Heading back downtown on my early morning walk, I found the Stone Gate, built in the Middle Ages and rebuilt in the 18th century. A lion guards it on the left, a statue of a serene woman with a key and a small chest on the right. An old patchwork iron door is battered and barred.
Under the arch was a surprise: a chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and a place of pilgrimage since the painting inside was saved from fire in 1731. Standing in front of the shrine, unmoving, was a middle-aged woman in jeans and a loose short coat. I slipped into a pew. A young woman approached and reverently laid a bunch of flowers on the kneeling stone. Then an elderly nun arrived. She officiously moved the flowers, insinuated herself in front of the middle aged woman, and knelt, the soles of her shoes angled oddly as she prayed – for humility and non-officiousness I hope.
I sat there for twenty minutes watching passers through. Nearly all of them made some sign of reverence, although there were of course the chatterers on mobile phones, and a few gave the chapel a wide berth. One young woman made obeisance and kept walking still chewing gum; another stood, palms together for five minutes. Men mostly paid respect briefly and hurried on, although one young man in shorts and a red T shirt stood to one side in lengthy devotion. It was mostly women who paused and prayed.
The walls around the shrine were a mosaic of panels, each one saying thanks for a special blessing received from the holy place.
When I returned through the stone gate half an hour later, flowers had proliferated – poked between the bars of the iron gate, or arranged on the praying step.
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