We hired a car in Seville, set the GPS to English, and quickly headed out of the city and along the main highway towards Utrera. It was Sunday afternoon, 17 January 2016, the sky cloudy.

I was playing with the movie camera, nerves quietly scrambled, watching groves of olive trees slip past, reminiscing about another time. And, reminiscing about what seems like another life, when I was a Carmelite of the Holy Face of Jesus – dressed in a long brown habit, face covered by a black veil – silenced, hidden, invisible. In the distance, Basilica spires suddenly speared an overcast sky. We were nearly there, nearly at Palmar de Troya.

We veered off the highway towards the village, and parked. The streets were quiet, except for a blaring radio, a lone dog, and a few workmen. Locals eyed us with suspicion as we wandered around, filming. It was a chance to speak a bit of Spanish and improve my accent.

A couple of hours later, after coffee and cake in a simple café where the owners was still cleaning after a late Saturday night’s revelry, we walked up the path to the Basilica compound.

The sun was breaking through, heightening colour and contrast. There was no-one in sight, just huge concrete walls, five metres high, quietly screaming fortress – not church. The walls looked impenetrable, un-scalable, with entry via heavy iron gates, always guarded, always closed and bolted – exactly as I remembered it from my time there, twenty-five years ago.

The walls had been extended at the rear of the compound to allow farm animals to graze. We tried to peer over the walls as the land undulated but, as soon as we got a little closer, guard dogs barked noisily, raising alarm, although no-one appeared. Rolls of barbed wire attached to the walls, in one section, indicated even more determination to intimidate anyone contemplating mischief.

Self-sufficiency, in the form of dozens of solar panels and a wind farm, suggest a new direction of sustainability for the Order of the Carmelites of the Holy Face of Jesus; at least, since our last visit in 2007.

The following afternoon, back at the hotel, Nicholas and I dressed correctly according to the Palmarian dress code, hoping to gain entry into the compound. Nicholas wore long trousers (jeans are forbidden), a long sleeved shirt buttoned at the neck, a woollen jumper and jacket, socks and shoes.

I wore a long skirt, well below the knee, with a long sleeved jumper and coat, buttoned at the neck – plus a wig and black lace mantilla. Since I am an ex-nun of the Palmarian Church, and left the Order in 1990 having taken final vows, I am excommunicated and, therefore, not welcome there; hence, a wig as disguise.

We left the hotel, caught a bus, arrived at the train station and hired a car – once again. Rush-hour traffic slowed our journey through the city centre as the winter’s sun was pulled over the horizon. We continued our journey in the dark, obeying GPS prompts, minds firmly focused on our mission. By the time we arrived at the Basilica of Palmar de Troya, it was 7:00 pm and pitch black. We parked at the front entrance and waited. A few vehicles came and went as we discussed our plan. Half an hour later, we knocked on the iron gates. A security guard opened the door, interrogated us and checked our clothing.

We stepped inside. Automatic lights switched on as we walked up the path bordered by Phoenix palm trees. The grand doors of the Basilica opened and three cardinals came outside and headed towards us. “Where are you from? Who are you?” The security guard had obviously phoned someone and three cardinals had been sent to check on us. The questions were spoken in Spanish by the Vicar General, and translated into English by one of the other cardinals. I turned away, fearing the close encounter, and sure recognition, as I pulled my mantilla over the side of my face.

“Why are you here? Who do you know? Where did you get the scapulars?” We explained that I had made them. “They are out-of-date but quite well made,” the English cardinal said, somewhat amused, as he asked permission to inspect them. Nicholas obliged, turning it over so the cardinal could look at the reverse. “Tell me! What are your names?” A little black book appeared. They wrote down our names which were fake. Then: “Take the scapulars off, right now. Only Palmarians are allowed to wear the Holy Face scapular. Take them off, now.” The Vicar General was annoyed. We obeyed. “You’re not allowed to receive the sacraments.” We tried to appease them. All the questions were directed at Nicholas. I was, after all, a mere woman and definitely second class, in their opinion.

“Are you filming?” More annoyance. “Yes.” “Stop filming. No cameras.” We obeyed. “Journalists write false things about us.” “Why is that?” Nicholas asked. “They don’t understand us.” Further discussion followed. “How many believers are there worldwide?” Nicholas asked. They wouldn’t answer that question. But they did say that they have brought everyone from Australia there, which suggested that there weren’t many Australian Palmarians. “Your group is very small, isn’t it?” Nicholas continued. Once again, they wouldn’t comment. However, their conversation indicated that they knew the name of every believer, worldwide, suggesting that the total number of believers is very small, indeed. Finally: “You may enter the church for Benediction and the procession, followed by the Stations of the Cross. The Stations are quite long, about one and a half hours. But you may enter and observe. That is alright.” “Thank you,” we said. “We are the true Church, you know.” And, with that, they turned and walked back to the Basilica.

As Nicholas and I gazed at the imposing walls around the compound, the iron gates opened to let a vehicle through. “Let’s get out of here,” Nicholas said. He didn’t like being locked in. He felt trapped. “If we can’t film, there’s no point in going into the Basilica.” I wasn’t keen to put my disguise to the test, once again, by trying to enter the Basilica. I’d been lucky – I hadn’t been recognised by the cardinals because they didn’t know me. They must have joined the Order sometime in the last twenty-five years, since my departure, but I couldn’t be sure my disguise would hold up, once inside.

So, with hearts beating wildly, we walked towards the open gates, each step a symbol of our rejection of the Palmarian Church, its fanatical religious leaders and rigid thinking, its excessive rules, its limited view of life and women.