It seems to be a day for deacons. I’m listening to Choral Evensong from St Lawrence, York, and this morning the Daily Prayer app told me that today is Vincent of Saragossa, Deacon, first Martyr of Spain, 304 [Commemoration]. Wikipedia tells me that this martyrdom took place under Diocletian, and notes that according to tradition it involved roasting on a gridiron, a detail which may have been carried over from the hagiography of St Lawrence. As if it were contagious, at least among deacons.
Up until I looked at Wikipedia an hour ago, everything I knew about St Vincent came from this series of tiles – which, since my Spanish is not great and apparently in 2007 my photography skills were worse, wasn’t much. They were displayed – probably still are – in the parish rooms of the church of Santiago in Logroño, to which I and my friend Anne, and another pilgrim, Ursula, were invited by the priest after mass on Palm Sunday. He gave us the run of the place, encouraging us to help ourselves to pizzas and packet soup from the kitchen. It was a kindness that we appreciated very much on a trying day.
And so, eighteen years on (good grief), the name of St Vincent, San Vicente, carries for me an association of hot, salty soup, and olive branches, and warming up on a grey, chilly day, and hospitality gratefully received. It’s been pleasant to think of it today – a day that’s been distinctly cold, and actively misty, a day on which I’ve been glad to be at home, cooking omelettes with potato and red pepper and smelly cheese.
Kathleen Jowitt 