I watch ones, and twos come and go, treading softly, standing in curious wonder before statue or stained glass, as if nostalgic

for something they’d lost. Or never had.  

     

I walk to the statue of San Caralampio. His arms are outstretched, and in his eyes, an expression of both suffering and

compassion. 

​

The leaflet tells me little: he was from Ephesus and executed in the second century. But why is he remembered here? 

​

I see someone put up a notice in the porch, and ask, ’Is there any more information on the saint?’

​

He shakes his head but then chops his right hand into left. 

​

‘He suffered terrible torture, you know.’ 

​

I assume dismemberment. 

​

‘But wouldn’t deny the faith,’ he continued,

​

‘He has special powers to heal diseases of the skin. That’s why people come here from all over Spain, to our waters.’

 

Then he looks over his spectacles, raises an imaginary glass to his lips, tipples it back and forth, and adds, ’He is also the

patron saint for … drunks.’ 

​

My eyes widen.

​

‘Yes. And the lame. A man I know comes here for one week each year. He can only walk a little but drinks a lot. He says

there is peace, compassion in the saint’s eyes. Even for such as him. Yes, every year. But not this one … yet.’

​

I nod and think Caralampio might be a fitting saint for us pilgrims also, adept as we are at drinking and limping, especially

first thing in the morning, hobbling like zombies. 
Might he have room in his portfolio for us? Could he spare the time? 

​

But then for him, time is no longer an issue. It would be a matter of inclination.

​

‘I wonder could Caralampio be the pilgrim’s patron saint also?’ I say.

​

My advisor leans his head to one side, and says, ’I don’t know. … but in the quiet season, perhaps you could ask him then.

He’s very busy now.’

​

He certainly is today, as busloads arrive seeking health or lost youth. I take his advice, for I don’t want to try the patience of a Saint.