Some people think that in this same place one day was located the templar bailiwick of Faro, which would give rise to this beautiful city that is La Coruña. Others, on the contrary, think that no, that in fact, this one was among the marshes located more to the interior. And of course, there are also many who do not even consider the presence of the warrior monks neither in this precise place nor in their surroundings and that the Templar establishments in Galicia were not as important as one might think a priori and as we like to speculate to the romantics.
Actually, it does not matter much the detail of whether, at the top of this lighthouse, according to legend, rises over the remains of King Breogán -disordered in protohistoric times by the accurate mace of the later Cristobalón that was Hercules- , there was in some nebulous moment of the twelfth century, templar sentinels watching a bleak horizon, whose morning haze often hid the arrival to the coast of those Viking eagles that with such interest and frequency ravaged the Galician coasts, even penetrating, Many kilometers inside.
Nor does it matter, if in the neighboring coves, far from the breakwaters where the waves melt in foam with supernatural impetus, originating these fantastic beings, which in the legends of the neighboring Asturian coasts called ventolines and foams, the ships of the Templar fleet were going and they came from the Norman ports, carrying important quantities of products destined to support the Templar army in the Holy Land, whose decline began in 1187 -the date, in fact, in which the enigmatic and nearby church of San Miguel was built. Breamo, whose summit dominates the Bay of Pontedeume- when in the burning sands of Hattin the cream of Christian cavalry was buried forever, the pride of the Lusignan, the True Cross and also that sinister Deus Vult, pronounced a hundred years before.
It matters, and that's what the pilgrim who is going or coming knows, to let himself be carried away by that mysterious influx of the Rose of the Winds and to listen, as in Fisterra, not to the sound of silence, as the vintage group Simon & Garfunkel would say, but yes the call of the unknowable: that siren song that, when we remain for a long time watching the waves come and go, suggest us the dangerous possibility of dreaming of other types of paths. Those that a great man, a great poet or a good man, as he also liked to define himself, once called ... Paths on the Sea.
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NOTICE: originally published in my blog MEMORIES OF A PILGRIM, although the photographs are unpublished in Steemit. Both the text, as the photographs, and the video (except music, reproduced under a YouTube license), are my exclusive intellectual property. The original entry can be found at the following address: https://jc347.blogspot.com.es/2016/07/la-torre-de-hercules.html