I feel a certain resonance with St. Martin, or at least his moment/ method of illumination. And of course, the 900 year old church of Sv. Martin, perched a couple of kilometers above Milna, is one of my favorite spots on the island: tiny pre Romanesque stone church, a small windswept stone courtyard on a lone hill top, fronted by a tiny grove of pines, sacred since Illyrian and then Roman times, looking out in all directions to stone, mainland, sea, islands, sun, sky.
Today was St. Martin's day, so in the afternoon after mass in the village church, about 13 people, 2 nuns and a priest, climbed the rocky hillside for a service at this small, old stone church.
The Jugo was blowing in full force, moaning, howling, threatening every foot hold, surging and threatening again and again to blow you off your feet. And at the top, the wind was magnificent, unrelenting, powerful, triumphant and mighty and sublime. Tree limbs cracked, the sky was a turmoil of gray with sun breaking through here and there.
Inside the tiny church we huddled, vulnerable but safely out of the wind. Candles were lit. Before a 14th or 15th century stone altarpiece depicting the saint at the moment he cut his cloak to share with the beggar, the priest donned his vestments. a nun handed Slavko a prayer book to read from. Ancient magic, faith, mystery was re enacted, safe under the small barrel vault.
After the service, the priest led us in several choruses from the Battle Hymn of the Republic, especially for their visitor from America.
Later, I enjoyed a cozy Sunday dinner at Slavko and Nada's.
Glory, glory hallelujah.
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