The road from Soria to Burgo de Osma, 58 kilometres of good road, is made quickly. In the first section, to the right, runs the high plateau of the Sierra de Frentes, which from its eyebrow descends gently down the sunny side, as well as on the north side sinks from it in abrupt court, and on the left rise the Cretaceous mountains also of San Marcos and Hinodejo . . . '. (1)

Sleeping around its cathedral, located to the right or to the left, depending on how you look at it, of a river named Ucero, that hardly resembles, by its flow, a stream in a state of growth to an approximate fortnight of kilometres of its natural source, in the foothills of the Cañón del Río Lobos, El Burgo de Osma remains in sleep, fearful, perhaps, of a Sunday morning ofesapacible, that announces, as a prophetic sibila, the rigors of a winter impatient to arrive at the end of a Sunday morning, that announces, as a prophetic sibila, the rigors of an impatient winter to arrive at the foothills of the Cañón del Río Lobos, the Burgo de Osma.

In the distance, not far from the solitary Cross of the Century, as well as from a remodelled hermitage of La Magdalena, the ancient Caliphate fortress of Gormaz reigns on the top of a pyramid-shaped mountain, jealously guarding its ghosts among cobwebs, remains of nests and shadows, while the wind, which threatens to become unsavory Cierzo, groans pitifully because of the forgotten ruins of the ancient city of Uxama.

Under the arcade deserts of the square, the silences are rumors of ancient glories; silent memories of infinite deeds, consigned in manuscripts and files that sleep an eternal dream, wrapped in the grey dust of the diocesan archives and the champion charisma of the ancient coats of arms, which recall lords and lineages long ago buried.

The bells of the cathedral tower, in solidarity with the immaculate silence at such an early hour, despair impatiently to hear a crow of the rooster that does not arrive, while in the doors of some bar - the owner yawning and cold the cafeteria - still turns on, however faded by the intense rays of sunshine of a summer that has already gone down in history, a sign announcing the past festivals in honor of St. Roch, the mysterious saint of the roads, guardian and impenitent companion of golden archangels and Black Virgins.

Precisely to San Roque, they have dedicated a small and solitary hermitage to him, there, in the shore macerated of autumn in which the old Duero melancholic rocks to his step by the old Castromoros; or, what is the same, as it passes through the dean San Esteban de Gormaz, easy to reach for those who, usually or circumstantially, begin their route at the extreme opposite to that suggested by Taracena and Tudela, allowing themselves the luxury of wandering through Segovia lands that wake up every day wrapped in shreds of fog before arriving, and even after leaving behind places such as the monumental Ayllon.

Ghosts of Castilian spirits, who miss the din of battles and the agony of communal cries.

Even with the tower covered with scaffolding and ready to receive, gypsy moon face, the honors of a deserved makeup, the cathedral, no doubt, is the magnetic pole that monopolizes all eyes and is cuclea, proud, filled to receive all compliments.

It does not seem to be, however, which shows that there is no rule without exception, for some early tourists, who hardly pay attention to the many mysteries and riddles left by the stonemasons, over the centuries, based on sweat and artistic blow of escoplo.

Not at all detracts from the Puerta de San Miguel, where ox and lion -Marcos and Lucas- seem to combine strength and determination to alert the visitor to walk carefully, and once inside, remember that it is in a place that was already sacred even before the oak trees of the druids were replaced by the forests of columns of an expanding Gothic.

I recognize it, and I put it this way: my weakness, after all, is a few meters beyond, in that sensational Main Cover. In that little stony paradise where, even centuries later, a lover Solomon continues to sing to the Queen of Sheba:

• Let him kiss me with kisses from his mouth. Better are the wine your loves, softer the smell of your perfumes, your name as a fragrant balsam. . .
  

  

  
  And a rapt Queen of Sheba, tirelessly repeating to a deaf multitude:
  

  

• I am a Narcissus of the Sharon, a lily of the valleys. Like linen between thorns. . . (2).
  

  

  
  Perhaps the patina of time, not the patina of candles, has done some justice; or perhaps, after all, the stonemason wanted to give it a brown, but beautiful appearance, for even in his thought, the sun also tanned it. . . Understand whoever has ears.
  

  

  
  There is an eternal Don Juan, mocking and unpredictable, called Time. A last look at the main street, and the front of the Episcopal residence, where the stonemason exchanged the intertwined necks of the geese for an intertwining of dragon necks, and servant thinks with his feet, as soon as the first symptoms of snow-water begin to be guessed.
  

  

  
  The thermometer makes the dream also freeze. And thinking with my feet, or rather, applying the definition that Ambrose Bierce made of the coward in his Dictionary of the Devil (3), I bid farewell, once again, to El Burgo de Osma.
  

  

Notes, References and Bibliography:

(1) Blas Taracena and José Tudela: 'Guía de Soria y su provincia', EOSGRAF, S. A. , Madrid, third augmented edition, 1968, page 147.
(2) The Song of Songs, 1,2 and 2,1.
(3) Ambrose Bierce, 'The Devil's Dictionary', Ramdon House Mondadori, S. A. , 1st edition, October 2007, page 127.

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Ars vtinam more Animvm qve effingere. Posses pulchrior in ter. Ris nvlla tabella foret.

Arte Ojala pudieras representar. el carácter y el espíritu. No habría sobre la tierra. Imagen más bella

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