What is ‘authentic’ on the Camino?

Statue of Santiago in the Pórtico de la Gloria
Santiago in the the Pórtico de la Gloria. Image from Wikimedia Commons, by MarisaLR – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, available here.

What is ‘authentic’ on the Camino?  It’s a word that gets bandied about a lot but — having recently looked at the Pórtico de la Gloria app (available to download here) — I want to put a thought out there.  Speaking as a medieval historian, I have no problem saying that the Pórtico is the single greatest collection of Romanesque sculpture in the world, and what is more, it is still in situ.  Naturally, after eight centuries of facing Galician weather, it has seen its good and bad days, and has been subject to various interventions, most recently a 12-year conservation project financed by the Fundación Barrié, which ran between 2006 and 2018.  The conservation project appears to have been undertaken with unprecedented thoroughness, and a feature on it in the ever-interesting RTVE programme La Aventura de Saber can be found by clicking here.  The project’s investigations and activities prompt the question, what is it to be ‘authentic’?

The Pórtico has experienced various interventions, including additions to its ensemble (e.g. the nimbus/halo with crystals over Santiago in the central mullion (pilar)) and repainting in the Early Modern period that rouged up a few of the cheeks in the style of the time (comparable with the angels that hold up the canopy over the high altar inside).  Would a conservationist be justified in removing the halo or the paint?  You might argue that they would, as these were later additions, but if chronology is the yardstick for authenticity, when — or more importantly how — can we set a cut off date?  The sculpture of Santiago has bourn that jewelled halo for more than half its existence and the prophets their face paint; more pilgrims have seen them with these than without them.  They have become part of the fabric of the Pórtico. 

Pilgrims at the Cruz de Ferro in 2016.
Pilgrims sharing a moment at the Cruz de Ferro (2016). Image: author’s own.

The danger lies in conflating ‘authenticity’ with ‘originality’.  Just because something was not there the first day, it does not mean that it does not belong.  The Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross) to the west of León marks the highest point on the Camino Francés, yet to my knowledge was only erected in the 1950s.  Does that make it inauthentic?  For many, it is a deeply symbolic and emotive feature of their/the Camino.  In 2023, I had the pleasure of meeting Len McDonald from Canada, a seasoned peregrino and man with great life experience, who was on a mission to deposit a portion of his brother’s ashes there, and swore to buy a glass of good whiskey for everyone to toast him afterwards.  Sadly, I was ill for a couple of days and didn’t meet him, but before I made Santiago de Compostela I raised a glass in absentia, and nobody can tell me that those experiences connected to this 1950s monument were inauthentic.

Sanctified in Stone: the consecration crosses of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela

Interior view of the Holy Door of Santiago de Compostela cathedral.
Interior view of the Holy Door of Santiago de Compostela cathedral, with one of the thirteenth-century consecration crosses above it. Image by Jl FilpoC – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, available here.

When you walk into the great cathedrals like those of Burgos, León or Compostela, it is easy to focus on the spectacular, like the Chapel of the Constables in Burgos, the stained-glass ensemble of León, and the high altar of Santiago de Compostela. Quite often these are architectural, artistic and spiritual gifts of later eras, but most of these buildings also contain modest vestiges of their early days, a common example being the presence of consecration crosses.

By the eleventh century, the rite of consecrating a cathedral (dedicating it as a place of worship) had become quite complex, and part of it included the presiding bishop anointing the interior of the building, by marking a cross with chrism (holy oil) twelve times on the walls.[1] This act was often memorialised in paint or stone, as in the case of the consecration of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela by Archbishop Pedro Muñiz in 1211AD — 136 years after construction began. Cathedral-competitive Catalans might point out that even the Sagrada Família in Barcelona reached this point quicker, as it was consecrated by Pope Benedict XVI in 2010, 128 years after the foundation stone was laid. However, Galicians might retort that at least theirs was finished.

Detail of the thirteenth-century consecration cross over the Holy Door. Image adapted from Jl FilpoC – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, available here.

In Santiago, the twelve consecration crosses are works of stone, consisting of a cross within a circular belt, with an alpha and omega hanging from its arms, and a sun and moon occupying the spaces above them. Each belt contains an inscription, either recording the date of consecration or relating to an aspect of the ceremony. Although some were moved over the centuries, due to new construction works within the cathedral, over half are still in their original locations on the interior walls and bear witness to 800 years of Camino history.

[1] Vincent Debiais, ‘Writing on medieval doors: the surveyor angel on the moissac capital (ca. 1100)’, in  Irene Berti, Katharina Bolle, Fanny Opdenhoff and Fabian Stroth (eds), Writing matters: presenting and perceiving monumental inscriptions in Antiquity and the Middle Ages (de Gruyter, Berlin, 2017), 285–308: 295.

Cash is king: money on the Camino

Castilian gold dobla of Alfonso X of Castile (1252–84). Image source: From Drachms to Euros: A History of Spain in Coins (Museo Arqueológico Nacional, Madrid).

The euro, SEPA (Single European Payments Area), Revolut — they’ve all made paying for things on the Camino a lot easier in recent years.  It’s not that long ago (only a little over twenty years) that a pilgrim would still have had to go to their local bank and put in an order for pesetas before travelling.  Calculations would have to have been made about how much was necessary per day for accommodation, food, etc. on the basis of dubious information (probably by chatting to a Camino-know-it-all like myself), a wedge of notes might take a while for the bank to obtain, and it had to be husbanded over the course of the journey.  In some respects, the medieval or early modern situation was not that much different.

Depending on their starting point and route, a pilgrim might have to travel across several kingdoms, each with its own coinage (no notes), which was nigh-on impossible to obtain in advance.  When moving on, they had to be conscious of not being lumbered with coinage that would be impossible to exchange and essentially represent lost money.  A pilgrim often carried the entire sum of their return journey with them and accident, theft, or bad luck at cards or dice, could leave even a well-to-do pilgrim reliant upon charity.  Some pilgrims ran up bills and did a ‘dine-and-dash’ (or what would probably be a ‘dine-and-hobble’ on the Camino), like the infamous Gerald of Wales, who for all his chauvinistic self-righteousness proved himself to be nothing more than a thief when he high-tailed it out of Rome in 1203, with a string of creditors behind him pursuing him all the way to Bologna.[1]

As Jonathan Sumption has observed, from the fourteenth century onwards the life of a wealthy traveller became easier, with the development of international banking systems, such that pilgrims could obtain bills of exchange and hoteliers on certain pilgrim routes acted as bankers of sorts.[2]  Certain coinage systems became more widely accepted, and within the Iberian peninsula Castilian coins — many of which were based upon the coinage of Al-Andalus (Muslim Iberia) — were probably accepted generally.  Regardless of how well a pilgrim managed their finances, it could still be an expensive enterprise.  It has been estimated that the cost of travelling from Scotland to Rome in the middle of the fifteenth century was the equivalent of the annual income of a well-to-do knight (£66 sterling or £200 scots), but passage on a ship from Ireland to Spain on a Jubilee Year during the same period might cost as little as 7s 6d, making it a vastly more affordable option and opening up pilgrimage to people a lot less wealthy.[3]

For today’s pilgrim, the move to a cashless economy needs to be treated with caution out of consideration for those operating the Camino infrastructure.  Very few albergues/hostels have electronic payment systems, and the few remaining donativos (whose generosity is being stretched to breaking point, causing many to abandon the donation system) are particularly vulnerable.  A few notes in your wallet won’t weigh you down, but may lighten their load considerably.

[1] Jonathan Sumption, The Age of Pilgrimage: the Medieval Journey to God (Mahwah, New Jersey, 2003), 291–2.  (Originally published as Pilgrimage (London, 1975)).

[2] Ibid., 292–3.

[3] Bernadette Cunningham, Medieval Irish Pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela (Dublin, 2018), 20 and 113.  Bearing in mind that the 7s 6d probably only got you the right to sleep somewhere on the ship’s exposed deck and covered none of the rest of your expenses.

Queens and the Camino

Queen Urraca from the 13th-century Codex Tumbo A (Archive of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela). Image: Wikimedia Commons (public domain)

Hello to Kate and her Crew on the way to Santiago! 

I thought a post on the work of a strong woman would be eminently appropriate, and who better than Urraca, Queen of León, Castile and Galicia (1081–1126) — a prudent and modest Jezebel possessed of good sense (in the mixed judgement of Diego Gelmírez’s Historia Compostelana).

In a time when females ruling in their own right was essentially unknown, she was ‘Empress of All Spain’, and as the only legitimate child of King Alfonso VI (‘the Brave’) of León and Castile, the already widowed Urraca inherited his lands in 1109.  She was forced into a second marriage with Alfonso I (‘the Battler’) of Aragón and Navarre and civil war broke out in Galicia, with the fractious nobility promoting the right of her young son from her first marriage to rule (not necessarily a sexist move, but probably because they hated the Aragonese).  She was initially backed by the militarily adept Archbishop of Santiago, Diego Gelmírez/Xelmírez — ‘Santiago’s Catapult’ — although he flipflopped (an essential figure in the development of the cathedral at Compostela).  War with her cruel husband also followed, and in her fight against him she counted as allies and lovers some of her kingdoms’ most significant nobles.  Although the peace saw her lose some Castilian territory, essentially she won the right to be recognised as de jura queen, with the ability to transmit her crown to her own heirs.

Roman bridge (normally submerged) at Portomarín, Galicia. Image: Galicia Tips.

According to the twelfth-century Pilgrim’s Guide, Urraca had the bridge over the river Miño at Portomarín destroyed during her war against her husband.  Further destruction was caused by the damming of the river to create the Belesar reservoir in the late 1950s, although most of the town was moved to higher ground, including notable buildings like the Order of St John’s fortress-like Iglesia de San Juan.  From the modern bridge over which you pass on the way into the town you may see (if the water level is sufficiently low) the remains of that Roman bridge below.

If you want to toast Urraca, Portomarín holds a celebration of its local liquor— the Fiesta de la Aguardiente.  It comes in a variety of flavours, including unleaded and premium.

San Jorge vs Santiago (St George vs St James)

As next Tuesday (23rd April) is St George’s Day (San Jorge), I thought one of Spain’s favourite saints deserved a look in. Naturally, he has some competition. But St George vs St James — no contest, right?  Well, as ever it depends from where you’re looking, especially if you’re on the Camino Aragonés or Camino de Levante. 

Map of late medieval Spain. Image: Té y kriptonita, available on Wikimedia Commons (CC BY-SA 3.0)

The common equestrian image of Santiago as Matamoros (The Moorslayer) depicts him descending from the sky at the alleged Battle of Clavijo (844) to save the army of Ramiro I of Asturias from vastly superior opposing Muslim forces.  From then he became a patron of the Christian kings of the north in their so-called Reconquista (the (re)conquest of the Muslim-controlled lands of Iberia in the Middle Ages).  Or so that’s how the later story goes.  The battle may never have taken place and the story seems to date from the twelfth century (i.e. after the pilgrimage to Compostela had already gained traction).  Meanwhile Saint George (San Jorge) had supposedly appeared at the Battle of Alcoraz (1094–6) to help Pedro I of Aragón and Navarra to take the city of Huesca (a city in modern Aragón) from the Muslims.  If Santiago was the patron of the Spanish and an active promoter and implementer of the Reconquista, then why wasn’t he there to help Pedro?

That two different saintly patrons are depicted engaging in the same activity is not unusual, but in this case it points to the Reconquista not being a unified event or process, and to the evolving rivalry between the kingdoms of Aragón and Castile (which by the eleventh century incorporated Asturias), the two great powers of the Iberian peninsula.  In fact, the crown of Castile fought alongside the Muslim forces against Pedro I at the Battle of Alcoraz!

James I of Aragón and St George fighting at the later Battle of El Puig (1237); neither was actually present. Image: public domain, available at Wikimedia Commons. Original in the Victoria & Albert Museum, London.

Modern Spain is essentially the fusion of the crowns of Castile (the largest of the Iberian kingdoms by landmass) and Aragón (a substantial Mediterranean power), following the marriage of Isabella of Castile and Fernando II of Aragón (they who patronized Columbus’ voyages and built the Hospital de Los Reyes Católicos on the Plaza de Obradoiro in front of the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela).  That Santiago became the patron of Spain rather than George, is as much the triumph of Castile over Aragón, as it is of the Christian princes of the north over their southern Muslim neighbours.

The Quintana façade: cover-ups in plain sight

People queuing at the Holy Door (image: author’s own).

The history of the Quintana façade is that of a cover-up, and I mean that literally, not metaphorically — after all, the historical links between the square and fascism are still openly on display, and that is an issue that many places on the Camino have sought to remove from memory.  Instead, this cover-up is a physical one. 

Owing to a variety of additions over the centuries, the east end (‘back’) of the cathedral had a acquired a fairly irregular shape and in the seventeenth century it was decided to tidy it up and give it a uniform appearance.  Thankfully, rather than engage in massive architectural alterations to the various chapels, Canon José Vega y Verdugo commissioned a baroque-style stone curtain wall to stand in front of them.  That wall contains four doorways with connecting passageways to the Cathedral, which can best be appreciated from the excellent rooftop tour of the cathedral.  Now let’s see behind Door Number 1! 

Actually, no, we won’t, because we’re not allowed in there.  At least not this year.  The Holy Door is only opened on Jubilee Years i.e. those years in which the feast of Santiago falls on a Sunday; the next one is 2027 (although I’d swear I took the above photo in 2019, which wasn’t a Jubilee year).  It’s recognisable by the iron gate across it, and like the Obradoiro entrance at the polar opposite side of the cathedral, the Holy Door is designed to look like a Roman triumphal arch — a militaristic celebration of the cult of Santiago.[1]  It’s crowned by a statue of Santiago dressed as a pilgrim and he’s flanked by smaller statues of two of his disciples, Athanasius and Theodore by the sculptor Pedro del Campo (1694).  Below them, on either side of the door are two sets of twelve stone figures (representing apostles and Old Testament personages), which derive from the now-demolished stone choir that Master Mateo had constructed within the cathedral.

For many the Quintana is a chill-out square, with cafes at both ends and a place to catch up with people now that the walking is finished (and, as I found in 2022, the perfect place to listen to the All Ireland final online).  But the Quintana itself is unfinished.  If you look at the highest point over the Royal Door you’ll see an inscription D. O. M. TOTIVS HISPANIAE PATRONO ET PROCECTORI SACRVM 1700 (‘To God, most good, most great; Holy Patron and Protector of all Spain 1700’).  Above it stands an empty pedestal, perhaps a reminder that like the Quintana façade, your Camino is not yet done.

[1] Daniel Caruncho (trans. Cerys Giordano Jones), Santiago Cathedral (Dosde Publishing, Barcelona, 2017), 56–9.

Guides and Guidebooks: Good and Bad

The recent passing of John Brierley, the author of some of the most popular and high-quality guidebooks to the Camino, had me thinking about guides and guidebooks.  I was in Santiago de Compostela in June, finishing the Camino Francés that I began in 2021, and had two contrasting guide experiences. 

I bought a guidebook in the Cathedral shop (ok I bought a few books there), and here’s an excerpt from its description of the seventeenth-century Chapel of Christ of Burgos:

“It is a noble proto-Baroque construction with a portal with double columns on dies to hold the founder’s shield in the attic.  It has a Grecian groundplan and an architraved structure with great fluted pilasters supporting double coffered arches.  The dome has pendentives bearing Carillo’s arms and ribs worked to form shells pouring water”.[1]

I have a PhD in medieval history and have occasionally taught on related architecture, but even if I did recognise all the terms (recognise ‘yes’, remember/be able to explain, ‘no’), it doesn’t make for exciting reading.  I found myself in agreement with the great Renaissance writer Michel de Montaigne:

“I cannot tell if others feel as I do, but when I hear our architects inflating their importance with big words such as pilasters, architraves, cornices, Corinthia style or Doric style, I cannot stop my thoughts from suddenly dwelling the magic palaces of Apollidon: yet their deeds concern the wretched parts of my kitchen-door!”[2]

Ok, so the Chapel of Christ of Burgos is a little more impressive than the kitchen door of my flat, but you get the point.  It’s all very well to complain, but how would I do it differently?  I think if I were to author a guidebook to the Cathedral, I’d begin by taking a particular feature (e.g. a single chapel) and use it to explain the terminology, and architectural and artistic ideas that are found in other parts of the building e.g. this is a ‘pilaster’ a decoration against a wall that’s designed to look like a column, but actually just for show and not holding anything up.  It’s the teacher in me coming out.  Teach them what they’re looking at first, and then help them discover the same elsewhere themselves.

Pilasters at either side of a door – they look like columns but they’re not supporting anything. Image by Albertvillanovadelmoral – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0.

My second guide experience was with a live guide, taking the Cathedral rooftop tour, such a bargain at €8!  It’s not for those who suffer from fear of heights, and you need to be mobile, but for everyone else I’d recommend it.  With a radio-earphone connection the young lady guiding us led us around the ongoing roof works, discussing the competing needs of conservation and desire for accessibility, explaining functions and design ideologies, connecting us with the parts of the cathedral directly below, sharing how some of the Camino practices of today (e.g. burning items of clothing in Finisterre) link with both the history and features of the cathedral, etc.  All in all, even though I probably only followed about 90% of it (it was in Spanish), it was the best guided tour I’ve ever had in Spain.

[1] Alejandro Barral and Ramón Yzquierdo (trans. Gordon Keitch), Santiago Cathedral: A Guide to its Art Treasures (5th edition, 2019), p. 92.

[2] ‘On the Vanity of Words’, in Michel de Montaigne (trans. M.A. Screech), The Complete Essays (London, 1991), p. 343.

The Irish-Spanish Inquisition Alliance

In a previous post I wrote about the medieval Spanish inquisition and its relationship with the Camino de Santiago.  The Black Legend of the Inquisition in the early modern period – the horror story version of its activities created in Protestant Netherlands and Britain – still dominates the popular image.  That is not to say that there isn’t some truth to it, and certainly they were no cuddly crew, but as Prof Alec Ryrie pointed out, the numbers executed during its heyday only exceed by a few hundred the number of people executed in US federal jails since 1970.  Recently, I had the opportunity to read Professor Tom O’Connor’s book Irish Voices from the Spanish Inquisition,[1] which I won’t say changed my mind about the Inquisition or Irish people in the early modern Iberian world, but rather substantially enhanced my understanding.

O’Connor draws upon Inquisition (and other) documentation to show how the organisation was incredibly adept at reimagining itself to meet the needs of the Spanish monarchy.  Beginning as a doctrinal police, it evolved into a kind of naturalisation service – migrants to Spanish territories could engage with the Inquisition to get a clean bill of spiritual health (so to speak), which facilitated their entry, engagement and incorporation into Spanish society.  Irish engagement with the Inquisition played on their dual position as Catholics and subjects of the Protestant English crown, to act as brokers in the uneasy trading arrangements between two religiously, economically and imperially opposing powers.  In doing so, Irish Catholics engaged with the Inquisition in a self-interested manner, acting as translators, facilitators and occasional proselytisers.

Certainly the Inquisition never lost its doctrinal focus, but it was increasingly pressed into supporting the needs of the state, and sometimes muzzled when it did not.  The picture that emerges is of a seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Inquisition that functioned more as a Department of Naturalisation for the government, rather than a Gregorian-Chant Gestapo. 

[1] Thomas O’Connor, Irish Voices from the Spanish Inquisition: Migrants, Converts and Brokers in Early Modern Iberia (London, 2016).  Available for purchase at: https://doi.org/10.1057/9781137465900.

The Pilgrim’s Crowbar: Stealing Relics in the Middle Ages

Chapel of the Relics, Burgos Cathedral (Image: Author’s Own)

Medieval people went on pilgrimage for many reasons (e.g. seeking forgiveness, gratitude for favours received, as punishment etc.), but you’d be forgiven for thinking that theft would not be a motivating factor.  After all, why would a devout person go on pilgrimage with the express aim of stealing, and especially to steal something holy?

But robbing relics – especially the corporal remains of saints – was serious business in the middle ages and for many pious people (and not just habitual/professional thieves) it was perfectly acceptable and even commendable.  They justified it saying that the saints were perfectly capable of defending themselves, so if they didn’t want to go, the ‘thief’ would not succeed; if he/she did succeed, it was a sign that the saint wanted to be venerated elsewhere.  Naturally the saint’s followers didn’t want to burden their heavenly patrons with such tough decisions, and in the larger cult centres armed guards were posted within churches.

In his The Age of Pilgrimage, Jonathan Sumption recounts the story of the twelfth-century St Hugh of Lincoln who literally bit off more than he could chew.  On being presented with the bandaged arm of St Mary Magdalene at a monastery he was visiting, Hugh whipped out a knife, sliced open the packaging and tried in vain to hack a bit off.  Was Mary happy where she was?  Apparently not, as Hugh – undeterred by his initial failure – bit down on one of the fingers and finally cracked off a few chunks with his molars.  His justification to his horrified hosts?  Well, he had the Eucharist in his mouth not long ago, so if he could swallow the body of Christ, then surely it was no biggie to gnaw at the bones of a saint.[1]

Others were a bit more subtle than the saintly Hugh, and eschewed treating the corporal remains of the holy dead like strips of tough beef jerky.  Take for example Fulk Nerra of Anjou (d. 1040), the first great castle-builder of Western Europe, ancestor of the Plantagenet kings of England, and three-/four-time pilgrim to Jerusalem.  After making the perilous journey from western France to the Holy land, he demonstrated his devotion by kissing the True Cross, and pulled away with a splinter in his teeth.[2] 

At the early thirteenth-century Lateran Council, it was decided that exposed relics were too mouth-watering a temptation and henceforth they should only be displayed within reliquaries.  The most impressive collection of these on the Camino is the eighteenth-century Chapel of the Relics in Burgos Cathedral.  As is common, many of these reliquaries have little windows in them, so that the faithful could see the venerated item or at least verify that there was something there.  The message is plain: look with your eyes, not with your mouth!

[1] Jonathan Sumption, The Age of Pilgrimage: the Medieval Journey to God (Mahwah, New Jersey, 2003), 40–1.  (Originally published as Pilgrimage (London, 1975)).

[2] Ibid., 36.

Azabachería, the final façade…

Image of the Azabacheríá facade by Sebbe xy, available CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Azabachería, the final façade… it sounds like the opening of a Patrick Steward Star Trek monologue.  We might well say ‘boldly going where no peregrino has gone before’, because although this north façade of the cathedral is the first that most peregrinos pass as they finish the francés/primitivo/norte/ingles routes, it’s usually ignored in the rush to enter the Praza do Obradoiro outside the ‘front’ of the cathedral.  Maybe the next day you might give it a look.

If you do, you’ll find that it has an architectural style unique among the four facades.  The Obradoiro and Quintana are solidly baroque – that post-Council of Trent artistic style characterised by decoration, exuberance and appeals to the senses (the opposite end of the pendulum arc from the plain austerity of Protestant religious architecture).  The Platerías retains its twelfth-century medieval demeanour – solid no-nonsense Romanesque arches and winged monkeys aplenty.  But the newest façade (dating from the second half of the eighteenth century), on the north of the Cathedral, is deadly neo-classical with its smooth columns and medallions with the faces of Christ and the Virgin over the windows, and takes its name from the craftsmen who worked in azabache (jet/lignite) in the facing square.  

Santiago and Kings Alfonso III and Ordoño II. Close up of the Azabacheríá facade by Sebbe xy, available CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

As with most of the other façades, its dominated by a statue of Santiago as a pilgrim, and kneeling at either side of him the crowned kings Alfonso III of Asturias and León (848?–910) and his son, Ordoño II of León (872?–924).  Alfonso the Great, as he was known, is historically seen as one of the first significant figures of the Reconquista (‘reconquest’), the gradual Christian takeover of lands ruled by the Muslims in the Iberian peninsula since the early eighth century.  He divided his kingdom between three of his sons, García (León), Fruela (Asturias) and Ordoño (Galicia), and left the cathedral 500 pieces of gold in his will (which García probably pocketed).[1]  One of Fruela’s first actions as king was to journey to Santiago de Compostela to ask the saint’s help for his new responsibility,[2] while Ordoño (who had already ruled Galicia under his father) was also a generous patron of the early medieval cathedral, as he and his wife gave it two chests of gold and thirty-five Muslim prisoners of war.[3]

The job of designing this façade and replacing the earlier Romanesque exterior was entrusted to Domingo Antonio Lois Monteagudo from Pontevedra (1722–85), an architect who shone as a student in Madrid and Rome, but has traditionally been seen as the epitome of a frustrated talent, chafing at having to implement the works of other.[4]  But you would never imagine that, looking at the most architecturally coherent of all the four facades of one of the most impressive medieval-early modern buildings in the world.

[1] José María Manuel García-Osuna y Rodríguez, ‘El astur rey de León Fruela II Adefónsiz “El Leproso”’, Argutorio: revista de la Asociación Cultural ‘Monte Irago’ 20 (2008), 25–8: 25.  https://dialnet.unirioja.es/servlet/articulo?codigo=2501667

[2] José María Manuel García-Osuna y Rodríguez, ‘El astur rey de León Fruela II Adefónsiz “El Leproso”’, Argutorio: revista de la Asociación Cultural ‘Monte Irago’ 20 (2008), 25–8: 26. https://dialnet.unirioja.es/servlet/articulo?codigo=2501667

[3] César Álvarez Álvarez, ‘Ordoño II’, Diccionario Biográfico electrónico (DBe) de la Real Academia de la Historia, https://dbe.rah.es/biografias/7299/ordono-ii.

[4] Enrique Fernández Castiñeiras, ‘Domingo Antonio Lois Monteagudo’, Diccionario Biográfico electrónico (DBe) de la Real Academia de la Historia, https://dbe.rah.es/biografias/22021/domingo-antonio-lois-monteagudo.

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