Sacred Music in The Time of Coronavirus

 And foie gras for breakfast.

For me, a summer in the south of France without classical music is a summer without zest.  My atypical 2020 summer needed even more classical music than usual to reduce my Covid-19 stress level.  Sadly, but expected, most of the region’s music festivals had been cancelled and it was mission impossible to find tickets for the still maintained festivals like the famous piano Festival of la Roque d Anthéron in Provence.  Out of desperation, I joined a four- day-music tour and drove five hours to the village of Rocamadour to join the small music-loving group.  For the love of sacred music, I exposed myself to possible Covid contamination as I anticipated the village to be overrun by the August tourist hordes.  August is the climax of the tourism season in France.

But Rocamadour appealed to me: Although one of the most visited sites in France, I had never traveled to this cliff hanging medieval village located in Occitanie on the eastern side of Dordogne (a favorite among the Brits).  Tiny Rocamadour (population around 600!) has only one street (very busy) and many flights of stairs (and two elevators) to reach the eight churches and chapels (partly troglodyte) built onto the limestone cliff.  Since the 12^th century people from all walks of life have been flocking to Rocamadour, but its dramatic setting was not the reason for its fame and popularity.  Neither was its sacred music festival; although the unpretentious festival has been going on for 15 years, I had never heard of it.

                                                              The abbey seen from my hotel window

For over 1000 years, Rocamadour has attracted Catholic pilgrims from all over Europe.  It is also a stop on the way to Santiago de Compostela (the Way of Saint James in northern Spain).  Now, day-trippers outnumber pilgrims and in a good year their numbers can reach a million.  After three months in lockdown, Rocamadour was again swamped with visitors.  Because social distancing compliance was impossible in the narrow medieval streets and stairs, mask wearing was mandatory.  

The origin of Rocamadour is still shrouded in mystery; before Christianity it might have been a pagan shrine.  Its spiritual life took off at the beginning of the 12^th century with a hostile takeover: a group of enterprising abbots kicked out the resident monks who were peacefully worshiping the wooden statue of the Virgin Mary.  The black statue is credited with many miracles, notably blessing couples craving for children.  Oddly for a shrine so far from the sea, the Virgin was also worshiped by sailors who survived shipwrecks.  During the same period, the discovery of an undamaged body buried in the forecourt of the main church was interpreted as a miracle.  Rightly of not, the body was attributed to the obscure Saint Amadour. 

Bingo, finally Rocamadour had relics to exhibit and the money-making business of pilgrimages could start in earnest.  As miracles kept being reported, the pilgrimage attracted the sponsorship of royalty. The English King Henry II Plantagenet was an early supporter and donor.  Not to be outdone, successive French kings also visited Rocamadour.  Because of its fame and wealth, Rocamadour attracted pillagers.  Saint Amadour’s body was burned and now a few calcined bones remain prudently kept in a locked location.  The jury is still out on the date of the demise of St Amadour’s body.  The desecration could have taken place during either the medieval Hundred Years War between the English and French kings or the 16^th century religious wars between Catholics and Protestants.

During the Middle Ages, pilgrimages were the closest thing to border-less mass tourism and entertainment.  Pilgrimages played the role of our theme parks.  The pilgrimage business model was simple, but the competitive economics of pilgrimage led to abuses, deceit and even robberies.  The “rapt” of Saint Foy is a case in point.  The church needed to unearth a deceased local religious influencer with an acknowledged pious potential, dig up his or her bones and market his or her presumed miracles.  Relicts were hot properties, and to raise the profile of their abbey, the unscrupulous but zealous monks of Conques in the vicinity of Rocamadour resorted to stealing from another city the relics of Saint Foy (a young girl martyred for her faith during the 3^rd century).  Conques has kept the golden statue of Saint Foy since then and remains a very busy pilgrimage town.

A miracle of sort happened during this abnormal summer of 2020:  The Black Virgin of Rocamadour offered us music lovers her protection.  In the large Gothic-styled basilica, we felt blessed and safe, masked, respecting social distancing with our hands generously doused in sanitizing gel.  The festival took place because only half of the tickets were sold for each performance.  To compensate, the musicians agreed to play the same programme twice daily.  We listened to three concerts.  During the organ (British organist Jeremiah Stephenson) and polyphonic singing concert, the singers (choir Dulci Jubilo) were facing each other, with their backs to us, protecting us from the projection of droplets.  I was sitting in the front row during the piano evening (Beethoven’s sonatas by French pianist Anne Queffelec) and far enough from the counter tenor during William Christie’s baroque music concert.

After the concerts we slowly walked back down to the village where our hotel was located.  The overcrowded main street was now eerily empty, the noisy day trippers had thankfully left.  We could peacefully enjoy the dramatic scenery.  Not surprisingly, TripAdvisor discourages visiting Rocamadour in summer.  I fully agree, the main drag offers a distressing sight, tourism at its worse, trampled by a sweaty and smelly mob.  But one cannot forget that it was probably the same during the Middle Ages when the pilgrimage was in full swing.

I am an early bird and after swallowing a quick breakfast, I climbed the deserted steps to the cliffs.  Munching a croissant filled with foie gras, I sat there to admire the sun rise above the valley.  Foie gras is a local staple. Heavenly.