The old sea lions say, there, in the suffocating heat of the dark taverns that proliferate in the depths of the narrow streets bordering the port, that there was a time when from the small fortress where a humble lighthouse was later installed, the proud Knights Templar scanned the horizon, controlling every ship heading for port.
And that there, not far from the breakwater that the wild waters of the Cantabrian Sea constantly hit, preventing the seagulls from nesting, the sailors of their powerful fleet brought them news of the Holy Land, a place that, as everyone knows, was their origin and where they were. their Mother House, until they were definitively evicted by the great Muslim leader, Saladin, shortly after the terrible defeat of the battle known as the Horns of Hattin, which meant the beginning of the end of the Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem.
There was a time, disastrous for the Order, in which the ships of its fleet stopped coming and they also had to abandon their residences and the company of the imposing church of Santa María la Blanca, whose construction not only helped pay but also it also included the knowledge of the new style, the Gothic, which they had previously imported from the Holy Land when they returned to the continent.
Today, they are hardly a memory, but the old swear and perjure, especially when the golden wine that the Basques call Txacolí looses its tongue, that on the nights of every Friday the 13th, in the spectral light of the moon, a ghostly galley sets sail, hoisting the black and white banner of the Order, sets course for Jerusalem, in an unsuccessful attempt to regain that, their Mother House, which they once had to abandon.
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The lighthouse is probably too old, and it was build to watch over possible attack from the sea. There is one in my town as well as a small castle.
Ancient is the castle, which possibly also had its archaic lighthouse, but this lighthouse is more or less modern and built many centuries later.
Maravilloso!! Me gustan esas leyendas marinas, donde grandes embarcaciones continúan viajes infinitos a través del tiempo. Siempre es bueno escuchar esas historias relatadas por lugareños de los pueblos que visitamos. Yo tengo la idea que mientras más creativas e insólitas sean esas historias, más mágicos serán esos sitios. Aunque no es 13, es viernes y bien vale tomar un poquito de ese añejo Txacolí frente al mar mientras las olas mecen a los barcos dormidos. Te abrazo, Juan!
Ja, ja, ja...precisamente eso me llenaba de vida hace unos días: sentado en un espléndido soportal, con vistas al mar (a mí mar) con unos buenos pintxos y un buen vaso de verdejo o txacolí, imaginando historias, compartiendo momentos con los buenos amigos, sacando conclusiones de los descubrimientos realizados en las rutas del día. Leyendas y tradiciones son muy abundantes por el Norte de España y es raro que en ciudades o pueblecitos de pescadores, no te encuentres con las más sorprendentes historias. Como tierra antigua, tierra céltica, lo fantástico está todavía muy vivo en el ánimo de las gentes, aunque las nueva generaciones lo vayan olvidando. Por otra parte, estamos en un tiempo donde lo fantástico es especial, sobre todo cuando se aproxima el Samhain celta, la noche de difuntos cristiana y el Halloween anglo-sajón. Qué menos que echar una canita al aire. Un fuerte abrazo
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Happy Friday, friend