I have no memory of Barcelona.

I do remember — vaguely — the boat to Majorca, at least dinner which was fish stew/soup. All I recall of that was the floating eye balls in the bowl. (I know I had a lovely visit on that tropical isle with my cousin and her family, understanding more of the Spanish I heard than I dared to attempt. Something from my high school years returned as a benefit.)

Earlier, walking through the streets of Barcelona, I passed an art store, feet drawn to an etching which came home with me, was framed in East Aurora and still hangs beside my bed. St. George.

I thought the art dealer told me in words I hardly understood that I was buying this on St. George’s Day. Could be.

I am not particularly “into” saints (though it hasn’t been that long since I wrote about Saint Nicholas). I certainly did know that St. George was associated with a dragon which was obvious in my picture. That’s what drew me to it: the total fatigue the artist conveys in not only the saint but his suffering horse as well. (The dragon had seen better days.)

Pen and ink only, the lines of the etching are far more intricate than I would have the time or patience to execute.

I’m told often I write very small. Honestly, as the eyesight of my friends (and me too) age, friends now grab a magnifying glass when they see a letter from me in the letterbox. (I’m looking for one now to be able to read my notes.)

The artist initialed his piece, that so ill-defined there is no way of knowing who did this — in my eyes — masterpiece.

But St. George? Well …

Most seem to agree he did live though little is known about him. He was believed to have been born in Cappadocia (now in Eastern Turkey) in 270 A.D. to Christian parents. When he was seventeen he joined the Roman army. News of his bravery quickly spread.

But once Diocletian became the Roman Emperor, he began persecuting Christians. George begged him to stop.

Instead, Diocletian turned on George, torturing him to denounce his faith. Faithful to the end, George was beheaded near Lydda in Palestine on April 23, 303. He died at the age of 33.

The dragon wasn’t connected to St. George until the twelfth century so its hard to know what’s fact, what’s fiction. For that reason there are many versions of the tale though most agree that a town was terrorized by a dragon who threatened the life of a young princess. Having already killed every other maiden in the village, dragon now had his eye on the king’s daughter. Knowing she was to be sacrificed in the morrow, king offered her in marriage to anyone who could slay that nasty beast.

Well, that’s the way the story should go (if it goes at all). Only my version places the dragon and his dirty deeds in Libya with the daughter being that of the king of Egypt. Sounds like rent-a victim to me.

When George (not yet a saint) heard this tale of distress, he knew he had to go fight the dragon. Sleeping overnight in a hermit’s hut, he first met the procession of attendants bringing the princess to the dragon. Not only beautiful, she was arrayed in pure Arabian silks. (Guess if you’ve gotta go, you might as well go good.)

Go home, George comforted the young woman (named Sabra in this version). Go, take your women and go back to the palace. Once he was sure they were headed safely home, George spurred his horse on and entered the valley where the dragon lived.

Roaring more mightily than thunder, the dragon burst from his cave. Oh, my! This beast had a huge head (undoubtedly to go with that roar) and a tail a good fifty feet long. (One would not wanted to be swatted by that.)

Drawing his spear, George raced at the monster striking it with all his strength. But the scales on the dragon’s body were so impervious that the spear shattered into thousands of pieces. The jolt knocked George off his horse.

Now the story takes an even grimmer turn for it turns out the dragon’s teeth were filled with venom. But good George managed to roll under a nearby magical orange tree which protected him from the poison.

Recovering quickly, he drew his sword. That obviously irritated the dragon who now poured his poison all over the young man causing his armour to split into two parts.

Back under the orange tree and then back again to the dragon, sword still in hand. This time George stabbed the dragon under his wing where its body was scaleless. Dragon fell dead and all rejoiced.

It took until 1222 for the Council of Oxford to declare April 23 as St. George’s Day. Later he replaced St. Edmund the Martyr as England’s patron saint. April 23 was named a national feast day in 1415.

Susan Crossett has lived in Arkwright for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.