Tinkle-Tinkle-a-Bell-I-Am

Sometimes I use words that I don’t really understand. Recently, those words might have been health-related: "Just off for a PET-TAC scan," or "I’m glad to hear that your lymph nodes were OK." It wasn’t a health word that I eventually noticed, though; it was one related to churches.

Now I’m not a big church user. I usually go into them if they’re open and in some place I’m visiting, but I’ve no idea why. They all look pretty much of a muchness inside—nice enough if you like statues and gold leaf and lots and lots of stone. I have tens, maybe hundreds, of photos of the insides of churches and, unless the photo has a caption, I never know where they are.

This all started some while ago on a walk around Yecla in the Purísima church. Our guide pointed out a big red and yellow umbrella that she told us all basilicas have. I’ve noticed them since in various big churches and I’ve said, "Ooh, look, there’s one of those big red and yellow umbrellas to say that this place is a basilica." Apparently, it’s called an umbraculum, so "umbrella" is close enough. The original purpose was to provide shade for the Pope should he ever drop by and decide to go for a stroll. The umbrella is left sort of half-open in readiness. Next to the umbrella is a bell on a pole; that’s called a tintinnabulum. Could be a bit onomatopoeic, that: tinkle-tinkle-a-bell-I-am.

More recently, we met Maggie’s sister and brother-in-law in Alicante. They’d come on the Queen Victoria, which I thought was a pub, but it turned out to be a very big boat. Before we ate, we wandered around Alicante and visited the concatedral. Goodness knows how many times we’ve been there. "This is the concatedral," I said confidently. But when Barry, my brother-in-law, asked what that actually meant, I realised I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t even know the equivalent in English. I had to look it up: "co-cathedral", apparently. I’d never heard the term, yet I’d never hesitated to use the word concatedral.

Then, just before Christmas, a couple of pals invited us to eat cocido down in Elche. It was very tasty. Afterwards, we went into town for a carol concert in the Basilica of Santa María. There was the umbraculum again. It felt like a bit of a circular argument: I knew we were going to the basilica—that’s what it’s called—so it wasn’t really a surprise to see the symbols of one there.

Days later, we popped into Murcia. If you’re in the centre of Murcia, it’s a bit difficult to miss the cathedral. I think it’s an impressive building; I like that it’s a bit lopsided. It’s not symmetrical; it’s pretty massive and pretty weighty. That said, I have a pal who once took some of his visitors to Murcia and couldn’t find the cathedral despite its immensity.

At times I realise that my thought processes are slowing down. Barry asking about the concatedral was typical of the genre. Then, at the carol concert, I realised I didn’t actually know what a basilica was either. I wondered, vaguely, if it had something to do with fighting. To clear things up, I asked Gemini or ChatGPT or Perplexity and, whichever one I used, it knew and it hadn't forgotten.

We’re just talking Roman Catholics here. The heavyweight in any diocese is the cathedral. A diocese usually covers a specific territory led by a bishop and contains dozens of individual parishes run by priests who report back to him. When a diocese is very big or historically important, it’s called an archdiocese, led by an archbishop. Essentially, a cathedral is the mother church because it is the official HQ of the bishop. Normally, cathedrals are big and in important cities. That's not always the case though; the Catedral de San Vicente Mártir de Roda de Isábena is in a village with just 40 inhabitants. Meanwhile, the diocese of Ciudad Rodrigo, where I lived for a while, is probably one of the smallest in Spain, with just 33,000 people within its borders.

Sometimes, however, history gets complicated. Perhaps two ancient church regions were merged into one, or a second city became so significant that it felt a bit slighted by not having its own bishop’s seat. This is where the co-cathedral, or concatedral, comes in. It is a church granted the same rank and dignity as the main cathedral. Both are official, and both carry the same prestige, ensuring that neither city feels like a second-class citizen in the eyes of the Church. Pinoso, for instance belongs to the diocese of Orihuela-Alicante and the bishop of said dioceses is José Ignacio Munilla who is well known for his "conservatism".

Then we have the basilica, which is an entirely different kettle of fish. Its title has nothing to do with bishops or diocesan boundaries; it is a title of honour granted directly by the Pope to a church that is exceptionally beautiful, historically significant or a major site of pilgrimage. While every cathedral is a big deal locally, a basilica has a direct line to Rome. This is why you’ll see those red and yellow brollies and the ceremonial bells tucked away near the altar. They are symbols of the Pope’s authority, signalling that, were the top man (at least in the worldly sense) to drop by for a visit, this is where he would feel right at home. A church can be both a cathedral and a basilica, but plenty of basilicas are just very special parish churches that earned a gold star from the Vatican.