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had time, the flight was not for another few hours, but I was worried
that the lights below us would be turned off and we would be motioned
to leave. In some way, without realising it, I wanted to see this, I
did not want to go home without experiencing it, whatever it was. I did
not feel that the pull towards this place was anything supernatural, or
outside myself, it was perhaps simply the pull of curiosity. People
were kneeling staring up at the lit statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, and
others were queueing to touch the rock. I sat and watched them, trying
to fathom this: these people around me here in the night believed that
the Virgin had come down from heaven and appeared here, that her body
had flown through the air to be in this place. I watched them all as I
tried to imagine, or remember, what it would be like to believe that.
I stood up and joined the queue to touch the rock.
Most people had gone, and there were just a few pilgrims waiting in
line. The woman in front of me touched the rock below the statue with
care and concentration as though its power were live and real and she
could extract something from it, something miraculous and vital. She
stayed there, tracing her hand over the stone. When it came to my turn
I bowed my head for a moment, but I did not touch the stone. I went
back to my seat and stayed there watching, trying not to think at all.
Soon, it was time to leave, they were going to turn off the lights. I
went back to the hotel to find my pilgrims singing songs in unison, full
of good humour, waiting for the bus which would take us to the airport
and home to Dublin.
Lourdes stayed in my mind. I wrote a piece for radio about it which
was never broadcast, and in my first novel
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