Andrew Gough's Arcadia

Part II

The Wolf is a character from Patrice’s 1979 book, The Siesta. He’s also featured in City of Secrets as Lluís, Patrice’s friend and bar owner. We agreed to meet in the establishment he’s owned for decades. Patrice suggested I ask him about Umberto Eco, just to get him started, warmed up as it were. The famous Italian author was Wolf’s good friend, once upon a time, before it all went horribly wrong.

It seems Wolf showed Eco some of the more esoteric aspects of the cathedral, and then some, which Eco in turn used in his book, without Wolf’s full consent. But Wolf will have none of it tonight, simply saying that: ‘Eco is over now. Finished!’ Presumably he meant their relationship.

We ordered another beer and talked politics. Before long the discussion turned to Patrice and José. And why not, they were part of the Girona Rat Pack of the 50’s and 60’s and Wolf knew them well.

Portrait of Wolf then – and now

The old stories came fast and furious and Wolf spoke of a beautiful woman who the men in Girona had once adored. She was known as the ‘The Divine’. I assumed he was talking about Patrice or Beryl, a character in Patrice’s book. I was wrong, but still the woman sounded strangely familiar. I opened City of Secrets and pointed to the picture of Lucia Stillman, a mysterious insider who died on Mt. Canigou, after having returned the Society’s ritual artefacts to their hiding place on its summit.

Lucia Stillman: dead or alive?

Much to my surprise, Wolf recognised the woman in the picture and called her by her real name.

‘After her husband died she joined a convent for a few years. Today she lives in Barcelona,’ he said dryly.

‘What! She’s still alive?’

‘Of course! She’s one of my wife’s good friends.’

‘Incredible. But you see in Patrice’s book, she, she - well never mind,’ I muttered. ‘Could I have her details? I’d like to speak to her.’

‘Sure, I’ll bring them tomorrow!’ Wolf said, with no shortage of bravado.

‘City of Secrets, indeed,’ I thought, as I walked back to the hotel. All of a sudden the cathedral was looking more sinister than austere. I fell asleep instantly and rejoined the dream I had interrupted only a few hours before.

Girona cathedral by night

The Saturday morning market in Girona is vibrant and full of everyday life. This of course can be quite refreshing when one is preoccupied with esoteric pursuits. I ordered a pastry that resembled a twinkie and suffered a black coffee; the sugar and cream were nowhere to be found. Before long I became anxious to return to the Old Town and continue exploring.

Girona – the Saturday morning market

I had been intrigued by the church of Saint Feliu since I first arrived in Girona. Its prominent location created awareness and demanded respect. Upon entering I stumbled upon yet another tower; this one carved on a floor tomb. The city of Girona was once full of towers, and in ancient times a tower such as this secured the four cardinal points of the Old Town. I wondered if the preponderance of towers depicted in Girona churches was significant, or merely an ode to the grandeur of the city's Golden Age, or both? I wasn’t sure, but I had my suspicions.

Tower on a tomb in Saint Feliu church

Towers clouded my head and deferred my pain as I trekked up the exhausting cathedral steps yet again. I continued past the French woman’s house and up the hill to the shrine commemorating the 1975 apparition of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The midday sun was steamy and the uphill hike made feel spent. I broke into a sweat.

The apparition had been reported by a local woman named Maria Mesa. Countless others are said to have witnessed it that night, too. Some merely sensed it. Others smelled its perfume.

The shrine is located on a hill of medieval ruins called the Torre Gironella. The apparition occurred on the 4th of February 1975, and reappeared on the same day, each month for a year, only to reappear on Good Friday, 1982.

The significance of the apparition lies in its proximity to the French woman’s house, where Grail rituals were allegedly conducted with some regularity. Apparitions are quite common in Catalan and have been recorded in and around Girona for hundreds of years. Could they be related to Grail rituals conducted by the Society all across Catalan? The place had an unsettling feel to it, it must be said.

Jesus (with sacred heart) and Mary at the shrine of the 1975 apparition

Girona is brimming with museums and I must have visited them all that day. I was shattered! I showered and prepared for my evening rendezvous with Wolf, but even that required some motivation.

I spoke with Patrice before heading out and she insisted that Stillman was truly dead. She’d heard the rumour before, adding, ‘If she’s alive then why has nobody been able to find her?’

I arrived at the bar and found Wolf holding court with some old acquaintances. One glance and I knew he had bad news. His wife, a good friend of Stillman’s, or so he said, no longer possessed Stillman’s current contact details. Sensing my disappointment he quickly added, ‘But she is very much alive. That I do know!’

With the assistance of the hotel staff I would later consult directory assistance in Barcelona, as well as the internet, but we simply could not track her down. If the real Stillman was alive and living in Barcelona, then she was incognito.

As the night progressed, Wolf’s attention turned to politics and General Franco in particular; just for something different. We must have discussed Franco’s oppressive regime for hours. Mercifully, Wolf eventually changed subjects and spoke about his good friend Salvador Dali, which was fascinating, not to mention refreshing. Dali had been a close friend of Patrice and José too, prompting Wolf to dig deep into his memory for tales of adventure and mystique. More than anything, Wolf recounted how incredibly kind and intelligent Dali was; ‘the perfect Catalan!’ he called him.

He also praised Dali’s wife Gala, explaining how she was the true mastermind behind her husband’s adoption of Surrealism. I departed entertained, yet disappointed. As I headed for my hotel I passed the cathedral and the nearby nightclubs for the umpteenth time that day. It seemed as if all the people had left, or were hiding. Where had everybody gone?

Girona cathedral at night – deserted

I woke rested and eager to drive to Besalú, a medieval village northwest of Girona. I’m keen to visit the curious churches in the woods north of town, especially Saint Maria de Palera and Saint Sepulcre de Palera. The latter, according to Patrice, is where Antoine Bigou, the Rennes-le-Château priest who encoded clues on the tombstone of a noble before fleeing to Spain just prior to the French Revolution, was hidden by the Society. It’s also where he is said to have conducted Grail rituals.

I was starting to obsess about Bigou having lived in Besalú. After all, so little is known of the priest’s movements after he left Rennes-le-Château. High on my list of objectives for the trip, arguably fantasies all of them, was to find the tomb of Abbe Bigou. It was right up there, next to ‘Meet José Tarres’.

To discover Bigou’s tomb would be to solve one of the most elusive pieces of the puzzle. Far greater researchers than I had tried and failed, but I had a theory. If Bigou had discovered the Grail in Besalú, why wouldn’t he be buried there, perhaps in the simplest of graves? It was worth a look. I bypassed town and drove north on the GIV 5234. After a couple of miles I turned onto a dirt road and headed into the woods. I had a hunch.

Saint Maria de Palera was interesting, serene and unassuming. I was greeted by an old man who unlocked the church and let me have a look around. I remember Patrice saying that Grail rituals had been performed here for a time; ‘It wasn’t the Society’s first choice, but they did conduct rituals there on occasion,’ she said.

Saint Maria de Palera

Inside the church of the Grail ritual

I departed Saint Maria de Palera pleased that I had gained entry but eager to explore Saint Sepulcre de Palera. A 5-minute drive down a narrow gravel road and I was there. I approached the disturbing crucifix tree that stands guard over the churchyard with some trepidation. It gave me the creeps.

The crucifix tree

Despite several valiant attempts to locate the key holder, I failed to gain access to the church I needed to investigate most. I was gutted. According to legend, the church contained a ritual stone that illuminated the Grail on the 23rd of June – Saint John the Baptists Eve.

I was beaten, but not defeated. Who am I kidding? I was defeated.

As a consolation I managed to gain entrance to the ruined house adjoining the church; the former residence of Abbé Bigou, according to Patrice. Inside were a number of peculiar artefacts, including a carved stone, a Well in the same room as a fireplace, and a peculiar garden decoration, just outside.

The ruined house where Abbé Bigou once took refuge

The Well near the fireplace...

... and the curious garden sculpture

I searched the grounds for some time, but there was not a tomb in sight, let alone Bigou’s. All I saw was a snake, which curiously slithered around the base of the crucifix tree.

‘If Bigou was in fact in Spain, undercover as it were, performing Grail rituals in the care of a private Society, then he certainly would not have a very public tomb, if he had one at all.’

I continued to reason; ‘If Bigou had activated the Grail in this very church, why he would not have been buried there, commemorated in something as simple as, well, the crucifix tree?’

I returned to Besalu, this time in search of lunch. The place was heaving with Sunday day trippers, so I grabbed a quick bite at a lesser restaurant and headed east, to Figuerers. It was time to explore the Dali Museum.

Besalú

The Dali Museum was sensational, but unfruitful. I had been looking for drawings of José, Lucia or Patrice - perhaps even a tower, but saw nothing that seemed related to Girona, the Grail or my quest.

The Dali Museum - Figuerers

Before returning to Girona I consulted my Catalan road map and made an executive decision. I decided to drive to Tarres’s village, unsure what to expect or what I would do when I got there. Patrice would be none pleased if she knew, but I couldn’t resist.

‘Actually, it’s not that far out of the way,’ I rationalised, trying desperately to justify my devious behaviour. ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ I thought, so I jumped on the N11 dual carriageway and drove like hell.

I had just pulled into the village when my phone went off. Patrice had left a message on my voicemail: ‘Hi Andrew. I’ve not heard form you. Have you fallen into a portal? Give me a call, and promise me you wouldn’t go see José – ok?’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ I thought, ‘The woman’s psychic. I mustn’t forget that!’

I parked near Tarres’s house and considered what I would say when we met. I devised a plan. I walked a short distance to the village church, which was locked, and asked a local if he knew who held the key. As suspected they replied: ‘José Tarres. He lives over there,’ the man said, pointing to the large but somewhat dilapidated house I had parked across from. I thanked him for his help and tried not to stare at his Dali inspired moustache.

Dali’s famous moustache

I walked to Tarres’s house as nonchalantly as possible and rang the door bell. Once, twice – five times, then waited. No answer. Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, Tarres was not home. I photographed the surroundings and headed for Girona; an anti-climax if there ever was one.

That night I visited Wolf for the last time. He was finally starting to open up about Eco, but I couldn’t focus. In fact I couldn’t keep my head off the bar. I was deathly sick.

I invented a lame excuse about needing to get some rest before embarking on what I had anticipated to be the highlight of my journey; an early morning trek to Mt. Canigou.

Ascending the sacred mountain and exploring the summit where the Society hid their Grail artefacts was arguably the main quest of my trip. Ok, it was right up there with ‘Meet José Tarres’ and ‘Find Bigou’s Tomb, anyway. Only it would never happen. I would be confined to my hotel room until the following afternoon.

I spent the night studying the design of the Spanish toilet in my bath room. I seldom left its side. By 5am we had become quite close.

With my energy depleted and the day half gone, I dragged myself across town and into the Girona archives. I estimated I had 30 minutes – no more, before I had to abort and return to the hotel. As I queued for assistance I retraced my steps of the day before. I concluded that the cheap and cheerful lunch in Besalú was to blame. A bug, perhaps even food poisoning, I reckoned. Whatever it was I had been throwing up every half hour since!

I was fortunate to find an English-speaking librarian who directed me to the property transfer documents for the sale of French woman’s house and tower to Girona city. This was one of the documents I wanted to secure, even if I couldn’t read a word of Catalan.

‘At least I did something today,’ I comforted myself, as I hurried back to the hotel, where I threw up and went to bed.

The document transferring the French woman’s house to the city of Girona

Read Part 3