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The monastery atop the mountain's highest outcrop that first caught my attention from the freeway was strictly off limits to pilgrims and casual day trippers, apparently a retreat for the clergy's upper eschelon where many of them chose to spend their final days, papal palliative care in a relaxed healthy, albeit rugged mountainous environment. A name that conjures black widows rather than virgins...
Tumbling cloud surged past the carriage windows like the famous 'tablecloth' on faraway Table Mountain, condensing into nothing as it fell past beetling cliffs dotted everywhere with shrines and half-glimpsed icons, spiralling steps cut deep into the living rock bearing what appeared to be hundreds of pilgrims upwards towards a great basilica set on a plateau approximately halfway up the rampart like a way station to heaven, a celestial transit lounge, ...
I had reached my final destination but not having been in Spain before and not understanding the lingo, had no idea where on Earth or elsewhere I really was.
Rounding a bend I glimpsed what appeared to be a monastery built atop one of the highest crags serviced by a rickety funicular railway.
Pulling into a roadside lot I decided on the spur of the moment to hitch a ride to the summit, hoping to catch sight of Barcelona or the misplaced Mediterranean.
Boarding the dillipidated funicular railway I turned my back on the holy mountain and finally made it to Sitges to introduce my screening, although I was feeling too bewitched and bewildered to enjoy the festival as I should have done.