourdes celebrated its centennial in 1958, a third basilica dedicated to Saint Pius X was constructed, a massive underground arena that can accommodate up to 20,000 pilgrims.

Each afternoon at 4:45 during the season, huge processions start in the basilica and proceed along the basilica's esplanade down to the grotto. At 8:45 p.m., a solemn torch-lit procession returns to the basilica.

Although the moving mass of humanity is said to be a stirring spectacle, we wouldn't know. Arriving in Lourdes shortly after noon and not knowing where we were or what to expect, we found ourselves amid a sweltering throng of people, cars and tour buses. After circling the town for 20 minutes, we located a place to park by the central market not far from the tourism office. Armed with maps and directions, we wound our way down along the Boulevard de Grotto that leads to a stone bridge over the river and into the sprawling Cite Religieuse.

Both sides of this half-mile-long street are flanked by three- and four-story hostels and hotels appealing to travelers from various lands, from Japan to Portugal. Storefront vendors hawk a full menu of religious artifacts and tourist trinkets, including a wide variety of empty vials, bottles, flasks and jugs, made of glass or plastic, often in the shape of a religious symbol or figurine. The carnival scene ends at the bridge.

Relief at the grotto
The double basilicas across the broad plaza are impressive enough, even more so in the blaze of midday, with shimmering waves of heat rising off the flagstones. Dozens of groups wove their ways around the sprawling space. Many people, from the very young with polio-twisted legs or withered limbs to wizened seniors too weak to walk far in the hot sun, were pushed in wheelchairs by smiling blue-coated volunteers.

In that inferno, climbing the many flights of steps to the basilicas seemed an enormous effort, so we made our way around the back of the bluff to the grotto.

We did not know what to expect, but certainly the cool shade that enveloped the grotto was an immediate blessing. An orderly crowd milled around at a respectful distance from the opening in the gray rock. Several dozen pilgrims were queued up to file slowly through the grotto, past its collection of sacred objects, and brush their fingertips over the moist rock.

Others stood in line at 20 faucets to which water from the holy spring is piped. Some were anointing their hands or legs, but most patiently waited while the various vessels they had brought slowly filled with the holy water.

Because there didn't seem to be any direction or ritual for getting water, I picked a line and refilled three empty water bottles we had with us. As regular rehydration is essential for handling that kind of heat, I took a long swig of the cool liquid, then refilled my bottle.

Although the water had no particular taste, I definitely felt replenished. Travelers find refreshment in various ways.

While it was uplifting to behold so many other people whose eyes were illuminated by their faith, it was hard to understand how the water in those bottles was different from any that flowed from the thousands of springs gushing from these mountains. Since we had farther to go that day, we headed back up to our car and found our way out of Lourdes, somewhat skeptical of the more blatantly commercial aspects of this religious tourism.

Nonetheless, I stashed those three bottles of water in our luggage and brought them home. I was, however, somewhat surprised at what happened when we gave them to three Catholic friends. All were genuinely and deeply touched with the gift, reacting as if we had given something of great value, rather than a small bottle of water. One, a neighbor who teaches at a Catholic elementary school, said she'd put the holy water in a spray bottle to spritz on students at the first sign of a cold.

The simple sincerity of their reactions provided me with a perspective on the miracle of Lourdes. Even though I may not logically understand how people can believe simple water can have extraordinary properties, their faith, in and of itself, seems extraordinary. Perhaps this liquid is as refreshing to their spirit as the cool, clear water is to the body.

Officially John Paul II is visiting Lourdes to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Declaration of the Dogma of the Immaculate Conception, but the refreshment of faith must be the essence of what has compelled so many to make pilgrimages here.

I hope he will find the water as reinvigorating.

Refreshment like that is something anyone who has traveled far can understand.

Into the Valley de Gave

The tiny village of Argeles-Gazost lies on one side of the broad valley at the end of a six-mile, four-lane highway from Lourdes.

As we arrived that afternoon, huge patches of brush fires burning on the mountainsides were being strafed by air tankers dropped great clouds of retardant.

The stone paved streets of Argeles, a well-kept spa town with old-fashioned hotels, climb up from the valley floor and around 18th-century homes. After some searching we located the small hotel Soleil Levant, with its 34 small, clean guest rooms and a neat restaurant on the main street.

With two days to explore, we decided to head up and check out the huge Pyrenees National Park (Parc National du Pyrenees), which runs for 80 miles along the high peak crests on France's border with Spain. The park encompasses six mountain valleys, each with different geologies and ecologies, as well as 80 towns and villages.

The first afternoon, we drove from Argeles up the picturesque Vallee d'Arrenes. The final few miles followed a twisting, single-lane track along the steepening walls to the end of the road, where there were a small hydroelectric dam and a well-defined system of trails that led up through stupendous mountain scenery. We hiked a mile or so up the main route to two lovely lakes and, had we desired, we could have continued right over the top of the Pyrenees into Spain. Since we hadn't come prepared for anything more than a picnic, we contented ourselves with a mile jaunt up to the lakes.

The next day, we drove up another valley, the much more heavily traveled route to the ski resort of Cauterets. Following slow tour buses up the winding road, we were at times passed by bicyclists who were racing up the long, steep incline. That certainly put Lance Armstrong's abilities in perspective.

Founded in A.D. 945 as a spa to take advantage of dozens of thermal springs dotted around the area, Cauterets has a long and venerable reputation as a posh playground and, over the past century, one of the top ski resorts in the Pyrenees. Even in mid-August, it was packed with bikers, rock climbers and hikers, all the usual summer activities.

With so little time to look around, we continued farther up the mountain road to the entrance to the Parc National at Pont d'Espagne. Once the main route over the mountains into Spain, this old stone bridge that arches over the torrential stream as it cascades over the stony lip of the highland valley and eventually down into the river drainage 3,000 feet below.

The park at this point boasts a small ski area served by a half dozen lifts. In the snowless seasons, hiking routes fan out from the parking lots in all directions. We followed the main route that heads up to the Pic de Vignemale, which at just over 10,000 feet is the highest point in the French Pyrenees. In the heat of day, we managed only three miles up the narrowing valley before retreating to a cool, quiet spot by the stream to eat our lunch.

It was literally the high point of our two-week journey. There was much more magnificent landscape to explore, but dark clouds were welling in the skies. Somewhat reluctantly, we headed back down to our car in the parking lot.

Just as we arrived, the clouds burst. Along with hundreds of others, we headed back down the mountain in a torrential rainstorm. In the procession of red lights, the five miles down to Cauterets took twice as long as coming up, but then the storm passed and the skies cleared. By the time we reached the valley floor, the sun had evaporated any trace of the deluge.

We were on our way home.

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