Chasing Castles

Life feels cleaner after a good rain. The dust has settled; the temperature has gone down. When I left Lupe's house in Córdoba on Saturday morning, the city was actually cool. (This is saying something, since it has the highest average summer temperature in Spain and Europe!)

The land changed as I drove the three hours north to Mérida. Mountains gave way to broad, flat plains. I saw a Roman tower behind a gas station.

In the middle of the plain, an enormous rock pile suddenly loomed up. To my utter delight, a castle perched precariously atop it. I did not realize just how precarious it seemed until I drove around it.

I found out later it was the Castillo de Belmez, built originally in 1245 and last used by the French when they were attempting to overrun Spain (Napoleon=idiot, remember?).

I thought about going to see it, but I had a lot I wanted to do and I needed to be in Sevilla to turn in the car that evening, so I kept going.

I've discovered that there are few things that make me happier than driving through unfamiliar territory without the fear of getting lost.

 I could thoroughly enjoy sailing along at 90km/hr. I began passing through fields upon fields of solar panels - small wonder! The sun was beating down and there were few, if any, clouds to be seen.

Once I passed the solar panel fields, I began to go past acres of sunflowers, all pointing toward the sun.

In Spanish, the sunflower is called a "girasol". "Girar" means to turn, and "sol" is, of course, the sun. They are sun-turners! It's an apt name.

Of course, I was stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle for most of this, but once I went around it, the sheer emptiness of road stretching out in front of me was simply glorious.

I was driving along happily when in the distance I saw another hill fortress, this time looking like a crown. I determined I was going to go find it.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw a small brown sign with an arrow pointing toward the castle, with "Roman theater" written on it. Naturally, I immediately turned off the main road onto a winding road toward the hill and the castle atop it. My GPS proceeded to have a panic attack.

The road led steadily toward the castle, winding up and up the mountain and right through the small whitewashed town of Reina.

It was a sleepy Saturday morning; the only stirring inhabitants of the town were three women. They looked at me curiously, but without much interest.


My quest for the castle ended rather ingloriously and abruptly. I simply could not find a way to go farther.

As I backed my car back down what turned out to be a sheep track and did a 3-point turn on the side of a mountain with a steep drop no more than a yard behind my back tires, I reflected that this whole situation probably counted against the promise I had made to a friend to "not do anything stupid" while in Spain.


After heading back through the still-sleepy town, I headed off to find the Roman Theater. This detour turned out much better.

A bored and sweaty security guy emerged from his air-conditioned trailer only just long enough to not answer my question of how much the theater cost to see and merely tell me it was "that way". He then immediately went back into the trailer. I therefore assumed that it was free.

The path to the theater was lined with fences to keep sheep in. It was an intensely hot day by this time - 11:45 in the morning! I felt like just lying down in the shade like this poor sheep.

A word about this Roman theater: it was completely deserted and remarkably intact. I could climb down the steps, stand on the stage, go "backstage", and explore as much as I liked. 

                     




There was a Roman town in the field nearby, and I could see plainly where the foundations of the buildings were. An informative sign told me in good Spanish and Google-translated English that the town had been mentioned by Pliny and Ptolemy; that the Emperor Vespasian had been involved in the planning of the city; and that centuries later the hill fortress had been made by the Moors, using Roman stone.








I only spent about half an hour at this fantastic spot, but it was absolutely worth it. It isn't every day that you get to have an entire Roman theater all to yourself. Well, as much as you can have it "all to yourself" when you're sharing the space with about a hundred sheep and one completely uninterested security guy.








To be continued...

120 km/hour

I don’t know whether it was stupid or dumb, but it was a good decision. I rented a car to travel from Madrid to Granada, Córdoba, Mérida, and Sevilla. I bought a GPS before I left home because it would be cheaper and smarter in the long run, but I would be driving solo, so it promised to be stressful.

I walked to the train station to get my car (remember how I said after London that you should always get the car at an airport? Yeah, I ignored my own advice. Don’t do that.).

And then I spent the better part of an hour making sure I knew how the car worked and what buttons to push and if I knew where my GPS charger was and why did I think it would be a good idea to not remember where that went?

But, after asking for help because the car wouldn’t start and finding out that I just wasn’t pushing the brake hard enough, I was good to go.

Did you know that Madrileños use their indicators? It’s easier to drive in Madrid, not knowing a thing about where you are, than to drive in Chicago. Of course, one of the first things my GPS said was, and I quote, “Turn right at rtrtrtrtrplmbsrtsmz”. Well, it was easier to just change it to Spanish after that.

I didn’t get lost. I missed one turn, thankfully in a part of the city that followed a grid pattern, but the GPS just kept right on “recalculando”, giving usted commands and using the present subjunctive. I now know usted commands very well.

I was out of Madrid’s city center before I could do anything other than pay attention to the GPS. 

Then, once I got the hang of highway driving in Spain, I looped my camera strap around my wrist and turned up a Spanish radio station that finished a Spanish song and then played the theme from “Salvando a soldado Ryan”. 

Cruise control set to 120 km/hr, camera on and snapping here and there, air conditioning up so high I was actually starting to feel something other than hot – it was great.

A couple hours later, I was cruising along a country road at 90 km/hr. And then! I saw my first ruined castle. It was high on a hill since obviously no one with sense puts their fortifications in a valley, even if it did ultimately work out for George Washington.

About half an hour later, I saw my first Don Quijote windmill. 

I stuck my CD of the El Cid soundtrack in the player and turned it up. There was a reason for this: I was going to the castle that was used for the fortress of Calahorra in the 1961 El Cid movie. (The fortress of Calahorra itself is distinctly less castle-y looking, and besides, it's historically inaccurate to say that Doña Urraca ruled Calahorra, but it was the 1960s and I don't think they were too worried about it.)

Castillo de Belmonte is located in Cuenca, Spain. It’s been around for ages and will be around for ages more, since it was restored in the last 50 years. I had the run of the castle, pretty much, from the dungeons (probably a cellar, but a girl can dream) to the battlements. Isn’t it great?

The entrance to the keep

Notice the lowered drawbridge.

Entering the castle

Layers of walls and battlements

A full armor chamber!

The passages were cool and echoing.

The servants' quarters.

Either creepy dungeons or a cellar.

The gate looking toward the walls.

What a view! From the highest battlements accessible to visitors, I could see for what felt like miles.

Leaving Belmonte Castle by a small, little-used road.

On the road again - this time for 3.5 hours. I was tired - five hours of sleep the night before, four the night before that, little to no sleep on the airplane, everything seven hours off. So I stopped mid-way and got myself a sandwich at a little gas station. The locals (by which I mean the check-out lady) were busy fanning themselves with receipts and complaining about how hot it was.

Having finished the El Cid soundtrack, I started listening to other, more Spanish, music. And Bolero. Since it’s 15 minutes long, it was long enough to get me through about 7 tunnels and 30 bazillion miles of innards-squeezingly high bridges.

The most stressful part of the day came in the evening when I was trying to find my Airbnb. My GPS still doesn't know where it is, and my directions were very unclear, so Yvalis and Andrés (the hosts) came out to show me where to go. I took a shower while they were at the pool because I was practically manufacturing gallons of sweat by that point. Afterwards, I tried to sit on my bed to put in the wifi (pronounced wee-fee) password, fell over, and woke up an hour later, when I removed my laptop from my lap and went to sleep for another hour.

In one day I had traveled over 500 km, from Madrid in the center of Spain, to a point less then 100 kilometers from Africa. The terrain had changed; the culture had, too. Arabic and Spanish now shared road signs. Buildings had taken on a distinctly Moorish look.

So much of Spain is history, whether violent or peaceful. So much of it spanned centuries, a man's life come and gone between major occurrences. I never quite feel history at home, but here it's part of the air. It's sobering and exciting all at once.

Hot

Hot, hot, hot. As far as I can recall, those were my first thoughts as I stepped through the airplane door and felt the air of Madrid, air-conditioned though it was, rise to meet me. It had been a long flight – 8 hours. I had reached the gate right at boarding time, though it was another twenty minutes before boarding began. Through some weird fluke of checking in, my seat had been moved to 44J, which was right above the wing. This proved providential as my seatmate didn’t arrive. I therefore had the row to myself in an otherwise crowded plane.

If you’ve taken a trans-Atlantic flight before, you know that for all you may plan to sleep on the plane, you rarely get your beauty sleep. This was one of those not-so-rare times. To begin, I had lost my neck pillow within three minutes of arriving at O’Hare. I must have dropped it, and of course airline employees are very good about removing anything that might possibly prove a potential threat. 

Across the aisle from me was a little Spanish family who looked like they had some gypsy blood to them. The little girl was tiny and busy, playing with her little toys and wanting to watch movies on either Mom’s or Dad’s entertainment system, but never her own. Her face was a miniature Spanish version of my Pastor’s littlest girl’s right down to the nose shape. She finally went to sleep in the final two or so hours of the flight.

In front of me was a sea of mainly blonde American students, who must have been going on a study abroad trip. They were fairly quiet, but did an astounding amount of texting as testified by the amount of flashing from their phones getting notifications.

Late

On Tuesday morning, we woke up to bright sunlight and a messy hotel room. Having got in late, we had pretty much fallen into bed, still aching from London, drained from our travels, and grateful to have a room for the night.


Joy still wouldn't say she wasn't mad at me for making her drive, though a restful night in a quiet country inn, surrounded by thatched roofs and chirping birds, seemed to lift her spirits.


We gathered up the laundry that had accumulated over the course of our trip, and my mom took £5 with her to do our laundry. Apparently, laundry is free. While she was doing the laundry, my mom told the owner a condensed version of something Joy had mentioned.


Joy said, referencing Pilgrim's Progress,


It doesn't matter what time you get to the Celestial City, or how long and hard the road is, or how much difficulty you had getting there. As long as you have a roll, a confirmed reservation, if you will, signed and sealed by Christ, the owner of the Celestial city, you will be welcomed and greeted. This reminded me of it.


It is true that we were not greeted by a detachment of angels, and that the comparison really did stop right there, but it was a great thought, nonetheless.


While our laundry was getting clean, we had breakfast - a welcome sight since we had had nothing to eat but apples and cheese sandwiches on Monday. The food was served in a low room supported by old oak beams.


We'd had a couple full English breakfasts by this point, but they were both in London. The addition of a teapot, milk, and sugar lumps, served in the country, made a wonderful meal even better.


After breakfast, I took off to take pictures around the area while waiting for the laundry to dry. Then we packed and checked out. I was sorry to leave. It was such a homey little cozy place.

We were still behind schedule, but we determined to do everything we could to get where we wanted to go. We still hadn't had our afternoon tea, but we figured we could do that somewhere between Anne Hathaway's cottage and the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool.


It took us a while to get to Anne Hathaway's cottage. It seemed that everything took longer, especially since we were still getting used to the fact that right was our left and left was our right. But the car no longer told us to take tea breaks, and people no longer honked at us, and traffic circles were no longer so much of a problem, and we didn't get turned around at all. (That last in itself was lovely.)





Anne Hathaway's Cottage was absolutely lovely. The grounds were delightful, and the house itself was beautiful and well-preserved. To be sure, Anne Hathaway did not live in any rooms but the kitchen and dining room (the rest were added later). This, however, did nothing to detract from the pure charm of a wattle-and-daub thatched cottage.




We set off toward Liverpool next, realizing that we would not, in fact, have time for tea this day. Traveling took longer than we anticipated - Joy was not exactly ready to fly through the countryside at a staggering 70 mph around curves on two-lane roads with no shoulders. So we arrived at the tunnel that ran under the Mersey River not long before the International Slavery Museum closed.


This was, incidentally, our only toll for the entire trip. Fun fact: at £1.70 both directions, we paid the same fare as a motorcycle with a sidecar or a three-wheeled vehicle.


Liverpool is an interesting old place, an odd mixture of history and trendiness. We stuck mainly by the Albert Docks, since we were there to see the International Slavery Museum, which had closed by that time.


It was still interesting to see all the ships in the docks, many of which were restored. One is used to teach the troubled youth of Liverpool a trade, as well as important characteristics such as respect, promptness, and initiative.



We left Liverpool behind, went back through the tunnel, and tried to get to the little place where I'd planned to have dinner. It's a darling little country pub, and I really wanted to get there.


But our directions were wrong. I don't know how, but we had to get lost in order to find it. I finally said, "Well, let's just go down this wrong turn and see where we end up." (Joy thought this a really bad idea, especially as it was getting dark, but she still went with it. This is how tired she was.)




And there it was: the Stamford Bridge Inn. I was looking forward to bangers and mash, or just a bit of nice, warm comfort food. This was not to be: it was Italian night at the English country pub.




We were greeted at the door by a charming and somewhat bashful centurion, who told us that we were welcome to stay but that it wouldn't be traditional English fare.

I hadn't realized until that moment how much I had wanted an evening like this. Never are the English more English than when they are pretending to be something else; finally I would get to see what that meant.

The fare was nothing like what Americans think is Italian. It was probably nothing like what Italians think is Italian, either.

What made the evening spectacular indeed was the music. Someone we had never heard of, Jon Christos, sang Italian songs, old love songs, and a wonderful rendition of "To Dream the Impossible Dream". We had not expected to find opera-quality talent in a small country pub. The patrons were encouraged to dance, but the only ones who did were two of the waitresses (both of whom were convinced it was the other who couldn't dance) and a very determined lady who danced by herself because her husband refused. Being the type of person who knocks paintings off walls just by standing up, I didn't try.

Jon Christos was apparently in town to perform with the Liverpool Philharmonic. How we managed to miss that small detail when planning our trip to the Stamford Bridge Inn I will never know, but at the time, we were only delighted that the evening had turned out so well, especially after our disappointment at Liverpool.

Since the Inn is not, in fact, an inn but a pub, we ventured forth into the dark once more to find our hotel for the night. It was a Day's Inn, thankfully not too far from the roadway, with three beds and an electric tea kettle. Having shared a bed with Joy since our trip began, I was glad to have my own again!