The little white-washed leper chapel which stands on a green slope separated from the town by the river Trava belonged once to a leper hospital. The people still take their offerings to that chapel on the day of St. Lazarus, whereupon the priests sell the offerings received and give the proceeds to the poor.
The next morning I witnessed an interesting scene from our balcony. A bullock cart drew up in front of the little hotel—the cart was practically nothing more than a raft; upon it stood two fine sturdy peasant women, and on either side of it there walked two more whose appearance was equally muscular; two of them wore the typical flat-brimmed straw hat with a pious-looking black ribbon round the crown, the others had handkerchiefs tied over their heads. One of the bullocks has got something into its hoof, and the women try to get hold of its leg, but it kicks violently every time they approach. At last one of them succeeds in getting a rope round the refractory leg, takes hold of it, and turns up the hoof, while a rapidly increasing crowd looks on. The woman now borrowed a knife from a bystander, and proceeded to pick the furze or thorn out of the hoof; meanwhile another of the women fetched a cup of alcohol from a shop and a box of matches; she poured the alcohol into the cavity of the upturned hoof and set a light to it; the hoof was now in a blaze, and the bullock kicked and struggled with all its might, but the women held on to the hoof till the fire had burned away the obstruction, then they let it go and proceeded to load the cart with sacks full of something heavy. They worked away exactly as if they were four strong field labourers; not a man in the crowd attempted to give them the slightest assistance, nor did they seem to require any. These women labourers are most conscientious in their work, and it is very rarely that a woman gives way to drink. They are extremely self-denying, and in those families where there is still a man left, the wife “gives the chicken to the husband and contents herself with the broth.” When the husbands and sons have emigrated, the wives and daughters cheerfully take upon themselves all the agricultural labour, in addition to the care of the children and the home. Yet, in spite of it all, their cottages are remarkably clean and comfortable.
On Maundy Thursday we had a “fast” dinner, the courses of which were—prawns; a mash of chick-peas and eggs; cockles served in scallop shells; turbot; lampreys and green peas; and lastly, salmonete baked in a pie. In the afternoon a procession passed beneath our balcony; four men carried a platform on which stood a life-size figure of Christ sinking beneath the weight of His cross; He wore a purple mantle bordered with gold; two Roman soldiers, half-clad, were on either side. Six priests and a crowd of men, including the musicians, preceded, and a crowd of women and children followed; nearly all the women had white handkerchiefs over their heads.
On Good Friday, as soon as it was dark, children began to run about the streets with lighted candles, and by 9 p.m. every window was illuminated, and another procession passed beneath our balcony. In this procession they had the Virgin robed in black, and going to seek her Son; a very doleful march was played by the musicians, the silent crowd preceding, each person with a lighted candle.
On the Saturday before Easter all the bells of the town began to peal at 10.30 a.m., and in answer to my question as to why they did not wait till Easter morning, I received the reply that on Sunday morning the ringing would interfere with the church services. In the afternoon I went to the church of San Martin, and saw the people come and fetch away the candles they had placed before the altar; each candlestick (there were some four hundred) had a piece of paper round it with the name of its owner. “How do you each find your own candle again so quickly?” I asked of one.
“Each person recognises their own candlestick,” was the answer. All through the week little boys were going about with noisy wooden rattles which sounded exactly like frogs croaking, and tried our nerves terribly. On Wednesday evening they took the rattles to church, and croaked in the dark before the candles were lit. This was supposed to represent the cries of the Jewish rabble before the Crucifixion, but the distracting noise continued in Noya for several days. The first time I heard the rattle I innocently asked the landlord’s daughter to give the boy a silver coin and ask him to move on to another street. “It’s no use,” she replied,—“that noise will grow much worse, and it will continue several days; it is part of the festival.” The Wednesday evening service in which the rattles take a special part is that of Las tenieblas; in fact, this name applies to all the matins during the last three days of Holy Week, and the rattle, carraca, is meant to take the place of bells.
The dinner menu on Good Friday was as follows:—Lobster; bread soup; turbot; baked cockle tart; omelets; coffee.
As we stood on the balcony watching for one of the processions, a lady resident at Noya turned to me, and said wistfully—
“I feel sure you will be baptized before you leave Noya, and become a Christian.”