The first time Dan and Shelly went to view the Black Madonna, they were put off by the queue that tailed out the basilica, across the tiled courtyard and down the stone-hewn steps. Despite Europe’s financial woes, which were all over the news, it was as if half the world had come to Spain that May. 

‘To hell with lining up to see a lousy statue.’ Dan had light-blue, hooded eyes and a pale, oval face, and looked like someone you might see in a Vermeer painting. ‘I should have guessed,’ he shrugged. ‘The statue has its own Wikipedia page. It’s meant to bring good luck, especially to newlyweds. Or the Christian version of good luck, which is what, abundant blessings? A holy virgin force-field?’