19 FEBRUARY 2005, Page 21

The misery and malevolence of bad Bishop Galzaran Sacosta

Manresa, Catalonia

Galzaran. The very name has a Gothic sound. It could have been dreamed up by some latter-day Tolkien for a malevolent goblin-in-chief.

Here in Manresa, in inland Catalonia, you could imagine yourself in such a world: overshadowed by the spine-tingling outline of a rock mountain so massive and unreal that, were it to be painted by computergraphics into the backdrop of a Disney fairyland, you would think it too fantastic. Montserrat — the holy mountain where devout Catalans believe a wood carving of the ‘Black Virgin’ miraculously appeared shoots vertiginous fingers of rock in impossible pillars high into the sky. No dragon’s back was ever as spiked; no rooster’s comb as careless of gravity. As stunning as Ayer’s Rock, Montserrat is (like Manresa itself) almost unknown outside north-eastern Spain.

But what of Galzaran? Legendary in the city’s history, his is a name you will seldom hear spoken here. Bishop Galzaran Sacosta has no avenue or park named after him, no statue raised in his honour. No plaque or monument commemorates him in the vast, ancient and lovely Basilica de Santa Maria de la Seu. The only place where Galzaran Sacosta’s life is commemorated with pride is at our house, l’Avenc, 60 miles away. But to that strange discovery in a moment.

As I write, Manresa is celebrating its annual ten-day Fira de l’Aixada: the Pickaxe Fair. Such axes were used to dig a canal. God is believed to have expedited the work. Monday 21 February 2005 will be the 660th anniversary of the day when, in the opinion of many, He saved the construction of a lifesaving canal bringing water to the droughtstricken mediaeval town. The Divine Will is said to have been signalled by a Sign, la Misteriosa Llum (the Mysterious Light), seen by more than 300 amazed witnesses on 21 February 1345.

The tale has become folklore. All versions agree that something very odd happened to Manresa in the first part of the 14th century. Relations between an obstinate bishop and a desperate town broke down with devastating results; and no source my sister Belinda has consulted disputes it. We suspect that during the Franco era, when Church and State were close, the story was, if not denied, then discouraged, but in Manresa last week end we heard it told, saw it written and watched it re-enacted.

This, so far as we can gather, is the story.

In a dry epoch and chronically short of water, the townspeople of Manresa had agreed a great and difficult project: to build a 25-mile canal to the town from higher up the river Llobregat, through terrible terrain. The Catalan king, Pere (Peter) III, assented. Ablebodied townsmen were enlisted to dig, and though it was hard and many died, the canal advanced towards Manresa, reaching the edge of lands controlled by the Diocese of Vic. Then the Bishop blocked its way. His name was Galzaran Sacosta.

Nobody knows why he did this. A severe theologian (he encouraged parishioners to snoop on their priests), he said the answer for Manresa lay in prayer and virtue, not civil engineering. He was (it is said) spat at when he came to Manresa. Furious, he pronounced a kind of curse on the town, closed its three churches, cut off from grace the city’s laity, excommunicated dissenters, and swore never to enter Manresa’s walls again.

Whichever account you read of the wretched years that followed, the impression is of a complete local breakdown in civil and ecclesiastical order. Pope Clement VI in Avignon was appealed to and so was the King; but Pere III (‘Pere el Ceremonioso’) was a weak man, keener on prancing around than confronting over-mighty clerics. Manresans despaired. Who would save them and their canal?

On 21 February 1345, 660 years ago this Monday (the legend says), a bright light appeared to emanate from the holy mountain, Montserrat, and travelled across the valley towards Manresa. The Light struck and entered the church of Carmen at the top of the town. Shining from the nave, it divided into a trinity, reunited and returned across the sky to Montserrat. Some say this marked the moment of Galzaran’s death. Some say the Light changed his mind. He died on that day, and his successor at once resolved the dispute. The canal was finished, rescuing the town’s fortunes. That is what Manresans celebrate today.

Belinda, her husband Joachin and I are among them, staying in the Pere III Hotel and joining in the mediaeval fair organised around the anniversary. There is music and dancing, jousting, horses and carriages, and stalls selling olives, cheeses, oils and wine. 2005 is not a bad time for Manresa to commemorate the end of a bad patch, for after Franco the city went through another, with the death of the textile industry. But everywhere now there are signs of recovery, the beautiful Basilica has been restored, and the once dilapidated ancient quarter is becoming newly smart.

‘It seems strange,’ Belinda said, as we stood among an outdoor audience booing the on-stage figure representing Sacosta, ‘that we’re the only people here who are on his side.’ Galzaran behaved monstrously of course, but I knew what she meant. In the oldest part of the ancient fortified mansion, l’Avenc, which Belinda, Joachin and I bought six years ago when the house was on the brink of ruin, the boy who was to become Bishop of Vic was born.

Our great project to restore l’Avenc is close to completion. Belinda is helping me to write a book about it and has researched the intriguing crest with a big S and a Templar cross carved in stone at l’Avenc. It is Sacosta’s. Episcopal records in Vic confirm it. We had wondered at the bishop’s mitre carved above the water-spout in the old kitchen. It is Sacosta’s. Born near the end of the 13th century, Galzaran’s surname should be ‘Avenc’ like his father, Guillem; but he took his mother Bondia’s instead — Sacosta — because she was of a nobler family.

L’Avenc is a serene and isolated place on a cliff-top miles from anywhere. From the windows at dawn I can see the same sublime view — the wooded mountains, soaring cliffs, the river far below — which Galzaran must have looked out upon as a boy of seven. In 1328 he was to become Bishop of Vic. He could see Vic from l’Avenc, far below across the plain. On the horizon his father will have shown him the spooky outline of sacred Montserrat: the city of Manresa, his nemesis, at its feet.

What power and position, what misery and disorder, what Mysterious Light and what mysterious dark lay ahead of that little boy as the 14th century dawned. Infamy beyond a child’s imagining awaited this angry, restless spirit of the Dark Ages. To be booed in civic pageants more than six centuries later; to be written about, as today he is, in another country, by another owner of l’Avenc, in another millennium ... what a twist!

It is not the final twist. Galzaran Sacosta has the last laugh, and one day — perhaps in my book — I shall tell you how.