My Book

The Last “Spanish Secret”

CHRIS WRIGHT

ISBN-10: 1481837826

ISBN-13: 978-1481837828

For Samantha Eva

From a distance the world looks blue and green.

and the snowcapped mountains white.

From a distance the ocean meets the stream

and the eagle takes to flight.

From a distance, there is harmony,

and it echoes through the land.
It's the voice of hope, it's the voice of peace,
it's the voice of every man
- from the lyrics for 'From A Distance' (Bette Midler)

Don’t walk behind me I may not lead,

Don’t walk in front of me I may not follow,

Just walk beside me and be my friend.

-Albert Camus

Before I leave you please let me see what is

on the other side of that mountain over there.

-The Author

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

1 Introduction -------------------------------------------------------------------------------1 - 5

2 South of the Pyrenees -----------------------------------------------------------------6 - 12

3 In the name of the King of Spain --------------------------------------------------13 - 21

4 The Amazing Shepherd and the Virgin -------------------------------------------22 - 28

5 The Bishop’s Castle, Dinosaurs and true Love ----------------------------------29 -57

6 A plate of Ham and Eggs with “Uncle John” and the Wolves ---------------58 - 68

7 Pathfinders to the Labyrinth of Silence -----------------------------------------75 - 82

8 Elephants, a Spanish rebel General and a game of golf in England ---------83-86

9 Reams of paper, textiles and no trout at the “Trout Hotel” ------------------87 - 95

10 Mirambel, Tronchón, and Don Quixote´s favourite cheese ----------------96 - 115

11 Notes from the Maestrazgo ----------------------------------------------------116 - 124

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Sincere thanks go to Lorna Ainsworth, Robert Shrosbree and Josie Hyslop for all their help Thanks also go to Trini Reyes who kindly assisted with research and translations. Doctora Amparo Martí, for maintaining an interest in my physical being and encouraging me. Special thanks are also required for the wonderful people of the tourist offices and town halls in the ‘Maestrazgo’ and surrounding areas. People such as Sylvia Ferrer of, Mirambel, Bea of the Sanctuary of the ‘Virgen de la Balma’, Marie Jose of Alcala de la Selva, Olivia of Castellote, Cristina Mallen of Cantavieja. And certainly not forgetting, Alfredo, Antonio Benedict and Yolanda Sevilla of Linares de Mora, Domingo of Castelvispal and Pedro of the ‘Centro Aragones’, Valencia. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

introduction

Pany, the Greek had made it to the summit just minutes before I came staggering up the last breathless steps. Not that there was anything special about the achievement. I mean, if there were any professional mountain walkers around, I am sure they could have done it in a lot less time. However, to my way of thinking, we had done alright anyway. Just a steady, rather erratic, upward motion that had taken us well away from any of the criss-crossing goat tracks much further down and brought us to where we were.

From there we could look back down on the distant coastline and see the great lump of Montgó Mountain near Javea together with a comfortable turquoise slab of Mediterranean in the background. I turned and looked towards the North West. A confusion of sharp peaks, that seemed to go on forever, met my eyes with the middle ground a dark blue colour and on and on in varying shades to a smudgy, smoky haze way into the distance.

“I didn’t know it was so mountainous inland between Valencia and Alicante,” I said to no one in particular.

“Well, you do now,” said the Greek, coming up to my side and at the same time deftly removing the leather wine bottle from his belt. Unscrewing the top, he threw back his head, poised the wineskin at arm’s length, then, opening his mouth, he squirted in a long stream of heavy black wine.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he continued, “If you look more to the south, there is the Aitana Mountain, the highest in the area. You cannot see it from here but there’s a television mast on the top. They even named some television channel after it.”

I stared in that direction but could see very little as there appeared to some ominous dark clouds building up over there.

“Anyway, if you want to see some mountains, not too far from Valencia,” he said, “you should go up to Teruel in the Aragon region. If I remember rightly, the area is called the ‘Maestra’ something or other. Plenty of mountains, rivers and wild country up there.”

Then, thrusting into my hand, the well worn leather goatskin wineskin, he said, “Here, try this.”

Emulating his actions, I raised my arm and opened my mouth. Of course, a good squeeze resulted in a wet face as well as a good mouthful.

“Wow! That is strong,” I choked.

“Pedro Jimenez,” he nodded, somehow satisfied at my reaction. “The best medicine for this sort of activity. Now let’s eat!”

Making ourselves comfortable on the short springy moss and using a large rock as an

improvised table, we delved into our knapsacks and set out the goodies. In no time we were munching away on a crisp bar of bread into which we pushed red ‘Chorizo’ sausage, ‘Jamon’ from Teruel and a sharp, palatable cheese from Don Quixote country, ‘La Mancha’ .

After we had satisfied our appetites and disposed of a fair amount of ‘Mr. Jimenez’s’ contribution, it came naturally, that we lay down, with what was left of the afternoon’s warm sun on our faces, for a mutually agreed, short ‘Siesta’. Well, that’s what it was intended to be.

I awoke much later and was not just cold but freezing, and at the same time wondering where the hell I was. The slight movement of just sitting up set bells ringing in my head and it seemed as though the mountain tilted a little. I waited until things adjusted themselves and looked about me. The sun had given up and slipped away below the mountains behind us leaving dark, sinister clouds in its place. The Greek was still lying there with his windcheater draped over him and snoring gently.

Leaning over, I dug him in the ribs.

“Wake up. It’s late and getting dark, thanks to your friend ‘Pedro’”.

He groaned, rolled over, and eventually sat up.

“Looks like rain,” I said, pointing up at the darkening sky overhead.

“Better make a move then.” He made to stand up and clasped his hand to his forehead.

“What’s the matter, Pany? Want some more wine?”

“Very funny, my English friend,” he returned, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

We both jumped up and down and ran around in circles for some minutes attempting to instill some semblance of warmth into our bodies.

And it was at that moment the first drops of rain began to fall. It was the onset of heavy solid mountain rain and, as if to confirm my thoughts, there was a flash of lightening from way over towards the Aitana Mountain. A minute later the thunder rolled over us.

“Let’s get moving,” I said pulling on my windcheater and fixing my haversack on my back. “I, for one, don’t want to be stuck out on a bloody mountain tonight in all this.”

Easier said than done.

Not having stayed on any particular track, we had to wind our way down between slabs of grey rock; some small and some the size of houses. It was becoming very dark and the storm was building up rapidly, with the time between the lightning flashes and the thunder becoming shorter by the minute. We were slithering downwards with very little idea of what might lie ahead. The rain drops were now pelting down and hitting the surrounding rocks with such force that they produced a fine spray which, when lit by the lightening, gave the whole scene a surrealistic impression.

Pany was below me and I shouted out to him to stop. He did, and when I caught up with him I could see by a particularly bright flash of lightening that his normally smiling features had taken on a more serious expression. “What’s up, Chris?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing, Pany,” I shouted. “This is just marvellous, wandering around here in the bloody dark, not knowing where we are or what just one step ahead of us is. This has got to be crazy.”

“OK. What do you suggest?”

“Well, I personally think we should find a bit of shelter and just lie up and at least wait until this lot passes.”

He nodded, “Fine by me.”

So, eventually, after scrambling around, we did succeed in coming across a reasonably large rock with a fair sized niche that could accommodate both of us. There, with our heads well buried inside our hoods, we tried to settle down and wait for the miserable night. Occasionally, the goatskin was handed back and forth between us in silence whilst we disposed of the remains of what was certainly a contributing factor to our situation. The hours dragged on and I managed to doze a little. Occasionally, I glanced across at Pany who seemed to be quite happily sleeping. Not even the vicious claps of thunder seemed to disturb him. “Bloody Greek!” I thought. “He’s used to all this.”

Dawn came slowly as the storm eventually moved away towards the North West. Little by little I could make out our surroundings. We had no idea where we were, so it was just a matter of moving on down with the thought we must arrive somewhere, sometime. It was Pany, as always just that bit ahead of me, who called out that we had come across a definite footpath.

“Good news,” I thought, but I was still too wet to feel elated.

Then coming to a bend in the track, I suddenly spotted an orange light ahead and as we drew nearer I could make out the small neon sign that read ‘Bar’. Suddenly we were both laughing and pounding each other on the back in true Latin style.

“There you are,” shouted Pany. “We did die back up there and here is the gate to heaven!”

Once through that door and into a rather shabby little bar, which also served as a small store, we were greeted with the sight of a magnificent old fashioned, wood burning stove blasting out welcoming heat. It really did feel like heaven. The surprised expression on the face of the rather morose looking man behind the small counter left us in no doubt that he was thinking that here were a couple of foreign idiots dropping in from out of nowhere. However, giving him his due, he did manage a rather thin, “Buenos dias.”

Pany took control.

“Two large classes of your best brandy, por favor.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man, “but we only have this one.” He pointed to the bottle on the shelf with the yellow label and the gold netting around it. “Terry,” he said.

Now ‘Terry’ Spanish brandy is in the lower range of drinks. Although on the sweet side it does have that rather harsh bite to it when it hits your stomach. But, what the hell, we certainly were not going to argue.

“Then two large ‘Terry’”, said Pany.

Whilst the morose man sorted out two glasses and began filling them we stripped off our wet outer clothing and draped them near to the stove where immediately it began steaming. Next, after placing two chairs also near to the stove, I went over to the bar and collected the two, almost tumbler sized glasses, returned and sat down, handing one to the Greek.

“Yimas,” said Pany, raising his glass. “Cheers,” I replied, as we clinked glasses.

It was some minutes of silence that two good friends could pass without feeling the need for conversation. The brandy began its healing process and I felt an inner glow spreading throughout my whole body, right to the top of my head and down to the tips of my toes. This was followed by a delicious sensation of well being, which I had not experienced for a long time. I just sat there happily listening to the crackling, creaks and thumps of the old stove and dozed. Eventually I roused myself and leaning over to Pany asked, “What was the name of that area near Teruel with all the mountains you mentioned?”

He stretched out his legs towards the stove and laughed. “Must be the brandy, Chris” he said, “I remember now. It’s called the ‘Maestrazgo’ and before you ask, it is pronounced ‘My-strath-go.”

I sat back and thought to myself, “`Maestrathgo´. Just saying it conjured up something magical. “‘Maestrazgo’,” I repeated again. “That is definitely going on my list of places to visit,” I thought, letting it slip to the back of my drowsy mind. And ‘Terry’ brandy has got to be without a doubt the best brandy in the world.

However what I was certainly unaware of, at that particular moment, was how much the area was going to influence my later life, not only in the writing of this book but also being nominated for an award that, to my knowledge, only one Englishman (Gerald Brennan) has ever received; that of ‘Hijo Predilecto’ or the village’s ‘Favourite Son.’ Similar to being given the ‘Freedom of the City’ in Great Britain.

The writing of this book has been relatively easy, as it is nearly always easy to write about places and people that you respect and love. As a long-established admirer of nature and of the countryside, I learned from very early on in my early years that mountains in general demand a great deal of respect. There is no coming to terms with them, no meeting halfway. They have been there thousands of years and there is no way that they are going to change. However, what is possible is that where man is involved and can show respect and understanding, the two can become very close friends.

The Scottish born naturalist and poet, John Muir said, “The mountains are calling I must go.” John Masefield whose classic poem, ‘Sea Fever’ wrote, “I must go down to the sea again etc.”

I understand completely the feelings of Muir and Masefield. They had both formed a physical and irresistible relationship with these two formidable examples of nature at her best just as surely as two lovers might be attracted each to the other; something deep, and at times unfathomable, but always compelling. Thankfully, I too possess some of this feeling in knowing when ‘I too must go.’ In fact the following friends to whom I am indebted for assisting in the writing of The Last Spanish Secret, have heard me say, on many occasions, “I must go to the mountains again.” The urge is practically impossible to ignore.

south of the pyrenees

I had been concentrating on the narrow potholed road which seemed blessed with more curves than your average American movie star, and had not noticed how quickly the night was closing in. The windscreen was liberally splattered with the remains of a great variety of suicidal insects that must have been raised on a diet of glue as the windscreen washers on the MGB did nothing but smear their remains in a revengeful pattern, just to the level of my eyesight, of course.

We had crossed the frontier into Spain some hours before at Formigal, the ski resort, in the high Pyrenees’ Mountains, and apart from a short coffee break in Zaragoza, whilst sitting in the shadow of the multi spired cathedral, we had not stopped. Even this brief rest was in order to decide whether or not we took the main highway straight to Teruel, then on south to Valencia, or the suspicious wiggly line on the now creased map that promised something different.

“What do you think, Partner?” I asked Graham, who was stirring his coffee enthusiastically, at the same time peering at the map.

“It’s all the same to me, Chris. That main road looks pretty straight forward. However this other way could be, well let’s say, interesting.”

I nodded and so it was decided. Producing a pen, I plucked a paper serviette from the box on the table and wrote down Hijar, Alcañiz, Morella and Vinarós. This I passed to Graham who after glancing at it thrust it into his jacket pocket.

“Those are the places we pass through?”

“Yep. That’s right.”

“Well driver, better make sure you turn right in Vinarós,” he said, adjusting his cap to a rakish angle and standing up.

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t we will be up to our necks in the Mediterranean.”

It was already late afternoon when we drove away from that comfortable capital of Aragon which stood steadfastly on the banks of the Ebro, Spain’s largest river. Then some forty minutes and a hundred kilometers later the town of Alcañiz came and went leaving little impression apart from what was either a restaurant or discothèque that was happily announcing its name in neon lights, ‘Arse’. “Trust you to find your way into the backside of nowhere,” was Graham’s only comment as we enjoyed a laugh.

A little while after, I had switched on the headlights and peered through the windscreen noting that there was not even some sort of painted line to indicate where the centre of the road was. However, what did appear every now and again were series of red and white poles which did show us where the road ran should we run into a blizzard and a meter or so of snow. The possibility of that happening was not at all distant, as the temperature seemed to be in freefall.

“Want to pull, up clean the windscreen and put the hood up?” Graham shouted over the wind.

“No”, I yelled back. “A bit of fresh air won’t hurt us. I’ll put the heater on. Anyway we will find somewhere to stop soon. There must be somewhere in Morella. It comes up on the sign post every now and then.”

One small cluster of houses gathered around a church and a brightly lit petrol station like a small island in a sea of darkness, carried the name of ‘Monroyo’ – 1200 metres. Later we breasted yet another hill and then began a steep descent into what seemed an inky black abyss. There was no moon. Glancing over to the right, etched against the brightening stars, there loomed what I took to be a mountain. “Look,” Graham’s voice in my ear. “There’s the turn off to Morella coming up.”

I applied the brakes and the little car responded, swinging to the right we found ourselves on a road that seemed devoid of any type of surface, just dirt and pebbles. Then, as I slipped into a lower gear, the sound of the engine changed to a growl of protest as we began to climb. It was becoming colder and the car’s heater seemed to be making little difference.

“I hope whatever’s up here has got a warm bed,” said Graham pulling up his coat collar around his ears.

“Got to be something,” I replied, feeling the little twinge that usually precedes imminent problems.

Five minutes further on I could see we were motoring alongside a huge wall to the left and a glance to the right saw a series of those large concrete blocks that usually denoted that beyond that there was nothing that a few hundred feet fall wouldn’t rectify.

“A light up ahead!” called Graham.

He was right. It was some sort of very pale dissipated off-white light that seemed to be suspended, almost ghost-like, in midair. I slowed down and as we approached I could then see that it was attached to a huge stone archway. We drove slowly through, as the car’s headlights then focused on to a rather battered sign that looked as though someone had been using it for target practice. It read ‘Centro Ciudad’. I swung the wheel fully and nosed the car in that direction, at the same time wondering what kind of city centre was coming up. The road became even narrower and the MGB’s exhaust seemed to echo back at us accusingly for disturbing the peace. Either sides of us were tall concrete columns every few metres and above these rested overhanging buildings rather like the Tudor style in the UK. And there was not a soul to be seen absolutely no one; not even the odd stray cat.

“Perhaps everybody’s gone to the moon,” I called over to Graham. He didn’t answer, just pointed ahead and said, “Another light.”

I slowed to a crawl and as we passed the huge church-like building my friend said enthusiastically, “Look! Down those steps. There’s a door and an “H” on a wall plaque.”

“That’s got be the place,” I said, at least happy that we had found some signs of life. “Let’s find somewhere to park the Bee.”

Now that part was going to be easy. A few meters further on was a small open area and as there was not another car in sight we just stopped, cut the engine and climbed out. It was now even colder and the icy wind plucked threateningly at our clothes.

I shivered. “Better put the hood on the car. It’s cold enough to bloody well snow.”

This completed, and clutching our overnight bags, we walked back to where we had seen the steps and cautiously negotiated them to the entrance of the hotel. “Cardinal Ram,” said Graham reading another sign fixed to the wall, “Do you think he’s at home?”

“He bloody well had better be. I’m freezing to death,” I returned.

The door swung open; in we went to find that the surroundings were not unlike a church. Solid grey stone arches, more steps and a rather splendid staircase to one side. Directly in front of us was a sort of small dark oak reception desk that looked as though it had been hurriedly knocked together at one time. It seemed to me rather out of place. There was no one around. On the desk was a bell, not the normal type of bell that you slap with the palm of your hand. No this one was the hand held type that you shook. I rather like shaking bells and grabbed it and swung it enthusiastically. It jingled away and Graham leaned over and said in my ear, "You rang, Sir?"

A door slammed somewhere within the building and there was a sound of hurrying footsteps on the uncarpeted flagstones. He was a tall gaunt grey haired figure of a man with a set of bushy eyebrows that would do justice to any hanging judge, and was rather in keeping with what I had anticipated. However he then went and spoiled the effect by saying “Buenos noches,” in a rather high pitched voice which I had not expected.

“Good evening,” I said. “Have you a room for us?”

“Of course,” he responded in fair English. “Your documentation, please.”

We handed over our passports and he began filling in the forms stopping once and glancing up at us as if making sure we were still there. “I apologise, the girl on the desk, it is her free night tonight.” We nodded and each signed where he indicated.

Then turning, he selected a rather small key attached to a chunk of wood from the only shelf behind him. A quick estimation on my part concluded that this key ring would keep a stove burning at least for a couple of hours.

“Please come,” he said handing back our passports..

We were following him up the splendid staircase when he suddenly stopped and turned. “I sorry,” he explained. “It is the free night for the boy who carries the bags.” We dutifully nodded and he turned and set off again.

I was actually prepared for the room with twin beds. Totally devoid of any decoration, it was as bare as old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard and the word that came to mind was monastic. However, little did that matter as the beds looked serviceable and inviting. Along one far wall was an ancient looking radiator which probably offered warmth to everyone, apart from those in the beds. Our grey companion stared at it for a moment then decisively walked over and delivered the thing an unexpected kick. “Working now,” he explained and a deep clanking, gurgling sound came from within its depths as if to confirm his confidence.

“Cardinal Ram’s room?” I offered, staring about me.

“Yes, it is possible,” he said with a little giggle. Then, “Will you be dining?”

We both nodded.

“I will see you in the dining room in twenty minutes.” Then as he made for the door, he suddenly hesitated and turned, “I sorry but the meal is limited.”

“The cook’s free night,” I suggested.

He stared at me thoughtfully. “How you know?”

I grinned rather sheepishly, “Didn’t know really, just thought that somehow it might be.”

The door closed behind him and immediately Graham’s architectural mode came into being. While I was unpacking and wondering about the hot water situation for a shower he began pacing the room and examining the high ceiling with interest.

“Just look at the thickness of those walls, Chris,” he said, pointing to the window bay, “At least three feet thick. Amazing.”

I nodded, left him to it and headed towards the bathroom. There I was happy to find that the water was, indeed, warm enough for a shower.

The meal was nothing to write home about and neither of us was surprised to see that we were the only guests that night. What really made up for the semi cooked tasteless fish, together with the steak ‘á la shoe leather’, was the wine. A thick soup like brew that had found its way from the Carineña region some two hundred kilometers distance. “This is as good as it’s going to get,” I said ordering another bottle and thinking about the waiting bed at the top of the grand staircase.

As the room faced east and there were no curtains, we were treated to waking up to the sun’s rays filtering through and alighting on, of all things, the ancient radiator that had entertained us occasionally through the night with some rather weird noises. Slipping out of bed I tried to ignore the cold flagstone floor and went over to peer out of the window. The view from where we were must have been from a height of around one thousand meters. It was breathtaking. Miles and miles of olive and almond trees perched on terraces all along the hillsides, supported by an incredible amount of dry stone walls. These stone walls weaved and snaked across the countryside like enormous reptiles.

“Must have taken years to build those,” I commented as Graham joined me.

“Must have,” he agreed. “I wonder where all the stone came from. It had to have come from somewhere? You can’t find a quantity like that just lying around.”

The breakfast room windows provided us with a further wonderful panoramic view while we battled with the hard bread rolls, toast and some sort of jam all served by our grey friend. However I remember that the coffee was our saving grace. It was hot, strong and just right for the troops to face the last leg of the journey to the coast.

We presented ourselves at the reception desk and after some major laborious writing by our friend we were passed a bill for around five pounds sterling for everything. Such was my joy at this almost paltry sum that I proffered a fairly large tip. In all my life I have never quite witnessed such a change in anyone’s manner.

“Sir!” he exploded, “You have paid quite enough, thank you!”

With this he thrust the coins back across the desk towards me and I automatically took a step back in the hope that a metaphorical hole would open behind me in order to swallow me, red face and all.

Outside there was a bite in the air but it was wonderfully fresh. The ghosts of the previous night had been laid to rest and people were going about their business. The cafes were all open and in the still mountain air we could see and hear the coffee machines like gilded altars hissing happily away as though calling the faithful to their first coffee of the day. It was all very normal and I resisted the urge to ask someone where they had been the night before, as we made our way back to the car. Both of us, being well rested, felt on top of the world, which, when we peered over a parapet at the valley below near where we had park the car, seemed very possible.

“Fancy a scout around before we head off?” I asked, Graham.

“Not a bad idea. But I don’t fancy that climb up to the castle from here. What say we take the car?”

“Fine by me,” I replied.

After bundling our bags into the boot and dismantling the hood we climbed into the Bee and set off the short pull up to the castle. It wasn’t so much the distance but it was quite a steep incline and I could see from where we were parked that if we had decided to walk up to the castle it would have taken some time.

“That looks interesting,” said Graham, nodding to an old half timbered building to our right that had a sign outside with the words, ‘Hostal Elias’. I glanced at the place as we drove by, it did indeed look interesting. In fact it was to prove even more interesting within a few years.

“Perhaps it’s a relation of Cardinal Ram,” I offered.

Graham laughed. “Don’t tell me our friend runs this place as well in his spare time!”

We passed the church and a little further on parked outside what was, according to a small plaque, the ex-convent of Saint Francis. To the right of this there was what appeared to be some kind of shop. I wandered over to it and tried the door. It was locked. Peering through the small grimy windows I could see into what was obviously some sort of workshop. There was a counter together with a display of colourful scarves, sweaters and jackets. However what caught my attention was that the whole place was dominated by an enormous weaving loom. It had shuttles; bobbins and whatever hand controlled weaving looms have, including some sort of half finished bed or floor covering all in a great variety of colours. Graham joined me and together we stared at the machine.

“Love to see it in action,” he said.

Climbing the steps of the old convent we discovered at the top an open door to the left which seemed to lead through the cloisters and a possible path that leading up to the castle, or what was left of it. The gothic style cloisters would have been a very pleasant place to be on a warm summer’s day but at that moment it was a mess, with weeds and dead roses spread around everywhere, all mixed up it generated a definite air of sad decay. There was no one in sight. I looked at Graham and he shrugged his shoulders which I took to mean a confirmation and so on we went.

It was a strenuous climb but with the sun on our backs and being well rested with the assistance of the Carineña potion from the night before we were soon at the top. “Look at that over there,” said Graham pointing ahead. There on the very summit was, of all things, a well; just an ordinary well, one of those things that you toss a pebble in and listen for it to hit the water or make a wish. If it had not been for the breathtaking scenery lying all around us I would have been happily tossing pebbles all morning, but not right at that moment. It is no wonder that Morella was described as a strategic mediaeval fortress town, from where we were perched on this inland island we had a clear view for miles around. It was as if some geologically deranged giant had, way back in time, flung a huge rock into the very centre of this immense salad bowl of a valley and said to history, “Alright get on with it!” All around below us lay terrace upon terrace each with their own small crops of almond or olive trees set on carpets of red clay earth with small patches of green announcing the coming of summer. The almond blossoms were in bloom and from our position it was not difficult to imagine the perfume from amongst the trees. We could also plainly see the ribbon of a main road by which we had arrived the night before and the climb we would have to make on the far side of the valley as drove south. Some photographs and a couple of pebbles into the well and we made our way down again.

Driving out through the impressive archway of the ‘Torres de San Miguel’ we drew stares from the locals some of whom responded to Graham waving a farewell. A few minutes later we turned south onto the main road and once again were on our way. I knew at that moment that I would be returning to Morella in the not too distant future. What I did not know was that on one of these visits I would be ‘exasperated’ in the name of King Juan Carlos of Spain.

in the name of the king of spain

This first overnight stay in Morella took place at the beginning of the seventies and on consequent visits, after I was firmly established in Valencia some two hundred kilometers south, I watched how the town changed from being a forgotten, almost recluse, place into what the guide books have named the ‘Maestrazgo Capital’. By the way the name Maestrazgo (pronounced My-strath-go) derives from the word ‘Maestro’ and refers to a region being under the jurisdiction of a Grand Master, normally of a military form. The Knights Templar’s, who were in evidence for two hundred years in Spain and most of Europe, were one such rulers. It is said that they owned over nine thousand manor houses and castles in Europe, all of which were taxed. So it comes as no surprise that are said to be the founders of international banking. Also they were and still are, I believe, affiliated to the Masonic movement. One further interesting point is that they are responsible for the superstition of bad luck related to Friday 13th. This came about, so it is said, that the last Grand Master of the Templers, Jaques de Molay, was arrested on that particular day. So for that one reason I, personally, cannot see why everybody else should have to suffer.

The ‘Carlists’ and their war of succession also played their part in the dramatic formation of this desolate region; but we will come to that later on. Morella is now a thriving tourist centre and receives visitors from all parts of the world and seems to be doing better than most in the region. One point in the town’s favour that helps it to retain its charm is the limited amount of space available. This has resulted in a tasteful kind of tourism, as with this restricted space there is no room for the larger stores and fast food establishments that one comes across in other such places. In fact many of the shops are not much larger than your average size two car garage.

Morella concentrates mainly on artisan products for the tourists that include a wide variety of textile products together with lots of goodies like cured hams, savory sausages, delicious cheeses, truffles and yummy sweet pastries and such.

Talking of food, and I love this pastime, it is interesting to learn that in this territory the cookery tendencies lean towards a kitchen worthy of a northern climate rather than that of the typical Mediterranean coastal weather. Maestrazgo farmers have cultivated over the years animals and vegetables that are compatible with both the region and climate.

Spain in general has a greater variety of plants than any other European country and it is interesting to note that with such an abundance of rosemary, thyme and sage lying around, that over the years the flavour has actually impregnated into the lamb, pork, beef and other species in the area, ensuring the products of a distinctive flavour. This fact stirred my imagination into thinking that if these farmers had managed to introduce a wild variety of onion together with six legged chickens the Kentucky Fried Chicken Company would never have seen the light of day. They would have made so much money that it would have been possible to change the name from Maestrazgo to something much more pronounceable and include in their publicity ‘Home Of The World’s Fastest Free Range Chicken Race’. “Unfortunately,” as one farmer commented, “with what has been going on round here over the last hundred or so years the key words were ‘fight to survive’ and nobody had time to think of wild onions or six legged fowls.” A shame really, it would have been a winner.

So it was in nineteen eighty-two while Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of England, was going steadfastly about settling the Falkland Island’s affair, I decided on a short trip to Morella with my wife, Kathy and daughter, Samantha. The main reason for this spontaneous visit was quite simply that my young daughter of four years had physically never laid her eyes on that material that forms from atmosphere vapor and falls to the earth in white flakes. In other words… snow. Both Kathy and I adored snow, from a distance of at least ten to twenty miles. But for Samantha it was different. She had been subjected to stories by her primary school friends as to the wonders of this soft white stuff that you could build things with, throw at people and they would not become angry….well in most cases anyway. And, of course, the local newspapers and travel agencies were publicising excursions to see the snow. Would you believe it: in winter there are to this day actual coaches full of happy potential snowmen-builders leaving Valencia and heading up to Valdelinares the nearest skiing resort to the city?

I cannot remember the exact month in which we decided to go but the nearly two hour car journey took place sometime before the Christmas festive season. So with snow chains stowed in the boot in an ‘easy access’ position we set off.

Driving up the comfortable main coast road past Castellon de la Plana and Peñiscola to Vinarós where we turned inland and began the steady climb towards Morella now only some fifty kilometers and a thousand meters altitude inland.

There are only two ways of approaching Morella by main road and the better of the two, certainly for first time visitor, is from the south. Negotiating the bends on the high pass of the Puerto de Querol at 1080 meters, you are suddenly confronted by this broad valley laid out below as far as the eye can see with Morella, plonked squarely in the middle. It is a magnificent sight whatever the season, but on that winter’s day it was something very special. Blessed with absolutely clear blue skies and everything sparkling white we were thanking our stars for bringing along our sunglasses when we took that last bend before the summit. Morella looked like a monstrous sugar coated wedding cake sitting on a pristine white tablecloth. I slowed down and pulled carefully over and stopped the car, as I knew there were deep ditches either side of the road. Winding down my window I felt the cold air flood in like some heady elixir, making it impossible not to drink in a draught and fill my lungs. As for the view, it was so sharp that it seemed almost as though we could easily reach out and grab ourselves a chunk of the Morella cake in the valley. Even the blackened olive and almond trees provided stark picturesque outlines etched against this virgin backcloth. It was magnificent. A few minutes later after Samantha had actually sampled this white wonder material by the side of the car, we were off again with the heater humming happily away and the rattling of the snow chains not seemingly too out of place.

A couple of days before, I had telephoned, of all places, the Hostal Elias, which Graham and I had spotted all those years before. I doubted that this particular residence would present us with a one man management system, but you never know do you? I would mention here that the word ‘Hostal’ does not carry the same significance as in the English language as being a lodging house for travellers and young people. In Spain ‘Hostal’ can refer to anything from a lowly common lodging house to a five star hotel. This particular one deserved a good rating for reasons which we will come to.

And so, at last, we came to Morella. Passing through the grand archway of San Miguel we drove down the main street with its pillared houses and shops, past the town hall and the hotel Cardinal Ram until we came to the small car park which still had an adequate covering of snow. Travelling that short distance served to prove that there had been little change in the place since my last visit.

“Who does the snow actually belong to?” asked Samantha who was, of course, first out of the car.

“To no one in particular,” explained her mother. “It actually belongs to all of us.”

“Anyone who wants my share is welcome to it,” said I as I stumbled and slid around to the car boot to unload our baggage.

“Can I make a snowball and throw it at Daddy like I’ve seen on the television.”

“I wouldn’t advise it at the moment,” Kathy said.

Next we attempted to walk up the steep climb to the hotel. Anyone who has tried walking up steep hills in ice and snow with Wellington boots will perfectly understand when I say that for me it was almost impossible. However, clutching at the liberal amount of drain pipes that were attached to the buildings and, of course, the occasional little old lady who happened by, we finally made it.

The hotelier was waiting for us in what can only be described as the traveller’s ideal dream of the place to arrive at after an arduous journey. Dark polished wooden floors and beamed ceilings, the small hotel exuded an air of solid comfort and tranquility. After shaking hands with us and passing a compliment to Samantha, he duly noted our identity details at the same time expressing his hope that the present weather would continue and afford us a pleasant stay. He was a fresh faced gentleman with a clear complexion and grey hair which seemed to be fighting a rearguard action. Someone who it appeared would spend much of his time out of doors. With an easy smile he immediately put the three of us completely at ease. The key that he eventually handed to me was not attached to a wooden log as it had been at the Cardinal Ram. No, this one was around the same size key but fixed by a small chain to a chunk of ball shaped heavy metal. “No chance of anyone running off with this unless it is to a scrap metal merchant,” I thought as I thanked him. Then surprisingly he suddenly leaned across the desk towards me.

“That key is the key to room number five,” he said in a rather conspiratorial tone of voice.

“Fine, thanks,” I said, as I hoisted the key and metal ball and began to turn away. He then leaned over even further and placed a hand on my arm.

“You don’t understand do you, Señor?”

I glanced at the key then back at him aware that I had missed something. “Understand. Understand what?”

His expression changed and he smiled, an almost cheerful sort of smile, as though he was marking up points on something or other. Then, almost as if he were letting me in on some sort of plot, he said, “That room, Señor. That room which is number five,” here he pointed almost reverently at the key clutched in my hand, “is King Juan Carlos of Spain’s room.”

Then taking a pace back he stood staring at me hands on his hips awaiting my reaction.

So that was what it was all about. He wished to impress me. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, only that I was not inclined to respond along the lines he was expecting. Replacing the key on the desk, which landed with a thump that almost shook the foundations of the Hostal Elias, I said, “Look if the King is in there I’d rather not disturb him, another room will do just as well.” He stared hard and long at me for a moment as this certainly was not the way the script was supposed to read at the mention of the royal name.

“Oh no Sir, he’s not actually in the room; not at this very moment anyway.” He allowed a ghost of a smile for this idiot of an Englishman who did not seem to follow the plan.

“I mean His Majesty stays in that room when he’s in Morella. When he comes here to shoot wild boar that is.”

“That’s alright then,” I said. “I mean if he was in there I wouldn’t like to disturb him whatever he is doing.”

He was still studying me I suppose wondering whether or not I was being serious.

“No chance of that, Sir, if he is anywhere, he’s in Madrid. I just thought that you might like to know.”

“Well thank you for telling me. I wouldn’t like to have barged in on him. After all he was here first I suppose.”

He granted me another smile.

“Then there is no problem, Sir, if you turn left at the top of the stairs you will find the room on the left.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then added, “By the way if we find anything he left behind I’ll let you know immediately.”

Deciding to play along he said, “I very much doubt you will, Sir, but thank you anyway.”

As we struggled up the stairs with our baggage and I turned and said to Kathy, “Must be the free day for the boy who carries the bags.” She muttered something about another day not being far off when someone would realise I’m playing games and I would finish up with a black eye, or worse.

The room could not be termed as being king-sized by any stretch of the imagination but it was certainly clean warm and pleasant together with a slight fragrance of polish in the air. One double sized bed on which lay a multi coloured covering that could well have originated from one of the town’s weaving looms and to one side a single bed with something similar. It was all very fine and gave me the comfortable feeling that all that all that had passed through there had left a legacy of good vibrations.

“Right Samantha,” I said to my daughter, “to work!”

“What do you want me to do, Papa?”

“Well, as this is the King of Spain’s room we have to make sure that he hasn’t left anything behind. You never know we might even find his crown.”

Kathy was hanging up clothes in the wardrobe with a capacity to conceal several people at any one time. “Stop it,” she said, ·you’ll make her as bad as you are.”

After diving into the blessedly hot shower I dressed and headed downstairs, leaving Kathy doing what all wives do before joining their husbands for dinner and Samantha crawling around under the bed searching for crowns. The wooden stairs creaked so much they must have acted as a sort of signal for our man appeared immediately.

“Everything alright, Sir?” he asked.

“Excellent,” I replied

“The room is comfortable, Sir?”

Unable to resist the temptation I said, “Fit for a King.”

His smile broadened, apparently gratified that I was at last conforming. “Would you like an aperitif before your meal, Sir?”

“Yes please. A glass of Moriles wine would be welcome.”

“Certainly. If you would like to sit at that table over there I will bring it immediately.”

I noticed that not only was there no bar but also no other guests present. A shame really I would have enjoyed talking to someone on the advantages of passing a couple of nights in such a distinguished residence, but I don’t suppose you can have everything. Wandering over I sat down at the table he had indicated in company with one of Mr. Michelin’s road map which I had brought along with me. Taking into consideration the usual knives, forks and glasses I spread it out on the table and then feasted my eyes on my small window to adventure. The region seemed littered with villages whose names even I could pronounce which was surprising in itself. There was La Cuba, Forcall, Castelfort, Zorita, Mirambel and many others. Towards the bottom part of the map I then noticed, Mora de Rubielos and only six miles down the road there was Rubielos de Mora. How about that? I mean who came up with that idea? Perhaps when they built the second village they were stuck for a name they so reversed the previous one. Such application of this system would have really complicated matters and even today many people are not sure as to which one they are supposed to be visiting. As for past invaders arriving in the area. Well….?

“Right men we are going sack pillage and rape Mora de Rubielos.”

“But Capitán are you sure? I thought I heard the General say, Rubielos de Mora.”

Confusion reigns! Really great stuff!

The curious thing about this is that the word Mora in Spanish usually refers to a blackberry which seems to create even more disorientation.

Next I found myself staring at yet another village, this time some fifteen miles distance from the previous two. This one was Linares de Mora. I continued searching but definitely could not see a Mora de Linares in the area. Perhaps the ‘pueblo’ builders had by that time run out of ideas. Anyway, for some reason I thought more about Linares de Mora as it had seemed to be rather sad and left out of the greater plan of things. I mean stuck up there in the mountains with no other twin village within jogging distance, it just didn’t seem fair. At that moment I considered that was one of the places that had to figure on my ‘Must’ list, so I fiddling in my jacket pocket I found a pencil and drew a circle around the name. “We’ll have to get up there soon,” my paternal instincts told me. The only downside to this idea was that it would be impossible, given the conditions of the roads at that present time. However that was not too important, as sufficient to say all this had wet my wander lust and I knew that all these places would feel my presence in the unpredictable future. However it would have to wait as at that moment, more unknown incidents and situations were already being prepared for me and as Tom Lehrer, the late American humorist said, ‘I would be sliding down the razor blade of life!’

The slap of shoe leather on the carpet less wooden floor announced the arrival of my Moriles.

“Here we are, Sir.” he intoned as he placed the glass carefully onto the table next to the map. Then taking a step back he stood staring at me thoughtfully as though trying to make his mind up about something or other. I just sat that there waiting expectantly wondering what was coming. Decision made, he suddenly announced, “The King’s table.”

“Really?” I said half expecting something like that.

“Yes he always sits at this table.”

I nodded. “What about the chairs?” I asked.

“The chairs, Sir?” He looked puzzled.

“Yes the chairs. Am I sitting on his chair?”

He suddenly smiled. “It might well be. However we do tend to move the chairs around a bit.” I nodded again as if understanding his problem of remembering which King Carlos’s chair mixed in with a dozen or so others all the same.

At that moment Kathy and Samantha came creaking down the stairs and made their way over to join me. Once they were comfortably seated Kathy ordered her Rosé wine as usual and Samantha a soft drink of some sort. The drinks came and as we made ourselves comfortable Kathy asked, “Why are we sitting here in this corner when there are all those other tables empty.”

“Now don’t you start,” I said. “This is King Carlos’s table and you might be using his knife and fork although we are not sure if you are sitting on his chair.”

Some years before when I opened up the first pub in the coastal region of eastern Spain, I used to attract early morning customers by dropping a few coffee beans onto the hot griddle. The fragrance of burning coffee would then drift out into the street and prove irresistible for some passers-by. It was what might be termed as, a good ploy. I was reminded of this as we sat there in the Hostal Elias waiting patiently for our meal to begin. Emanating from the kitchen area like an invisible and indiscernible perfume wafted the aroma of something special cooking. We were not to be disappointed. The meal began with one of those knife-and-fork soups containing vegetables together with red chorizo sausage and little chunks of smoked ham. Then the main dish arrived and again our taste buds were treated to the pleasure of tasty chunks of wild boar in a delicious dark sauce, heavy with aromatic herbs. All this accompanied by another bottle of ‘tinto’ but this time from the vineyards of Rioja.

We ate in silence enjoying every morsel, and all was well. All was well that is, until our man arrived to remove the now empty dishes.

“Was that to your liking, Sir?”

“Could not have been better. It was excellent,” I said. “my compliments to the chef.”

“Just wonderful,” confirmed Kathy.

Of course he then had to go and spoil things by saying, “The King’s favourite dish, Sir, especially if he had shot it himself.”

Feeling a possible attack of indigestion coming on I rebelled and asked, “Will you permit me an indiscreet question?”

“I will certainly try, Sir.”

Immune to Kathy’s ankle kicking, I plunged in.

“Tell me. Does the King pay when he stays here?”

I must admit he had the decency to look surprised at this, but only for a second.

“One moment, Sir,” he said and hurried away without answering.

Two minutes later he was back again armed with a fair sized picture frame which he thrust to within a couple of inches of my face.

“Look, Sir. The King sends me telegrams.”

And there in the middle of the frame there was a telegram to the effect that King Juan Carlos would like to thank the Hostal Elias, Morella for the hospitality shown to him and his entourage etc.

“Very nice,” I said, “he doesn’t pay then?”

“Not exactly, Sir, but he does send me these telegrams.”

I nodded then, as an afterthought, I said, as though in all innocence, “tell you what, when we return to Valencia can we send you a telegram?”

He hadn’t thought about this possibility and was sometime in answering. “Well I don’t think that it is quite the same thing, Sir.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. After all what is good enough for the King of Spain should be equally good enough for me. I mean when we arrived you gave us the key to his room and for all I knew he could well have been still in there and think what might have happened then. An English family bursting in on him and saying, ‘On yer bike, Sunshine, the fellow downstairs has given us this room.’ It wouldn’t have seemed right; especially if he had been cleaning his gun.”

Clutching the framed telegram to his chest he moved a couple of paces back knowing it was time to make a stand. “Well, I’m sorry, Señor but you will have to pay the same as everyone else, apart from the King that is. Rules of the house, Señor.”

I thought it time to ease the situation. “Alright then, no problem, but if he does turn up in the next couple of days you will let us know won’t you?”

Later on when we were wandering around the one main street searching for somewhere to finish the day’s events off with a night cap I thought back on the evening and vaguely remembered that when I had first sat on that particular chair in the dining room, I had experienced a kind of uneasiness that many people have when sitting on a chair that has just been vacated and is still slightly warm. Perhaps the King wasn’t in Madrid writing telegrams after all. Our man just might have moved him into room number six next to ours.

the amazing shepherd and the virgin

The following morning, a sneaky first glimpse through the shuttered window over the snow covered tiled rooftops confirmed that the day was going to be fine and bright, but probably cold. There did not appear to have been anymore snow during the night but what had been there the night before seemed to have taken up a permanent residence which indicated that we would not be venturing too far into the countryside along minor roads.

“So where do you recommend we go?” I asked our host who had served us the usual continental breakfast without even a hint of whether or not the King preferred the hot croissants to the rock hard bread rolls.

“Well you might drive over to Zorita, Sir. It’s not too far and should not be too difficult. There you can visit the Sanctuary of the ‘Virgen de la Balma’.” This last part suggested that I was, perhaps, in need of some sort of spiritual atonement for my seemingly anti-monarchic behaviour. However I said it sounded fine to me, and thanked him. A short while afterwards and well buttoned up against the cold, we slid down the hill to where we had parked the car and were soon on our way. Mr Michelin’s map had told me that the distance was around ten miles so provided I did not put the car into the ditch we would be there fairly quickly. Of course, if we did happen to become lost that would not present any problem either as Samantha sat in the back with Kathy repeating Zo-ri-ta just in case she might be needed in an emergency.

So our man at the Elias had said that a visit to the sanctuary Zorita might prove interesting. This had stirred my imagination, not too much, but just a little. As we drove along I remembered reading that Spain appeared to have quite a monopoly on sanctuaries, hermitages and monasteries. Probably not so much as some of the South American countries, I supposed, but sufficient to maintain things moving in a positive direction on the spiritual front.

On one of my first visits to Spain I had driven up to the Monastery of Montserrat near Barcelona and remembered only two things about the visit. The weather that day had been cloudy with spells of bright sunshine and occasional blustery showers. The surrounding countryside was magnificent, wild, exciting and exactly how one would expect it to be around a properly situated monastery. However what spoilt the trip was that on arrival we found that we were just another small part of an enormous amount of cars and coaches that had descended on the place. I might have been prepared to accept this, but then on entering the monastery shoulder to shoulder in football match style we were quickly pressed into buying just about everything possible including some kind of cake. If I remember correctly it was similar to the seed cake that my aunt used to bake. Perhaps somewhere along the way some discerning monk had come across her recipe and had plagiarized it. As to the building itself I can only recall that it was a colossal place backed up against the side of a mountain and nothing much else. The commercial aspect was too much, so we decided to abandon the visit. Naturally after that every time I munched on a portion of Aunt’s seed cake I was immediately transported back to that Monastery near Barcelona.

As a point of interest the Montserrat legend relates how two young boys out on the mountains came across a cave from which issued a sort of bright light and on venturing in they found a statue of what they assumed was the Virgin Maria. After several attempts at trying to carry this weighty object back to the village they left it there, returned to the ‘pueblo’ and reported the matter to the local priest. He, in turn, possibly realising the possibilities involved reported the matter to the higher church authorities all of which decided that the statue did not wish to abandon the cave and so that was the beginning of the Montserrat story.

The road to Zorita lay alongside the boulder strewn Bergantes River which tumbles down from the Calanda dam some distance to the north. Not that we could see much of the river, what with snow piled up everywhere, but I was certain that it was there alright, just biding its time and keeping one eye open in preparation for when the snows melted. Being too low neither could we see the mountains marked on our map as the Sierra de Manadella, our view being blocked by walls of snowy battlements A short while after keeping company with the river our destination came into view; surprisingly, without mishap.

On the far side of the river and connected by a healthy looking bridge lay the Sanctuary of the ‘Virgen de la Balma’ whilst on our side was the small ‘pueblo’ of Zorita. ‘Sanctuary’ was very much the appropriate word for the actual place was situated half way up a cliff face on the side of a mountain and apart from a possible company of alpine troops backed up by short range artillery there was no way in dislodging anyone inside.

How these particular spots are discovered has always been a source of wonder to me. It is almost as if there is some sort of fraternity of people born to seeking out grottos and caves for shrines and churches.

A fine example of this kind of discovery is an absolutely fascinating place near the town of Jaca lying at the foot of the Pyrenees Mountains. This is the Monastery of ‘San Juan de la Peña.’. Tucked away at the bottom of a mountain the legend relates how a young noble man was out hunting and in pursuance of a stag nearly came to grief when the beast he was chasing leapt over a cliff. Climbing down in search of his prey he discovered a cave in which was the corpse of a local hermit, one Juan Atarés. He was, for some reason, so impressed with the surroundings that he immediately returned to Zaragoza where he sold all his possessions, apparently without any family objections, and together with his brother they both became hermits in that very location which was later to become an established monastery.

Now we come to Zorita. What a story! This is certainly a five star legend. You could put the San Juan de la Peña story together with the Montserrat myth and a dozen more in a sack and throw them into the river because when it comes to legends none of the others can hold a candle to Zorita and the ‘Virgen de la Balma’. This has got to be an undisputed winner and worthy of an Oscar or whatever it might be when it comes to legends.

The story is that between six to seven hundred years ago the people born in that wild region of Spain were very much limited as to what trade they could chose, even more so if you were incapacitated by being born with a useless right arm, as was our mythical man from Zorita. So it probably comes as no surprise to learn that there were a considerable amount of Shepherds about dedicated to safeguarding sheep, goats or cattle from wolves and at that time the occasional brown bear

The tiny ‘pueblo’ of Zorita, which even today has only around one hundred and fifty inhabitants, produced a Shepherd who must have been one in a million. It was claimed that this man was actually capable of recognising each individual sheep in his charge. Not only that, he would also call them by their own names. Now just think on that for a minute, whereas me, like most people, have difficulty in remembering people’s names this boy wonder knew them all. All right, given that he spent most of his life in their company it is still amazing that he could recognise them individually. With even half a dozen it would prove difficult but with a whole flock, a miracle!

Just for one moment imagine the exploitation possibilities if that situation arose today.

‘Spanish television presents ‘Spain’s Got Talent’.

“Tonight ladies and gentlemen we have the Amazing Shepherd!” shouts the Presenter.

Applause as Zacharias enters.

Presenter says, “Good evening Zacharias.”

Zacharias nods.

Presenter. “May we call you Zach the Amazing Shepherd?”

Zacharias nods again and the audience claps.

Presenter. “Excellent, Zach. And where are you from?”

Zacharias answers, “Zorita.”

The presenter turns to the audience. “Hear that, friends? Zach’s from Zorita! “

Waits until the applause dies down and then, “Where’s Zorita, Zack?”

Zacharias explains, “Near Morella where the King goes shooting.”

More enthusiastic applause then the presenter says, “Morella and where the King goes shooting. We really are in distinguished company tonight.”

More enthusiastic applause and the presenter says, “and what are you going to do for us tonight, Zach?”

“Introduce you to some of my sheep,” says Zacharias.

Presenter. “Hear that folks. Zach the Amazing Shepherd from Zorita is going to introduce us to some of his sheep. Go right ahead Zach.”

A flock of sheep are herded onto the stage and they mill around bleating and doing things that sheep would do normally anywhere.

Zacharias then hands the Presenter a paper on which are listed all the names of the sheep present.

Presenter. “Are you ready Zach?” and Zacharias nods.

Presenter. “Which of your sheep is named Sylvia?”

Thunderous applause as Zacharias points to a sheep in the front row.

Presenter. “Which one of your sheep is named Christine?”

More applause as Zacharias points to another sheep.

Presenter. “And which sheep is Ana?”

Zacharias points to a sheep at the back.

Presenter. (tongue in cheek) “Isn’t that one Carmen?”

Zacharias says, “No. Carmen is the one to left of Sylvia.”

More thunderous applause by the audience.

And so it continues with the Presenter calling out names and Zacharias unhesitatingly pointing out the appropriate sheep.

Absolute magic!

So there we have the amazing Shepherd, a man before his time. With the one ineffectual limb he was wandering around the mountains year after year, at times pondering whether it was Mondays or Fridays that his wife prepared lamb stew and at the same time wondering if anyone was missing from his flock. Then, at last, the long awaited day arrives. According to the legend he was attracted to a cave in a cliff from which is emanating a mysterious light. Now what is interesting is that this particular cave can easily be seen from Zorita. In fact it does not take much to work out that it would only take around half an hour’s walk from the ‘pueblo’ to the cave and if the place had not been too covered by vegetation any lights would certainly be noticeable by the locals. Anyway no matter, our Shepherd investigates the light and finds it issuing from the rock face within the cavern. Mesmerized he stands there staring when without warning he hears a voice instructing him to go to the local priest and tell him that from now on the place has to be used as a holy shrine for sick people both physically and mentally. Our Shepherd then leaves the cave, and on discovering, to his amazement, that his useless arm is now functioning normally, rushes off to the ‘pueblo’ to tell the priest, leaving behind, Sylvia, Sally, Sandra and the rest of the flock.

Apparently the priest, being well pleased with the news, calls all the villagers together and after the Shepherd has demonstrated how well his cured limb was functioning, they all set off to see the cave for themselves. One would have thought that this would be the easy part. Oh no! Certainly not.

At the foot of the mountain they were confronted with a terrifying spectre blocking their way. The body of a reptile, a fine set of horns and a tail it planted itself in their path and glared at them with the standard eyes like burning coals. It was waving the customary trident clutched in its right hand which the villagers had been told was the devil’s usual badge of office. It began by hurling insults at the terrified crowd and the Virgin Maria, insisting that they all go away and forget about visiting the cave. I suppose under those circumstances many of them thought it a reasonable request. I, personally, know that if I were faced with such a situation I would have been the first back home and sitting in front of the fire watching the lamb chops sizzling away on the barbeque.

Anyway, before a possible stampede in the direction of home, help arrived in the form of Archangel Saint Michael himself who suddenly materialized together with a band of angels and proceeded to do battle with the devil. The outcome was, naturally, a point’s victory for the Archangel and his followers. As for the villagers of Zorita they established a sanctuary in the cavern and each year on the eighth of September the struggle between good and evil is re-enacted. This is well worth seeing if only to feast your eyes on something that has been going on for nearly seven hundred years.

So on that cold winter’s day we arrived and realizing that, even with chains, it would be foolish to attempt the steep drive up to the sanctuary we alighted from the car and began the laborious ascent on foot. First we passed the covered cross where supposedly the battle with the devil had taken place centuries before and then on up to the entrance. Access to the actual sanctuary was via what was originally a hospice for travellers and sick people. All that had changed now and in its place is a most unusual restaurant set in the largest cave. I say unusual as not only were the surrounds original but according to the menu it had a cuisine that varied somewhat from Morella just a few miles down the road.

Passing through the length of the restaurant and a door at the far end we found ourselves outside on the cliff face with, fortunately, a reasonable wall on the nasty side. Then facing us was a lengthy tunnel burrowed through the rock and at the far end the actual grotto. To the rear and protected by iron bars, which actually did not look too out of place, was a statue of the Virgin Maria. Even this was tastefully presented and not at all like some of the garish statues I had seen elsewhere. A small pulpit and seating for possibly fifty worshipers all lit by a multitude of candles, served to make it a very pleasant place to be for a pilgrim.

A further cave leading off to the rear of the grotto really was a surprise. The walls and even parts of the ceiling were decorated by an amazing amount of gifts brought by pilgrims requesting favours, and also thanking the Virgin. It was a virtual collection of personal items and included just about everything it was possible to bring by hand. You name it and it was there. I was impressed by the amount of wedding gowns that young bride’s had deposited together with a notes asking the Virgin to bless their marriages. How about that? Due consideration must be given to establishing another solid stepping stone to cementing a matrimonial relationship; certainly nothing wrong with that. Included in this surprising assortment of personalised apparel were first communion dresses and just one simple black dress, bearing the name of a cafeteria somewhere or other, with a note claiming that the owner had found better employment than that of a waitress and was therefore leaving her dress at the sanctuary. A disgruntled supporter of a local football team had deposited a banner bearing the team’s badge in the hope; I suppose that if the Virgin was a fan, she might just be inclined to bring some influence to bear on the team’s efforts. Apparently motoring did interest her at one time as there was a well placed Learner Driver’s plate thanking the Virgin for assisting him in passing his final test. All these items were mixed in with plastic arms and legs together with many other representative body parts also scattered around this Aladdin’s Cave. Above all there must have been a thousand or more photographs of just about everything imaginable. They included a large number of pictures of vehicles: trucks, cars, motorcycles and even the odd tractor or two. Most of them with their personal messages of “Please bless this……..” Then came other touching images and messages, many of them long gone judging by the fading prints. These were the cases of illness both mental and otherwise. There was even one that seemed a clear-cut example of epilepsy where the symptoms were described but the person requesting the Virgin’s interference was accusing the devil of possessing the hapless victim.

However the most striking and most poignant example that we saw in the Sanctuary of the ‘Virgen de la Balma’ was the following. Accompanied by this note:

Virgin de la Balma,

I have problems with my reproduction apparatus

and cannot have children. I am praying to you for

help and leave this as a gift.

And there, in all their glory were a magnificent pair of ladies knickers. As Kathy commented as we were leaving the sanctuary, “Poor Virgen de la Balma. To have to put up with that everyday must be most disturbing.”

THE BISHOP’S CASTLE, DINOSAURS AND TRUE LOVE

On our return to Valencia, the brief encounter with the Maestrazgo faded into a memory but left a lingering sensation that I could compare with the nostalgia sometimes associated with home. It somehow reminded me that it was up there tucked away in that little known corner of Spain, waiting like a bottle of good wine, just biding its time until the right moment came along to open it. I would sometimes turn out my collection of maps like my father used to do before one of our cycling holidays which would normally, or so it seemed to me, involve roads with the most hills. He would call me over and poking a finger at the map, usually somewhere in the middle of North Wales, then drawl forth in his John Wayne accent, “Thar’s gold in them thar hills.” So when I was studying the map of the Maestrazgo and confronted with the topography together with the wiggly lines denoting altitudes up to 2.000 metres, my father’s words came to me like an echo from the past. There was probably little or no chance of coming across actual gold in the vast number of streams and rivers, but riches of another kind must exist in such a remote area. The people themselves must be a hardy lot compared with the Mediterranean folk. And as for their history, it was fascinating. I was certain, that after sampling just the outskirts of the area; it was not without reason that they adopted Saint Anthony Abad as their patron saint. After all he was, according to records, the Patron Saint of Rural People. And in those hard winters and even harder times they sure needed him.

What was interesting was that when I was in my local bar in Valencia and the conversation, as it did many times, turned to what I liked most about Spain, I was surprised to learn that many Spaniards had never even heard of the Maestrazgo and some had only a vague idea where it was.

Then, after I had explained that it was only a mere two hour car journey away they were only mildly interested but nothing more. In general I have found the average Spaniard holds little or no interest when it came to places outside their own immediate area. It was almost an example of the African San tribe in the Kalahari Desert whose concept of distance is, here, is where they were, there was as far as they could see and anything else was just further on.

A fine example of this disinterest came from a close friend. I, together with Kathy and Samantha were in the habit of toddling off in the car on Sunday mornings, armed with plastic containers of all shapes and sizes for collecting natural spring water. This agreeable pastime we shared with many other Spanish ‘Sunday Drivers’ or as they are known, ‘Domingueros’. A further purpose was in order to explore the local countryside surrounding Valencia, search for asparagus or wild mushrooms and generally enjoy the scenery. On this one particular day we had visited Chiva an easy drive some twelve miles distance along the Madrid road. The small town was the birthplace of the present day number one matador, Enrique Ponce and is now also home of the ‘Ricardo Tormo’ international racing circuit. However our own particular reason for being there was that the place not only had a fountain with excellent spring water, but it was right along side a duck pond and near to both of these lay an inexpensive bar which produced wonderful Spanish ‘tortillas’. You know, the onion and potato thick omelette, slightly crispy on the outside and soft within but above all, hot. So there, together with many others, we would fill our plastic containers with water from the fountain whilst Samantha threw bread to the ducks on the pond. We would then indulge in a snack and afterwards drive back to Valencia. Home once again Kathy would prepare lunch whilst I would have my second aperitif in the local bar and talk to my friends.

One day, José Antonio asked, “Have you been out today, Chris?”

“Yes, just to Chiva for a drive round, José.”

“Chiva? That’s got to be at least twelve miles.”

“Yea, just fifteen to twenty minutes in the car, José.”

He laughs and looking round at the others present as though I am out of my mind and says, “There’s no way you would get me driving out all the way to Chiva!”

I would shrug, the others would nod in agreement and the subject would be changed, to usually football or the paella for lunch.

So the almost mythical Maestrazgo remained distant and meanwhile I meditated over my maps until, that was, a retired veterinary surgeon by the name of Alberto, from Cullera some twenty kilometers down the coast, put a light to my fuse for action. We had been invited to a friend’s apartment for Sunday lunch and afterwards I found myself seated next to this gentleman to whom I had been presented before the meal. A tall figure of a man for a Spaniard with tight greying curly hair, fresh features, as one might expect from a vet and clear blue eyes that you would not normally be expecting. He dressed well with a rustic sports jacket and corduroy trousers. In fact he would fit into any Point to Point, Gymkhana, or stock auction in the UK. I felt very comfortable in his company. The apartment was fairly high up on the side of a hill and we sat looking out through the large window which offered a fine view of the small lighthouse, cliffs and a long stretch of yellow sanded beach. “You know,” he suddenly said, “you could walk along that beach all the way to Valencia.” I made the appropriate reply but my mind was on the cliffs and I was thinking about the day some years before, when driving by, I had caught sight of a friend’s parked car and stopped to see if all was well with him. He was unloading a couple of large suitcases from his car boot and looked up as I wandered over.

“Everything all right, Mike?” I asked.

He grinned, “Yes fine, Chris. Everything is just fine.”

“So what are you up to with those suitcases, Mike?”

“Well you know that my wife left me some months ago and went back to England?”

“Yes, so I heard.”

He slammed the car boot shut and grabbed the two suitcases.

“Well, she asked me to send on her clothes. So I am doing just that ….by sea.”

And with that he resolutely grabbed the suitcases and without a backward glance headed towards the edge of the cliff and tossed them over.

Alberto, the vet, was talking to me again. “Me, I like fishing,” he was saying, “good honest trout fishing. Not the hit and miss business of sea fishing.” “Really, that’s nice,” I said more out of politeness than interest. I was wondering what had become of my friend Mike and whether or not the tides had favoured his ex-wife’s belongings and if finally they had floated into Liverpool or wherever, when the Vet said slowly, “The Bishop’s Castle,” relishing the words like someone tasting a good wine. I turned towards him a little surprised at this. “Sorry,” I said, “but what did you say about a castle?” He was smoking a ‘faria’ cigar and was thoughtfully gazing at the length of ash it had produced. “That’s in English,” he explained, carefully manipulating the cigar in the direction of the ashtray. “The Bishop’s Castle, in fact in Spanish it is ‘Castelvispal’.” “Really,” I said, wondering what the hell he was on about. “It’s a village,” he began. “Well, no, not really a village. It’s what we call an ‘Aldea’; just a few houses, a small church and nothing else. Nothing, that is, apart from an occasional bar.” “….nothing else apart from an occasional bar,” I repeated. Then I asked, “What on earth is an ‘occasional’ bar. He grinned, “I don’t even think that you can class it as a bar really. Not a real bar that is; just one small room and nothing else, not even a toilet. You have to use the house next door for that. I used the word ‘occasional’ because if it is not open when you arrive you can knock on the owner’s door and he will probably oblige.”

“A bar that opens when you want it to,” I thought. “That would certainly be a novelty in the U.K.”

Alberto was talking again. “Anyhow,” he said with feeling, “I’ll tell you something, apart from the isolation of the place and the views I have had some of the finest trout fishing there in all my life.”

He carefully tapped the cigar on the edge of the ashtray and watched as the ash fell. “Yes,” he continued. “’Castelvispal’, up towards Teruel and right on the edge of the Maestrazgo. It’s really wild up there.” I was all ears as he said the magic word, Maestrazgo. Immediately, in my mind, I was transported back to the night that Pany and I had passed on the mountain. But before I could speak, he went on, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Maestrazgo? A lot of people even in Valencia don’t know it. ” “Possibly not,” I smiled, looking forward to my own reply, “possibly not many Spaniards, that is, but here is an Englishman who has, not only heard of it but has been there. In fact, I was in Morella some years past.” I waited for him to ask, “Isn’t that where King Juan Carlos goes shooting?” But it didn’t happen. Instead he said, “Morella, that’s interesting.” Then, “Did you know that it is called ‘Capital del Maestrazgo’?” I nodded saying that I had heard. “Well that,” Alberto explained, “is because it was one of the base camps of Carlist rebel leader, Ramón Cabrera who was nominated ‘Conde de Morella’. Actually, the town itself is kilometers from the boundary marking the official region of the Maestrazgo.” He suddenly smiled, “Not that that is important, if you’ve been to that area then you will appreciate how wild it can be up there.” I nodded, “It certainly is.”

He continued almost as though speaking to himself. “Perhaps it is something to do with me being a vet; you know a feeling for those unspoilt parts of the country. I sometimes wonder what I’m doing down here on the coast.” He shrugged a long slow movement at the end of which he dropped his shoulder and grinned. “Still it is a nice view out there with the cliffs and the beach. And the weather….well…” “Yes, it certainly is,” I agreed heartily. Then rising to my feet I turned and said, “Mind if I nip out to the car? I have a map handy!”

The next hour passed quickly with Alberto; the two of us, pouring over my map, not a fully detailed map but nevertheless sufficient for the vet to unleash several important factors that would be influencing a small part of my life from then on. At that moment it was nothing to write home about but it was definitely there. You know when you realise that there are sensations that one develops as one becomes older and more in tune with events and life in general. At certain times you seem to be able to stand outside of yourself for a brief moment and think, ‘This could be important’. Not in an earth-shaking way but knowing instinctively that there is just something there. So pay attention, Chris. I believe that we tend to miss this awareness in our younger years, possibly with too many distractions, but later on in life, well that’s different. It just evolves automatically, if you wish it to, and it is up to you to heed the signs. It might be that nothing comes out of the situation so it is unconsciously discarded. On the other hand, well who knows?

Alberto was talking again, “You know the Teruel road?” he asked spreading the map out on a nearby coffee table.

“I sure do,” I replied. “Been up and down it many times when driving to and from England.”

“Then you’ll know that lousy climb up the Col de Ragudo?” The ‘lousy climb’ to which he was referring was the steep narrow road with endless curves that led up to the high plateau of the Teruel region. This headache of a highway has long since gone and in its place is a fine ‘Autovia’ freeway. Before that it was certainly a hazard especially as it was well used by juggernaut trucks and trailers.

“Yes, I know it well,” I said. “Just before the village of Barracas.”

“That’s right, just before Barracas.”

He nodded approvingly. Then looking at me with his blue eyes suddenly twinkling he asked,

“Then you must know the butcher’s shop on the left as you enter the ‘pueblo’?”

“I’m sorry,” I apologised. “I can’t say I do.”

“Dios mio,” he said feelingly as though I had committed a sin by not knowing the place. “and I had you marked down as one who liked the good things of life.”

“Well I do,” I came back rather sheepishly. “but I didn’t know that included the butcher in Barracas.”

He consolingly patted my arm and said, “Well you’re in for a pleasant surprise.”

He then went on to explain that the butcher of Barracas was held in high esteem by just about everybody from Valencia to Teruel and beyond. He opened on Sundays and supplied enthusiastic customers who had arrived from the coastal towns visiting their families, and possibly planning to have a barbecue or paella, in the nearby villages. According to Alberto his cuts of meat, ham, sausages (Oh, those sausages!), ‘cecina’ and ‘sobrasada’ were all food fit for angels. Absorbing all this information I naturally promised to rectify my shortcomings and call on this genius of the meat trade on my very next trip up there.

“But be careful,” warned Alberto. “if it is on a Sunday there is usually a crowd there and the cunning old devil puts out plates of just about everything for free tasting together with some of that potent Carineña wine. Then by the time it is your turn to be served you’re so happy that you order just about everything he suggests.” I nodded and promised to do as he said but in those pre-breathalyser days the thought of those tasty cold cuts together with the wine already had my mouth watering.

Alberto’s finger moved over the map again and he said, “See here where it says Albentosa around ten kilometers further on?”

I nodded.

“Well you turn right there and head towards Rubielos de Mora. The road is quite good and the scenery pretty, especially when you cross the bridge over the Rio Mijares.” He paused for a moment, “I tried fishing there a couple of times but with not much luck.”

I commiserated with him and he then asked, “Did you know that there is a Mora de Rubielos as well as Rubielos de Mora?”

“Yes, I did. I don’t know either of them but what I do know is that there is also a Linares de Mora. Look I marked it on the map, right there.”

“So you did. That really is interesting.”

“I was wondering why there wasn’t a Mora de Linares somewhere,” I said. “Do you know why, Alberto?”

He thought for a moment then said, “Well there wouldn’t be, because Linares is the river that runs by the ‘pueblo’. That is why it’s named as such. As for the Mora bit, your guess is as good as mine.”

Patting my arm again, he said, “Well, my friend let us talk about Rubielos. You are in for another nice surprise. It is a wonderful old place with beautiful high roofed houses with a church, a convent, a castle, several bars and a couple of restaurants. And from there on up to ‘The Bishop’s Castle’ you will be travelling along part of what is known as the ‘Camino del Cid’.”

“Sounds like my kind of place,” I said at the same time thinking that here was a man after my own heart.

Then digging into the inside pocket of his jacket he drew out a small note pad and, of all things, a ‘Parker’ fountain pen; one of the very originals. Next at the top of the paper he carefully wrote, ‘Barracas Butcher’. Then underneath ‘Bar Pigeon’.

“Chris, you must have a coffee in the Bar Pigeon in Rubielos. Tell the owner, Frederico that I sent you. He has a wonderful collection of enormous sized fossils on display all found in the area. It is all most interesting.”

Back to the map he continued tracing the road past some village with some unpronounceable name and on up to Linares de Mora. Next carefully pointing to a spot on the map with his gold tipped fountain pen, he said, “just about here and only three kilometers from the ‘pueblo’ there is a turn to the right. It’s not marked on this map but it’s there alright, on a long curve to the right it reads ‘Castelvispal 9 Kms.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult to find,” I said. “What’s the nine kilometers of road like?”

Throwing his head back he suddenly began laughing. It was most extraordinary as up until then I did not feel that he even had a giggle inside him. “Road? What road? Nobody said anything about a road. Dios mio!” He withdrew a pocket handkerchief and dabbed his eyes still chuckling. “No, my friend. I’ve been down farm tracks that look like main highways compared with the road to ‘Castelvispal’. You see, there is no actual road, just a dirt and pebble surface, that’s all. It’s not too bad really, I suppose.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “Of course there is a stream to cross that can be a little hazardous after the rains; but it’s never normally impassable, not really a big problem that can’t be handled with caution.” He was quiet for a moment again and sat looking at the map. “You are going to love it there; especially where you come out onto the hillside overlooking the ‘pueblo’, down in the valley you can see the houses and the tiny church. It is all very pretty. I must return there again soon….. before…..before it’s too late.” “It sounds a nice place to be,” I commented for something to say. But he wasn’t really listening, just staring again at the map his mind on past images. Suddenly he looked up. “Oh, and one other thing. The windows.”

“What windows, Alberto?”

“The windows of your car.”

I thought for a moment that I was definitely loosing the plot. “What about the windows of my car?”

“Sorry, he apologised. “old age coming on, I suppose. I wasn’t being clear. The windows on your car. Just keep them open that’s all, my friend, especially if you go up there in summer. The air is like wine and comes with the scent of rosemary, thyme, lavender and a multitude of other plants. Oh, yes. Also keep your eyes open and apart from the free range cattle you just might come across some ‘Ibex’ or ‘Cabras Montesas’, the wild protected mountain goats that live in the Maestrazgo. Magnificent creatures, so very elegant with their beautifully shaped horns.”

He wrote down, ‘Cabras Montesas’ on the pad and then underneath that ‘Antonia’.

“Antonia?” I queried, “Is she someone I should know?”

“Yes, definitely, you will meet Antonia. She lives opposite the church in ‘Castelvispal’ and has the key to the place.” He smiled, “she is also, how you say, bloody good with a rod and line. In fact Antonia is an expert fly fisher. One of the best!”

He sat quietly for a moment and the looked up at me again. “Do you like ‘Migas’?” he asked referring to a popular local dish. Then, without me confirming yes or no, he wrote down,

‘Migas – Hostal El Portalico, and underneath the words

‘Embutidos – Hostal La Venta’. Then finally,

‘Jamon y huevos – Bar de Josepa’.

“Here,” he said tearing of the page and handing it to me, “That’s just about everything you need to know. Those two restaurants you will find in Linares. And don’t forget that when you go to ‘Castelvispal’ give my regards to the fisherwoman and the entire ‘pueblo’.” He broke off and laughed again. “The entire village, that’s rich, there are only around eight people who live there all the year round.”

I had sat enthralled at what this man was saying. Apart from his notes I had been committing to memory all the things he had talked about and was already preparing the journey in my mind.

Outside the night was coming on rapidly and Kathy began making those-wife like expressions and pointedly switching her eyes at the clock on the wall. It required little interpreting to understand that it was time to go.

Thanking our host and embracing my new found friend we said our goodbyes and headed for Valencia. A wind had sprung up and I noticed as we climbed into the car that the sea was becoming choppy and that there was one solitary figure walking his dog along the beach. As I put the car into gear and we moved off I found myself thinking that it was unlikely that the suitcases I saw Mike throwing over the cliff would have reached England. They surely would not have made the crossing through the Bay of Biscay.

It was sometime afterwards that I learned that Alberto was no longer with us. I was unable to find out if he ever did return to the ‘Bishop’s Castle.’ I like to think he did though. Or perhaps he was there anyway, in spirit that is.

For me personally one of the most endearing sights in late spring around this colourful south eastern region of Spain is seeing endless groves of fluffy white orange blossom and the last crop of oranges on the trees, both at the same time.

And so one bright sunny Sunday morning found the three of us reasonably comfortable in Betsy I, our old family car travelling inland through the orange groves with the blossom and the last of the Valencia ‘Lates’, as they are appropriately named, in the direction of Teruel. As the orange groves became less obvious the colourful almond trees became more numerous on the higher more stony soil and the road began to snake upwards. Then next thing we were struggling gamely up the Col de Ragudo directly behind some huge monster of a truck belching out clouds of black diesel fumes. A glance in my rear view mirror confirmed that there were now around fifteen or more other vehicles behind us with their frustrated drivers. There were the usual suicidal few who insisted on pulling out and taking a peek to see if it was possible to sneak past everyone before the next bend.. Eventually we did arrive at the summit and knowing that it was only a couple of kilometers to Barracas, we stayed tucked in behind the truck whilst the others sped by.

It was Sunday and the butcher’s shop was, indeed, open. Judging by the parked cars and the people gathered around outside it appeared to be a meeting point for the clans. Folk were milling around greeting each other. There was considerable back slapping, talking and laughing a great deal together with the usual youngsters running about all over the place. It was all in all a festive occasion. We were lucky to find a vacant place to park and were soon mingling with the crowd.

Alberto was quite correct in that within the shop the maestro of the meat trade was holding court and with two helpers busily fulfilling orders whilst at the same time asking after the welfare of everyone present. It was one of the first times I had come across a Spaniard as able as this man who had the ability to converse comfortably with his customer’s whilst at the same time deftly attending to their needs. This in its self was interesting in that not one of the four or five customers before us ordered anything by weight. There was none of, “A kilo of this, please,” or “A quarter of a kilo of that.” Every one of them placed their orders in units.

“Four of those ‘longaniza’ sausages. Two of the ‘morcilla’ black pudding sausages; the ones with rice, please. Oh yes, and five cuts of that smoked jam over there. Certainly I wish to try it, just a slice please.”

A thin sliver of the ham would be delicately shaved off then passed over to the customer. This would then be gently divided into two small portions and the Señora in question would then pass half to her husband or friend. The two of them would chew reflectively whilst the other customers, together with the butcher or his staff, looked on expectantly. A joint decision would be arrived at involving a slight nod of the head and there would be smiles all round and comments such as, “Just as I thought, you can tell by the colour and there is not too much fat on the edges.” It was certainly a place to shop if you had the time to spare.

The plates of free goodies were piled high and included ‘chorizo’ sausages of varying spices which ranged from mild to strong and ‘Dios mio. Pass the wine quickly!’ There were a couple of plates of the black sausage cuts with a choice of those with rice, onion or just meat. These appeared to be the favourites because the moment one of the lady servers replaced them there were anxious fingers ready to take another slice. And, of course, there was the inevitable Teruel smoked ham which attracted my attention, and next to it a plate heaped with little squares of strong looking cheese. To accompany the cold cuts or cheese there was also a basket with small chunks of hot fresh baked crunchy bread so that if you were inclined you could make your choice and prepare your own mini sandwich to stave of the hunger pains and prevent you dropping dead for the lack of nutrition before you were served. Wonderful! The only downside was that the wine came in a wineskin which was not the slightest problem for me but, much to the customers’ delight, it proved difficult for Kathy who succeeded in changing the colour of her blouse front. Never mind. A little while later we were on out way again together with several different types of sausages, some ham and a couple of slices of the cheese. As Kathy, commented, “A very pleasant interlude indeed.”

Around ten kilometers further on we turned off at Albentosa where Alberto had indicated on the map. It seemed a bit of a nowhere place, consisting mainly of a few scattered houses around a petrol station, some sad looking cafes and large road house under the name of ‘Los Maños’, Maños being the name given to the people originating from that region although nobody appears to know why. Just after the turn, Kathy, whose nose was like that of the proverbial hound when it came to detecting strange odours, suddenly sniffed and asked, “What is that?” Before I could even guess there appeared on our left a large building liberally decorated with a colourful picture of a happy pig grinning from ear to ear. The porker was explaining that the place was a plant where they cured legs of ham. I wondered why they had made the animal look so cheerful. He obviously had no idea that his friends’ legs were strung up inside.

Once past the plant we could see in the distance the beginning of the lofty mountain range of the Maestrazgo stretching across the skyline. It looked pretty high up and as it was still spring I was surprised that there was no snow about. The road was easy going with only a few pot holes, remnants of last winter’s offensive. We crossed the Mijares River over a fairly new bridge just a short distance from the original old narrow stone packhorse bridge and I thought of Alberto fishing there. The water hurried south disappearing into a deep ravine to the right with high sand coloured cliffs. Then we were climbing once again with Betsy complaining a little on the bends. “Probably the shock absorbers,” I said before Kathy could ask what the noise was.

Finally, after negotiating further hairpin bends we breasted the summit and much to Samantha’s delight passed a field containing a herd of young bulls. They didn’t seem to be doing much, just standing around probably thinking that they were reasonably lucky compared to their friends the pigs down the road. Then a little further on we saw a derelict mine with a tall renovated chimney, a possible monument to the men who had laboured there. A rather tatty wooden board had the word ‘Mina’ painted on it but there was no indication as to what it was supposed to have produced in the past. I learned later that one thing that it did bring forth was a wonderful range of fossils of all shapes and sizes.

Next quite unexpectedly below us, stretched a wide picturesque valley with the town of Rubielos de Mora on the far side. Rather like a jigsaw puzzle gone wrong with missing pieces we could see various almond tree plantations, open fields which we assumed were for corn, wheat or such and all mixed in with small wooded areas of beech trees and the odd juniper here and there. I imagined that all this would have presented a charming confusion of colours in the autumn. Rolling downhill we passed another large smoked ham factory with its jolly porker publicity not far from, of all things, a quaint small church. Then before anyone could exclaim, Oink! Oink! we arrived on the outskirts of the ancient town of Rubielos de Mora.he Bar Pigeon was not difficult to find as it was placed directly opposite a grey stone archway beneath a solid looking tower on which a plaque explained that it was the ‘Portal San Antonio’ and was part of the town’s defences against unwanted invaders who might have mistaken the place for the one down the road with a similar name. We parked and wandered across the road to the Bar Pigeon. Inside it was comfortable and animated by the warm bubble of conversation, from what I could gather to be, mainly local people with the odd visitor such as ourselves. We ordered our coffees and looked about us. It was not necessary to ask anyone where the giant fossils were located as they were in huge glass display cases to the rear of the bar. We wandered over and picked up a photocopy print-out which contained information explaining how in recent years the whole region of Aragon had been subjected to archaeological digs with surprising results.

Apparently up until the year 2003 giant dinosaur discoveries had usually been restricted to Africa and Asia. Spain, in general, had been somewhat left out of the prehistoric business. Left out, that is, until the discovery of the remains of an entirely new breed of giant dinosaurs that existed nearly a hundred million years ago; give or take a few million I suppose. Anyway it involves the village of ‘Riodeva’ to the south of Teruel where up until then nothing much had really happened. However from that moment on it has all been happening in respect of tourism and dinosaurs. The Teruel town authorities have now established a theme park and museum dedicated to these endearing creatures. Endearing, that is, if you are a few miles distant observing them, but not so endearing I suppose, if you are face on at the front end and getting a full picture of any recent dentistry work.

One report on how these creatures arrived from Asia suggested that they did so by ‘Island Hopping’. I now know that some of these egg laying monsters weighed around fifty tons and were up to thirty-six metres in length, but ‘Island Hopping’? Amazing! Apparently another recent discovery in Utah, America, of the same breed leads one to believe that with the Atlantic in between some of these beasties were not only good ‘Hoppers’ but possibly good flyers as well. Think of it, if these prehistoric titans had managed to survive in Utah they would have been a hit. Not only enough fresh meat for everyone including the Indians but with John Wayne, Gary Cooper, together with the rest of the cowboys having their work cut out with dinosaur rustlers.

So what was the attraction of the city of Teruel before all this? Well, on the down side in winter it is one of the coldest places in Spain with temperatures falling to more that -20 degrees centigrade. And that is cold. Surrounded by mountains to the North West and the east Teruel was also the site of one of the bloodiest Spanish Civil War battles on record with an estimated loss of life of around one hundred and forty thousand men in just over two months of fighting. This took place during the bitterest winter on record in twenty years. It certainly does not bear thinking about it.

However very much on the plus side, Teruel has always been the home of top quality cured ham with, of course, the help of happy piggies. Not only that, the town can lay claim to one of the most poignant legends of all Spain. This is ably demonstrated each year when on the fourteenth of February the town receives pilgrims from all parts of the world in order to visit the tombs of the ‘Amantes’de Teruel’ or ‘Lovers’ of Teruel.

Legend has it that in the year 1217 there lived in Teruel two important and prosperous families; the Marcillas and the Seguras. Our hero, Diego belonged to the Marcilla family whilst the heroin, Isabel, was part of the Segura family.

The two had been childhood sweethearts and had remained so in later years. Eventually the time came when they were the eligible age to marry. However, as luck would have it, Diego’s family had fallen on hard times so Isabel’s father, realising the implications of having a penniless son in law, opposed the marriage. Diego, not being so easily put off by this change in status, made an agreement with Isabel’s father that if he was not able to accumulate sufficient wealth within five years, away from Teruel, then he would withdraw as a suitor.

Not a sign or whisper was heard of Diego in those five years and during that time Isabel’s father encouraged her to marry but she refused, saying that God wished her to remain a virgin until twenty years of age and up until then she would dedicate herself to managing the household affairs. Then as the last day of the five year period arrived and nothing had been heard of Diego, Isabel’s father married her to the wealthy Don Pedro de Azagra from Albarracín, a nearby ‘pueblo’. Of course, on the very same day of the wedding the gate watchman informed the people of Teruel that Diego had arrived, bringing great riches and with the intention of claiming Isabel as his bride. Apparently the patient suitor had misjudged the day when the agreement was made so arrived too late. On that same night Diego sneaked in to the bedroom where Isabel and her husband were sleeping and gently woke her. He pleaded with her to kiss him saying that he was dying. She refused saying that God would not want her to deceive her husband and that he had better find someone else. Poor Diego pleaded with her one last time and after a further refusal fell dying at the feet of his beloved Isabel who then woke her husband and related what had taken place.

“Oh, you wretch!” cried her husband, “Why did you not kiss him?”

“Not to deceive my husband,” she replied.

“Of course,” he groaned, “you are a woman worthy of praise.”

As Don Pedro was concerned that he might be blamed for the death of Diego they agreed to bury him in the local church. Then next day, during the funeral for Diego Marcilla, Isabel appeared wearing her wedding dress. She walked slowly to the front of the church to where Diego laid in state, placed a kiss on the lips of the man whom she refused and in doing so fell dying, prostrate over the body of Diego.

The two lovers’ most ornate carved marble tombs are to be found in the church of, ‘San Pedro’ or Saint Peter’ in Teruel where the figure of Diego can be seen reaching out to touch the hand of Isabel but not quite making it in order to conserve the church’s moralistic leanings.

Standing there in the Bar Pigeon and staring at the enormous snail fossils almost as big as cart wheels on display, it took little imagination to see that they would fit in very well in the era of the giant dinosaurs. I personally was thinking for one moment that if they plonked one of those snails on my plate as a starter at the ‘Chez Jacque Bistro’ I would not even begin to think about the main course of ‘Poulet avec six legs’ and certainly not with a ‘Dino’ egg.

Once again outside the bar we crossed the road and passed through the stone archway and found ourselves in a pleasant, but small, square with a fountain bubbling happily away in the centre. To the right was the entrance to, if not the smallest, certainly the most attractive town hall we had ever set eyes on. Within the large wooden doors lay a charming and spotlessly flagstone courtyard with archways and high beamed roofs all together with a small iron barred cell which could possibly accommodate around a dozen hunchbacked midgets. There were numerous potted plants scattered about and the stone steps leading up to the offices had an abundance of ivy clinging to them. All in all I could imagine that it would be a very pleasant place indeed to be on a hot summer’s day.

A brief tour of the rest of the town revealed some wonderful old buildings with their high timbered roofs. One such magnificent place displayed a coat of arms over the main entrance announcing ‘Casa Leones’. It showed what were supposed to be two rampant lions in keeping with the name of the house. However the ravages of age and weather had taken their toll and what I was looking at were two extremely emaciated cats, their rib cages sticking out like warts on grandma’s nose. I could not resist taking a photograph of this dynamic duo and at a later date using it as a letter heading for the invitations mailed out for the English Speaking Luncheon Club of Valencia. What was then just a large rambling medieval house is now a very comfortable established hotel specialising in a wide variety of gastronomic pleasures and mainly dedicated to the elusive truffle.

Returning to the car we set off once again driving past the old Carmelite Convent and out of Rubielos de Mora well understanding why the town had been awarded a prize in the ‘Our-Europe’ competition in London in the 1980’s. The road spiralled steadily upwards and another of last winter’s generous gift of assorted pot holes became more frequent. Over to the right lay a deep valley clothed in a thick blanket of pines together with occasional clearings in which we could see pocket-sized, crumbling red tiled farms, the sort you see in travel pictures and paintings. The kind that appeared to be initially constructed to actually look ancient. I could imagine the estate agent’s sales presentations when promoting such properties to foreigners seeking retirement homes. A really ‘Monty Python’ situation.

“Now Sir, are you looking for something a little bit crumbling with just with a few rafters showing through the roof on one side of the house and the odd wall with a few cracks giving the impression that it is likely to fall and any moment? Or perhaps a property that looks as though it has been used for target practice in the Spanish Civil War? In the latter category we have some excellent holdings. Many of our satisfied customers have written saying that only one single photograph of their new home mailed to family and friends in the UK has virtually worked wonders. Some of them have never received any requests or suggestions of possible visits; their food stocks have not been consumed above normal and above all their wine cellar has, apart from personal consummation of course, remained totally intact!”

Here the salesman gives the client a ‘nod nod, wink wink’ and reaching down to the bottom draw of his desk, produces a file which is marked ‘FEO’. In Spanish the word ‘FEO’ means ugly. However in this instance it signifies, rather ‘James Bondish’ and for the English market. ‘For Your Eyes Only. Glancing around to make sure that there is nobody else within earshot he presents it to the client gently peeling back the cover.

“Now Sir, this group of properties is very special. It carries what is known as a double indemnity clause. Just look at this.”

And there for the client to feast his eyes on there is a photograph of an unsightly looking construction that your average person would not even consider worth visiting let alone buying.

“Of course,” points out the agent, “this is a photograph of the north side of the building. The whole construction has been specially designed to give the impression of a dwelling that looks as though one barmy breeze would be sufficient to bring the whole thing falling around the ears of anyone sufficiently close to it. It is a fine example of ‘FEO’.”

Next after observing the degree of doubtful expression on his client’s face he turns the page of one who has just removed the rabbit from the hat and ‘hey presto’ there it is, the south side of the building in all its glory. Half timbered façade with a fine, as he points out, Arabic red tile roof beneath which are dainty windows each with their shutters and window boxes full of geraniums. The entrance is a good solid looking door with carved figures in front of which lies the ample paved terrace embracing a large swimming pool surrounded with well manicured lawns reminiscent of an English bowling green. There are also rose beds and at the far end a gazebo of all things.

“There,” says our real estate man, “this side for family and close friends and the other for the not so welcome guests. Now when would you like to view?”

Higher and higher we motored with Betsy only complaining on the bends and eventually rumbled through the village with the unpronounceable name. It was Nogueruelas. Now there’s a mouthful. We assumed that if we came across any English people that appeared to be lost then that was probably the place they were seeking. The countryside then opened up as we neared the summit and looking behind us in the distance we could see range upon range of Blue Mountains many of which, to Samantha’s delight, had their ice cream topping of snow. During the short stop an examination of the map revealed that we were actually on the ‘Sierra of the village with the unpronounceable name’ and were looking back towards the skiing area of Javalambre which was a little easier to pronounce and not what I had first thought, a type of exotic fruit. All in all it looked great country for Dinosaur hopping.

It was during this short stop that I remembered Alberto’s words that we would be driving along one of the many roads that the legendary Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, better know as El Cid, the Conqueror, marched with his troops. I could not remember if the vet had mentioned a date but I calculated that it must have been around the same time as King Harold of England was having problems with the Norman invaders some thousand miles or so to the north.

El Cid is Spain’s most legendary hero and could easily lay claim to being one of history’s original mercenaries; equally employed by Christians to fight the Moors he was also contracted by the Moors to fight the Christians. Being exiled on several occasions he was always recalled by the simple fact that his expertise was such that he had never lost a battle. In other words El Cid was one to be on good terms with. Following his death, just four years after temporarily liberating Valencia from the Muslim dynasty of North Africa, the Almoravids, he was hailed as a hero by both Muslims and Christians. The poem, ‘Cantar de Mio Cid‘, revered in Spanish literary circles, describes El Cid as a perfect hero but a later verse describes him as being rebellious and disrespectful to the extent where on one occasion, at least, he pursued his enemies who had taken refuge in a holy sanctuary and killed them; a very grave offence in those days. Whatever the truth may be in one particular story I discovered a possible reason for El Cid’s seemingly aggressiveness.

Apparently he was engaged to Doña Jimena, (played by Sophia Loren in the epic film El Cid), who was the daughter of Diego Fernandez, Count of Asturias. One day a dispute of some kind arose between El Cid and her father and this quarrel resulted in El Cid resolving the matter by killing him.

Not surprisingly his bride to be was somewhat nettled by this direct action on the part of her future spouse and requested King Sancho I of Spain to avenge this wrongdoing. The King, possibly realising the implications, declined and Jimena pleaded with him that as an alternative he was to command that El Cid marry her and she, personally, would take care of the matter. This, the King agreed to do. So it might well have had the effect of Jimena taking on the part of the avenging angel and El Cid deciding against spending too much time at home.

On his many excursions around Spain contracting his services to the highest bidder, El Cid certainly did not lack any takers among the many Moorish and Christian Kings. In just under ten centuries the region of Aragon has had in all thirty-eight Christian kings including the present day King Juan Carlos. As for the Moorish Kings living in their own domains with their territorial problems, in those early years, there were so many of them it must have been a buyers market for the Cid who seemed to have travelled just about everywhere possible….., and not by all accounts, always in the right direction. Today in Spain we have the ‘Cinco Anillos del Cid’ or the ‘Five Rings of El Cid’ in various parts of the country, which seem to suggest that the Conqueror appears to have gone round in circles on more than one occasion. One part of such a circle was where I, Kathy and Samantha were at that moment. It was called the ‘Anillo del Maestrazgo’. I suppose that if the man had dedicated himself to navigating in a straight line he might easily have arrived in England in time to assist King Harold and things might have been different.

A short while later we came to the sign that read ‘Castelvispal 9’ “There we are,” I said and turned off to the right and straightaway onto a dirt track with its liberal scattering of gravel and more potholes. It wiggled its way along the side of the mountain amongst pines of differing heights and in many places between ‘Barancos’, ravines, and man made ditches. There were thick brambles on either side, which I supposed supported my theory that this must be excellent blackberry country. To the left lay another steep valley with its occasional ‘in need of repair’ farm house clinging to the far side and topped by presence of fine strong Scots pines. Every now and then we came across what seemed to be free range cows quietly grazing with their bells giving off that curious clanging, yet melodious, sound that can only be associated with mountains. I had the heater full on in the car and the window open. No, it wasn’t the time of year to catch the scent of rosemary and lavender but the air, clean, sharp and invigorating, poured in whilst our feet remained warm. The ford that Alberto had spoken of duly arrived in front of us and, fortunately, did not present a problem. Betsy splashed her way happily across and then we were climbing again.

Finally as we turned yet another bend, the ground fell away in front of us, and we were looking down on ‘Castelvispal’. It nestled in a thick pine clad valley that stretched out between mountains and cliffs disappearing in a southerly direction towards the coast.

“So that is the Bishop’s Castle,” said Kathy. “Stop the car and let’s take a look.”

I pulled over and out we climbed. We could plainly see the red tiled roofed whitewashed houses and a small church at the far end of the village. I looked for signs of the river but it was seemingly hidden from view from where we stood. “Not a lot of it,” I said. “I wonder who ever thought of building a village around here. Someone must have had a reason for doing so.” Kathy smiled, “Well if it was the Bishop he wouldn’t have had to explain to anyone would he? Just mark where the church was to be and the rest would follow.”

“What’s that building in the distance? It looks like some sort of large house.” She was pointing past the village and down the valley. “I’m sure it can’t be the bishop’s, he would never live in an ugly old place like that. And anyway I find the almond trees in full blossom down there on the right more interesting.”

I stared into the distance and eventually spotted the place. “It has to be an old warehouse or factory of some sort. Certainly a ruin now, but what is it doing down there?”

“Let’s ask them in the village, Batman,” she said. “and let’s get moving. It’ll soon be lunchtime and I for one want to be in one of those restaurants in Linares.

The track dropped steeply down and I prayed that there would not be a sudden onslaught of snow as we would then possibly be billeted in the church until Betsy could manage the return up hill climb. It was one of those deceptive tracks that you could see clearly below and every now and again you had the impression that it was going to be just one more bend. But no, it was not. There was always a couple more to go. However we eventually made it and sneaked into what seemed a deserted hamlet, crept gingerly around the side of a couple of cottages and came to rest in front of the church. I switched off the ignition and we sat in silence. In front of us was an iron railing beyond which was a drop of around five metres. This provided a natural balcony where it was possible to look down the valley once more and I could see, almost hidden by trees, the ugly old building that Kathy had spotted.

“It definitely was a factory at one time,” I said. “though what it made I cannot imagine.”

“I’d love to see inside the church,” Kathy turned in that direction. “it looks so pretty from the outside.”

“Well let’s see if Antonia is at home,” I said. “Alberto told me she has the key to the place.”

We left the car and although the air was quite still we were met by that vague sweet aroma of pine wood smoke. Wandering over to the iron railings we looked down at some rather neglected vegetable gardens below, the main produce appearing to be cabbages and cauliflowers the size of footballs. Then turning back we walked across to what we assumed was Antonia’s house. For such a small place it was certainly a large house, considerably larger than the church. It had the appearance of having been extended several times and had possibly grown with its owner. Understandably so, as we learnt later it was capable of housing forty of Antonia’s family when they all descended on her in the summer season for the holidays. At that moment it looked silent as though resting between annual bouts of children’s excited voices as they took over, racing around the place and preparing for the usual ‘Fiestas’. And above all things the streets were traffic free, a Godsend these days.

Tentatively I drew the usual beaded curtain to one side and knocked. Nothing. I tried a second time and was rewarded by a shrill voice that shouted something I took to mean ‘Un momento’. So we waited, feeling the sun on our backs and listening to the silence. I had the feeling that the church behind us seemed to be looking on approvingly. In no way am I a sensitive person but standing there I felt that in this small ‘pueblo’ tucked away in the mountains with the wonderful scenery we had found a small island of tranquillity where one could sit and think for a change, instead of having to put up with a background noise of traffic combined with exhaust fumes and the general bustle of Valencia’s city existence. At a later date I could write in all truth that ‘Here I was also happy’. Such was the feeling that enveloped me on that first visit to the ‘Bishops Castle’. It was a warm feeling.

When Antonia did open the door, the beaded curtain was swept back and we were faced with the wiry figure of someone who was accustomed to adjusting to whatever life decided to bestow on her. A pair of shrewd eyes assessed us instantly and then darted to Samantha who by chance had picked some sort of wild flower, pretty yellow things rather like an oversized dandelion, that she had found growing by the church and was now offering it to her. Obviously we passed muster as she said, “Gracias Pequeña,” accepting the flower and then, “What can I do for you?”

“Buenos dias,” I said my little bit which I had been mentally rehearsing, “we are friends of Alberto who sends his best wishes.”

A flash of suspicion crossed her face which was understandable as with all the Albertos in Spain it would have received the same reaction in England if I had said, “John sends his best regards.”

“Alberto,” she repeated slowly rearranging her grey hair, adjusting her black shawl and taking care not to damage Samantha’s flower, “what Alberto?”

“Alberto the vet from Valencia or rather Cullera,” I explained. “He comes up here to fish.”

Obviously the magic word was ‘fish’ for she instantly turned and pushed open the door which, at first, she had cautiously pulled to behind her. Then sweeping back the rattling curtain of beads a second time she said, “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Come on in.”

To enter we had two stone steps to negotiate and both Kathy and I had to crouch down so as not to crack our heads on an overhead beam. As Antonia had been speaking to us from below the steps she now appeared that much taller and it took little imagination to see her manipulating a fly rod. She gestured to the room with a casual wave of her hand. “Right, make yourselves comfortable while I put this little gift in something suitable.”

I took that moment to introduce ourselves and watched her expression as I said, “English, American and little bit of Spain”, indicating Samantha. I suppose to Antonia, stuck out here in the almost back of beyond, it must have seemed like a small delegation from the United Nations. Introductions completed, with the double cheek kisses, she excused herself and disappeared into another room.

It wasn’t a large room where we were by any standards but comfortable, with the usual large family table and several chairs scattered about. An iron stove stood in a strategic position, and as it was still issuing forth some heat I assumed that this had been burning all winter. The flagstone floor had no covering so it was not for bare feet, not at that moment anyway. On one wall were a variety of family photographs together with one large picture frame, very popular in Spanish homes, showing a number of photographs of which several, I assumed, included Antonia with relatives, were mostly young children of varying ages. And, of course, tucked in one corner of the room was the inevitable television set with an embroidered dust cover and a vase of incongruous multicoloured artificial flowers on top.

“Right, now what would you like to drink?” She had returned and it was obvious that she had been rearranging herself. Still in her widow’s black dress but gone was the grubby pinafore and shawl she was wearing before. “I haven’t got much but we have some coffee, beer or wine if you would like.”

Then before I could answer she went on, “Dear Alberto, eh? He’s a carácter. Un buen amigo. Used to come up here and pick my brains for the best places to fish.” “Antonia,” he would say, “I was thinking about trying down by the old factory today. What do you say?” And I would answer, “Maybe Alberto and maybe not.” He would then laugh and say, “Come on you old witch tell me where you caught that one last year which was as big as whale?” She threw back her head, laughed and we joined in.

“As big as a whale, would you believe? That’s what he said.” And at that moment it was not difficult to imagine her as a very attractive woman in her younger years. However as with many such village people, it was difficult to assess what her present age might be. A couple of years before I had been talking to a bank manager from a small village in the Pyrenees Mountains; fascinating personality, whose hobby was researching and documenting facts surrounding the mountain ‘pueblos’ that had been abandoned. He told me how the villagers would rise before sun up walk five, six or more kilometers, work all day and return home after dark. I remember him saying, in jest, that many of them had lived to such a ripe old age that on occasions the village elders would have had to consider despatching them with a bullet or they would have lived forever.

Antonia stopped laughing drew out a large handkerchief around the size of a serviceable table cloth and dabbed her eyes. “Oh, dear I am sorry” she said, “I was asking you what you would like to drink.” I smiled and said, “No thank you. Actually we are going to Linares for some lunch after we have seen your little church. Of course, if that’s alright with you?” She looked disappointed and I sensed that she was reluctant to release this trio of foreigners who were friends of Alberto. A thought occurred to her. “Of course I will show you the church now but why not come back this afternoon when there is a service and you can meet some of the others?” She smiled and added, “Alberto has many friends here who would love to know how he is and we usually have a coffee or something in the bar afterwards.”

“That sounds fine,” said Kathy. “What time is the service?”

“Around five o’clock, more or less. Usually when the priest arrives.”

“What’s the priest like?” Kathy asked.

Antonia smiled again showing that she still possessed most of her teeth. “Very nice, quite a young fellow really. Better than the last one. He was a problem. Nice enough but he drove us all mad.”

No way could I imagine how one Priest could turn up for one hour a week and drive everyone mad.”

“How did he do that?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“Well,” explained Antonia in a hushed voice a though the man might be lurking in the next room, “the poor man stuttered badly and of course you know what it is like. Everyone wanted to help and we sat on the edge of our seats just willing him to get it right. Quite exhausting really. The old lady two doors down almost had a nervous breakdown each Saturday dreading the thought that the next day she would be listening to him saying, “G..God the..the.. fa..fa..father, the..the..so..so..son..and the..ho..ho..holy ghost.” It was even worse when it came to the scriptures.” Then as an after thought she added, “I’m sure that’s why they sent him here. It wouldn’t do to have a stuttering priest in one of those big city churches would it?”

“No it certainly wouldn’t,” I agreed attempting to conceal my smile.

“A stuttering priest,” I thought. “Now there’s one for you. There cannot be many of those around.”

Antonia disappeared again into the next room and reappeared hauling the key to the church. I say hauling as it must have weighed a kilo or two. In fact it was solid iron and magnificent example of craftsmanship.

“Right, when you are ready,” she said, and we all followed her out and across the small square to the church and stood watching as she manipulated the king sized key into the lock and swung open the heavy wooden door.

“This is a real church,” she explained. “not just a hermitage.”

“Is that so?” I responded, not quite really knowing the difference.

“Yes,” she continued. “at one time there were well over one hundred people living in ‘Castelvispal’. That was when we had a permanent priest and the factory was working.”

“The derelict old building down the river was a factory then?” I asked.

“Yes it certainly was. They made textiles like many other factories in the area and very successful it was too in those early years. That’s when there was lot more water in the river then.”

Inside the church it was, as expected, cold, however there was an atmosphere that seemed to express that something that certain places can create. In spite of the pastel colours and abundance of artificial flowers together with various objects that people had brought as offering and were covering one wall. There was a sense of peace. We stayed for ten to fifteen minutes while I wandered around, Kathy sat contemplating the altar and Antonia chattered to Samantha.

Once again outside Antonia deftly locked the door and we bid farewell, promising to return later that afternoon. We stood by watching as she almost staggered back to her house under the weight of the giant latchkey. I drove out of the ‘pueblo’ without seeing a sign of another being and was pleased that Betsy managed the hill climb without too much complaining. Some fifteen minutes later we arrived back at the main road and swung right towards Linares de Mora. The road dropped towards another valley and up ahead we could see just part of the castle and church of Linares peering around the side of a mountain. It seemed as though it was acting as its own sentinel and taking stock of all those arriving by that particular route. Like many other ‘pueblos’ in the area it was a case of either clinging to the mountainside or being planted at the bottom of a valley.

When we did catch a full frontal view of the village, structurally it was dominated by the huge church and topped by the remains of a castle. However historical statistics were not one of our priorities at that particular moment as our stomachs were reminding us that it nearly three o’clock and Spanish Sunday lunchtime.

Whilst I was driving Kathy had fished out the paper on which Alberto had written his notes. I turned off the main road and cautiously down into the ‘pueblo’.

“On the left, Batman,” she now said. Then as we turned into the village she commented, “That’s the ‘Las Ventas’ restaurant on the right. Carry on and perhaps we will find the ‘El Portalico’ further on.”

And sure enough there it was up a steep incline on the right just before an archway entering the centre of the village. Dutifully I pulled over and parked. According to a sign we passed just before arriving at the village we were now several hundred metres higher than we had been at the Bishop’s Castle and this was certainly noticeable with the change of temperature when we left the car. However once through the doors of what the sign also claimed was a hostel and restaurant it was fine. Passing the small bar to the right we followed the sign saying ‘Comedor’ which was at the top of a short flight of stairs. A happy buzz of conversation greeted us together and tables with happy diners nodded a welcome in our direction. On one table just inside the door lay various pamphlets of one sort or another and I collected one that was said to contain information about Linares. If we were hungry before we arrived the aroma of cooking almost turned us into mouth watering savages. A charming young waitress conducted us to a table where the three of us made ourselves comfortable. The only downside was that in keeping with almost all the dining venues in Spain apart from noisy conversation a tape recorder was booming out the ‘Jotas’, the traditional Aragones dance. Never mind we concentrated on the menu whilst occasionally glancing at the variety of animals’ heads surrounded by colourful ceramic plates covering the walls. In keeping with the Spanish tendencies to create a rustic atmosphere there were the usual wild boars attempting to look evil, and succeeding, with their nasty little tusks, several roe deer who seemed bewildered by their ending up fixed firmly to a wall together with several other assorted beasts.

I remembered in one restaurant I had seen the head of a Lynx which is now the most endangered species of mammal in the whole world. Sadly there are only around 1.500 left. It was in 1952 that a French paediatrician introduced myxomatosis from Australia in order to control the rabbits that were plaguing his garden. So this selfish act resulted in the disease spreading all over Europe and that included Spain. Naturally it affected the lynx population who’s main diet was rabbits the animal requiring at least one rabbit a day and pregnant females three.

More commonly in these mountain restaurants you find the heads of the more common Ibex or ‘Montesa’ mountain goats sporting their enormous pairs of handsomely curved horns. The sight of them had me considering that the weight of those things possibly prevented the animal from raising its head and keeping a wary eye open for local hunters.

“Must keep a look out for them,” I thought. “According to Alberto there are supposed to be quite few in the area.”

“Here are the ‘Migas’,” Kathy chimed in pointing to the hand written menu.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll go for the ‘Migas’ as a starter. Anyone wish to join me?”

Then, of course, the typical family situation arose when Kathy said, “No. thanks. I’ll try some of yours.” As expected Samantha agreed on the same basis. As I was well prepared for such eventualities I now said, “I’ll tell you what we do. I’ll order a ration of ‘Migas’ and we can all try some and after that you both can please yourselves.” They nodded in agreement. The waitress passed by, I called her attention and gave her the order explaining our intentions of sampling this dish.

She smiled, “Certainly, Sir. No problem. With egg or grapes?”

“Egg or grapes?” I repeated being totally unprepared for this one.

“Yes, Sir. We serve the ‘Migas’ with a fried egg or grapes.”

“Well perhaps you had better bring us one of each,” I said settling the matter, “ and the wine list if you please.”

She looked puzzled for a moment, “Sorry, Sir. We have red wine or white wine. It’s all the same. It is the wine of the house.”

I glanced at the surrounding tables and on everyone stood carafes of red wine.

“Alright,” I said. We will have a carafe of red.”

And, of course, at that moment Kathy broke in, “I would prefer rosé wine; if you have any that is.”

The girl must have been around sixteen years of age and certainly innocent of the ways of working in a restaurant but at the same time out to please the clients, for she said, “Well at the last place I worked they used to mix some of the red with a white wine and it made a lovely rose colour. Shall I ask the kitchen to do that?” Both Kathy and I broke into laughter and the girl joined in though I was not sure why as I feel that she did not really grasp this innocent betrayal.

Dear Kathy responded, “That sound fine by me,” she said and we watched the girl disappear in the direction of the kitchen.

It was while we were waiting that I took the opportunity to take a peek at the tourist pamphlet that I had picked up on the way in to the restaurant. The title read ‘Linares de Mora’ and showed a photograph of the town covered in a thick layer of snow. I shivered just looking at it and then realised that the tourist authorities had produced this to encourage ski enthusiasts who might be tempted to stay in Linares and use the ski slopes in Valdelinares, around twenty minutes further on. I opened the brochure and noticed that the first line described Linares de Mora as originally being a ‘Fortified’ town.

This was not at all surprising as the majority of the villages and towns in the region described themselves as being ‘Fortified’. Personally I cannot ever look at the word without remembering that it was something that our family used to describe some wines that were bought at the local ‘Off Licence’. The sort that usually turned out to be very much on the sweet side and guaranteed to produce a disastrous hangover the following day if more than the odd glass was consumed. It was at that precise moment that the waitress returned with a soft drink for Samantha together with a carafe of rosé and a carafe of red. The latter, almost black in colour, virtually guaranteed that I would be consuming ‘fortified’ wine in this ‘fortified’ town. Anyway I continued to read whilst Kathy sloshed some of the heavy into my glass and saw that we were about to lunch in a place that was actually situated at a height of one thousand three hundred and eleven metres above sea level. It did not say how the eleven metres was calculated. I mean was the guy who did it standing up or sitting down and had he consumed some of that wine. Makes you think. Apparently the foundation date of Linares is not really known but in keeping with everywhere else in the area it was rescued from the Moors by Alfonso II of Aragon. Other titbits in the touristy publicity recommended a visit to the ‘Pino del Escabon’ which, according to the writer, was a pine tree of some twenty three metres or around seventy-five feet in height. No big deal really unless you consider that that was around the total height of five London buses or that you were looking for a couple of years firewood for the stove. Other town activities mentioned, apart from a fairly long list of ‘fiestas’, was that Linares was well know for its orchestra that included in the population several competent singers of the ‘Jota’ a regional dance.

Also available for visitors who loved the outdoors, there were well signalled tracks for hikers, or mountain bikers as well as some rock climbing. Of course, depending on the amount of snow the weatherman delivered in the winter there were the ski slopes some miles further up the mountain.

Apart from this information there was little to indicate that in my personal future this town of some three hundred and twenty inhabitants was going to turn out to be a small place but with an exceptionally large heart.

Eventually the two terracotta dishes arrived with the ‘Migas’. As was expected one dish had around a half dozen white grapes whilst the other was covered by a simple fried egg. The waitress stood by waiting for our reaction and when none of us made any move she said, “What most people do is mix the egg or the grapes in with the ‘Migas’”. “Sounds fine by me,” I said reaching for a knife and fork.

‘Migas’ simply means breadcrumbs and this formed the basis for the dish which also contained small pieces if chorizo sausage all mixed together with the egg or grapes. They were simply delicious and we took our time enjoying the new experience together with this rather powerful wine which I was informed came from the Cariñena region towards Zaragoza. As a second course we ordered a dish of lamb chops for the three of us and as a sweet I chose the ‘Cuajada’, rather like a yogurt with goat’s milk served with honey. Wonderful! Then finally the coffee arrived with me declining an invitation of the house for a glass of brandy on the grounds of driving. Not, I hasten to add in those pre-breathalyser days because of police reprisal, but the fact that I needed all my wits about me for driving back to the ‘Bishop Castle’.

When we eventually settled the most reasonable bill we left ‘El Portalico’ and were once more on the rickety road to ‘Castelvispal’, it was then that we found ourselves following in the wake of another car which turned out to be driven by the local priest. With him were several other passengers, probably the back up team of supporters for the church service. On arrival we found a small group gathered outside the church amongst which was Antonia. After greeting us she did us the honour of presenting us to everyone there including the priest, a small forlorn man who, I am pleased to say, was blessed with perfect dictation. I decided not to attend the service and instead take Samantha for a walk down towards the end of the village where Kathy had spotted the blossoming almond trees that morning.

It was not easy walking over cobble stones of differing sizes that appeared to have been laid by some council worker with defective eyesight but eventually we arrived at a small partly covered communal ‘Lavandero’ at the far end of the village. These small quaint constructions can be seen in almost any Spanish village although they are hardly used nowadays. With waist high flat stones as smooth as marble for beating out the grime on your clothes it appeared to be an ideal place for meeting up with others similarly inclined and to exchange personal greetings instead of listening to the metabolic murmurings of the electric washing machine indoors. There was a low wall nearby which conveniently served as a seat, so we sat down. I looked about me and concluded that I could see myself happily passing an hour or so in this spot and at the same time being tuned in to the melodious clanking of distant cow bells together with the gurgling sound of the never ending supply of fresh spring water which bubbled in through one side of the small building then scurried out the other dropping into a drain seemingly anxious to return to the river in a southerly direction towards the abandoned textile factory. Nearby somebody had constructed a practical barbeque together with an adequate supply of logs. It needed just a little effort on one’s part to rake the cold ashes aside, place a few twigs and a couple of logs, set fire to them and ‘bingo’ within a few minutes one could be enjoying sausages, chops or whatever. Further down the hillside lay the almond trees and what a sight. In full bloom their fluffy white blossom seemed to smother the whole area and although there were only around fifteen to twenty trees it was difficult to see the ground below them.

Samantha was speaking, almost in a whisper.

“Look, Papa. Over there in those trees.”

I looked in the direction in which she was pointing across the valley but saw nothing.

“Sorry, but what am I supposed to see?”

“Over there by that funny shaped rock that looks like a chimney.”

I stared hard and in the now fading light I finally detected a very slight movement amongst the pines. It was a slow gentle delicate motion that from a distance just might have seen to be the stirring of a breeze. Then my eyes picked out one, then another and yet another of them; all busily grazing.

“There’s got to be a leader somewhere amongst those,” I said quietly.

And sure enough slightly up hill and apart from the rest of the herd stood a fine ‘Montesa’ male goat.

“Look, Samantha. A little way above and to the right of that rock, it’s a Billy goat. See that beard and those magnificent horns?”

“Yes, Papa, I see him. He looks as though he is staring right at us.”

I laughed, “He sure does. It sort of takes one old goat to recognise another.”

We sat there for a while enthralled, observing the group which seemed to be slowly moving purposefully up the mountain. I was pleased for both of us and felt very privileged to have come across these rather special species of animal on our first real trip to the area.

I had been told that the ‘pueblo’ bar was situated somewhere along this particular road but on the way to the wash house saw no signs of anything even resembling such a place; just a row of white washed cottages quietly waiting for the summer. However on our return we saw Kathy and Antonia in the distance, together with other villagers disappearing in to what looked like somebody’s front door. So we followed.

It was just one small room that would not have been able to comfortably accommodate more than a dozen people at any one time. There was a small bar around six feet in length to the left and behind it several shelves which supported an assortment of bottles some of which, judging by their faded labels, must have been there during the Spanish Civil War. However, for me personally, the crowning glory of the place was at the far end of the bar tucked into one corner and perched on what looked like a wooden stand constructed for that very purpose; a lighted ‘Camping stove’ over which burbling happily away was a jug from which issued the captivating aroma of coffee. No Italian styled giant glinting chrome contraption with taps, irritating hisses and ear splitting automatic coffee grinders that start up when you are in the middle of an interesting conversation. No, just one simple camping stove which adequately provided the client’s needs.

Tending the bar was a small cheerful character that looked as though he was enjoying the company as much as the priest had enjoyed his congregation some minutes before. Just three small tables, an adequate number of odd chairs saw that we all made ourselves comfortable.

It was obvious from the way some of the others were dressed that they had journeyed there from towns or cities outside of the village in order to visit their families or friends. Later someone said that some of those present had come from Barcelona for the week-end; that in itself being a fair distance. All in all it was a small festive occasion with, I suppose, the presence of our small family adding a little more flavour to the atmosphere. The babble of conversation rose as villagers caught up on the news from the outside world and it was interesting to note how different were the values between what went on in the village and what happened outside. One man was explaining about the political changes in Cataluña whilst another villager was describing how one of the free range cows had become stuck in the mud down by the river and they had had to use ropes and a Land Rover to extract it. “It were makin’ so much noise yer could ‘ear it from ‘ere to Linares!” he said laughingly. And everyone present was happy for him.

At one point I was absolutely fascinated by a middle aged, elegantly dressed lady who was describing how a few years before she had had difficulty in persuading her grandmother to attend the funeral of her grandfather. Of course, thinking that this was most strange, I could not resist asking why. Only too pleased to oblige she explained, “Well, my mother and father were helping to lay grandpa out for the funeral and as he had demanded they were dressing him in his Sunday best suit. It was then that my mother noticed that there was a funny rustling sound coming from his suit.” I glanced around me and apart from me and Kathy everyone present was smiling as if they knew what was coming. “And?” I ventured. “And,” she continued, “it turned out that grandpa had gone to the trouble of unstitching all the lining of his suit and sewing in all his savings. It must have taken ages. There were loads of thousand peseta notes. My grandma was furious. She kept repeating, ‘The old goat wanted to take it all with him’. We had an awful job to persuade her to attend the funeral she was so mad!” Everybody was laughing and we joined in.

A few minutes later when I was finishing my second cup of coffee the door opened and in came a young boy of around twelve years of age. “This is my nephew,” one of the other ladies said, then added, “He speaks English.” As we had introduced Kathy as an English teacher I nudged her and she said to the boy, “Well then say something in English.” The child glanced round at the ready made audience and said for all to hear, “Looookeee Streeek.” “Who taught you that? Kathy asked. “My uncle,” said the boy proudly. “Anything else?” prompted Kathy. The boy took a deep breath and said, “Falleepi Moorris.” Now everyone was looking expectantly at Kathy who nodded approvingly and said, in the way of encouragement, “Well I suppose it is a beginning anyway.”

And so the conversation ebbed and flowed with questions such as, “Is it possible to drive to America?” and “Does the Queen of England have control of all the money?” We answered these questions seriously and I felt that we had, at least, dispensed a little more general knowledge and, at least, corrected some geographical myths.

At one point Kathy asked how the villagers who stayed there for the winter months managed to organise their basic supplies and was told that that was simple. “We simply telephone the postman,” said one elderly lady, “and he brings whatever we need.” She looked around at the others then added, “That’s of course if he can get through.”

A glance outside told me that it would soon be dark and I could well be negotiating those sharp bends by headlights. This animated me to begin saying ‘Adios’ to our new found friends who seemed to be settling in for the evening. It was then that Kathy decided she wished to use the toilet and as there was no sign of the facility in the place I remembered Alberto’s comment about nearby houses. However before I could mention it one elderly lady stood up and offered to conduct Kathy to her nearby cottage.

It was later when we had finally taken to the road once more that I asked Kathy what the young lad who, was supposed to speak English, had been on about. She laughed and said, “He was talking about cigarettes; Lucky Strike and Phillip Morris.” “You’re a bloody genius,” I said, “I would never have guessed.” And Samantha just giggled.

It had turned damp and rather cold and I had Betsy’s heater going full blast. Then just before we came to the main road again I wound down the window and breathed deeply. Alberto was right; there was just that certain something about the air that held the promise of what was to come later in the year. It took little to image long hot summer days with the breath of lavender, wild rosemary and thyme together with cowbells mixing with children’s raised voices as they celebrated their fiestas at the Bishop’s Castle.

A PLATE OF HAM AND EGGS WITH ‘UNCLE JOHN’ AND THE WOLVES

A short factual story on Spaniards and noise.

Tony, a Spanish friend of mine for some years, told me how he emigrated from Valencia, Spain to the UK in the 1960’s. His sister was already living near Leicester and it was natural that initially Tony went to live with her and her husband. Anxious to integrate himself into the British lifestyle he would accompany his brother-in-law to the various pubs in the area. When I spoke to him about this on his return to Spain he admitted that it was some time before he realised that it was possible to drink more than two pints in any one place. This intriguing admission prompted me to ask him to explain. Apparently the two men would go into a pub and order a pint of beer each. It was after the second pint that things became complicated and a request for a third was met by the landlord’s refusal to serve them followed by his asking them to leave. This same procedure would occur at the next watering hole and when I asked Tony to explain he said, “Most of us Latinos cannot talk without waving our arms about. In fact many of us would be struck dumb if we lost the use of our hands and arms. So it would only need a couple of pints and we would be start talking away in Spanish at the tops of our voices. Then the request for a third pint would result in our being asked to leave.”

So noise, any sort of noise, is an integral part of Spanish life and there is little one can do to change the situation. Therefore it was much to my surprise, when I read that one imaginative person had christened the Maestrazgo region as being a ‘Laberinto de Silencio’ or ‘The Labyrinth of Silence’. For the privileged few who are acquainted with the region this is certainly a worthy title and also deserves some attentionThere are fifteen municipalities in an area of one thousand two hundred square kilometres and only three of them have a population of more than five hundred inhabitants. This works out that for each and every inhabitant there is an area of something akin to five hundred, yes five hundred, football pitches in which to move around. That is space, a lot of space and even with arms going like windmills and shouting at the top end of the scale it would be impossible to create an environmental scandal; with or without the aid of five star ale. I am not surprised that the region is officially designated as being depopulated.

I lived for a time in the county of Wiltshire. I was an enthusiastic visitor to the Yorkshire dales and would bask in the glorious feeling of open spaces in general. This sensation comes upon me in certain areas of France; however there is nothing to compare with the Maestrazgo region of Spain. The Maestrazgo is the only area where I can honestly say that the emptiness is, without doubt, awe inspiring. Stopping at any of the designated ‘Miradors’ or ‘Viewpoints’ one can, on occasions, have the sensation of not only being able to see for almost ever but that one can reach out and actually touch the space.

To drive around the area in the early 1960’s certainly was not for the faint hearted as in those early years the motorist had to maintain a wary eye open for two dangers that could put a very unpleasant, permanent stop to his journey. The first was the existence of ‘barrancos’ or dykes that unexpectedly crossed the roads at irregular intervals. I first came across these obstacles on the main Zaragoza to Teruel road which today is a fine ‘Autovia’ or Freeway. Of course, in and around the secondary highways off to the left once past Teruel, they became more of a problem. Fed by water from the melting winter snows or sudden summer storms among the peaks rising to around two thousand meters in the Maestrazgo, these gullies were natural water courses often as much as one meter or more deep. If your car had good, firm, suspension it was possible to drive carefully down into them, keeping a wary eye open for large rocks or debris at the bottom, then up and out on the far side. Of course, that was when they were dry. And when it was raining? Well that was another story.

What was curious was that you could be driving along in bright sunshine enjoying the scenery when, unbeknown to you, high up above in those sullen pinnacles a storm might be raging. Then gushing torrents of muddy water would come hurtling down at racing car speed, filling those channels in seconds. Swirling muddy waters carrying logs and boulders half the size of your car together with the occasional dead sheep or goat that had not been sufficiently agile to get out of the way. When this happened the only solution was to wait patiently until the waters subsided and then continue.

As if this was not sufficient to dissuade the motorist, there existed a second difficulty; that of large stones. Confined always, thank goodness, to hills and unusually long inclines, these stones were deliberately placed there. The carrier with his mule and cart, transporting feed, wood or whatever, would grant his beast a deserved break on these gradients by seeking out a large stone at the side of the road and placing it behind one of the cart wheels. This would then take the weight of the cart and the animal could rest. After a while the drover would then climb aboard once more and with a cry of, “Ooooo Pah!” stir the animal into action, leaving the obstacle still in place. These stones, often the size of footballs, would then lie in wait for the unwary motorist. On more than one occasion I have seen oil sumps ripped out due to this lack of consideration. Nowadays, thank goodness, things are different. The major roads in the region are blessed with reasonable surfaces. But even these seem to suffer during the harsh winter, and of course, today there are fewer carts and even fewer mules.

So in the Maestrazgo wherever you go, one is constantly aware of space. You can drive mile after mile without even seeing another vehicle or dwelling of any kind; apart, that is, from the odd isolated ‘Masia’ or farm. These ‘Masias’ were sometimes constructed in strategic locations along routes between towns and villages. Such were the turbulent times over the centuries that they included their own fortification in the form of turrets making it easier to defend the place than run to the nearest village. Even today in this twenty-first century many of these ‘Masias’ are still not blessed by being connected to mains services like water and electric light.

For instance in the village of Mirambel, which can truly claim to be a small bright diamond’ in the crown of the Maestrazgo, there was a great deal of celebrating in the last days of 1996 due to the arrival of electricity at some of these out of the way dwellings. Until then there had been no television and certainly no facilities for computers or such necessities for the young people of today. Quite an achievement really as when one considers that over the last hundred years the whole region has been suffering from a gradual decline in population and to some the cost of bringing these modern day facilities must have hardly seemed worth it. The village of Mirambel had a population of 1.300 inhabitants at the beginning of the last century. This has now dwindled to just 144, only one decade into this present century. What is even more disturbing is that there are few, if any, births and this certainly does not compensate for the elderly who are dying off. Sadly this situation is indicative of practically all the villages in the Maestrazgo.

As mentioned earlier the authorities are attempting to reverse this problem, by sensibly selecting rural tourism as a positive remedy. This has been, like most things in this country of ‘Mañana’, slow in taking off as you can imagine with the groundwork and basic facilities for visitors lacking a great deal. Not surprising really, the reason being that up until now the only pursuits really compatible with such a barren region were agriculture and a very limited amount of tourism. Naturally the latter was virtually unheard of until the 60’s and 70’s. Even then it was mainly limited to the coastal regions.

So far the results for ‘rural tourism’ have therefore been slow but reasonably successful. Little by little people are becoming aware that this small corner of Spain, still virtually unknown, is a potential paradise for outdoor activities. The hiker, the rambler or the biker now have around eighty different well-marked routes to choose from including the renowned GR-8. Anyone who has been lucky enough to experience any of them will confirm that the scenery is nothing less than breath taking; in many parts the feeling of possibly being the only human beings left on the planet is very present. I say the only beings on the planet, that is, apart from the company of Bonelli’s eagles and the Leonardo vultures. They are always around. Silently drifting high above on the undulating air currents one is rarely out of sight of these fascinating creatures.

Accommodation facilities are improving almost daily, and for the rural establishments providing a service the region has adopted a system of ‘Ears of Wheat’ to give visitors an idea of the standard being offered. Unlike the system of stars with hotels the ‘Ears of Wheat’ displayed is nothing to do with the legality of the establishment. It is a self imposed rating whereby the proprietors have to demonstrate their ability to reach a certain level of acceptable quality.

After that first visit to Linares de Mora our small family was constantly returning and over the years cultivating more friends amongst the small population, at the same time enjoying the wonderful scenery that surrounds the village. We became familiar figures at the now three small hotels and the village bar where, as Alberto had promised, we were introduced to local ham and eggs. Now what could be simpler than ham and eggs? Nothing I suppose, and that is exactly what I thought until Josepa demonstrated that within her kitchen, where you would find it impossible to swing a cat, even if you wished to, she could produce on the griddle this simple but glorious combination. Slices of cured local ham cut just to the correct thickness accompanied with two morning-fresh fried eggs. Eaten with hot baked crispy bread and a glass of red wine (why not, it is only once in a while?). It is truly an unforgettable experience.

Another of the village personalities is the local butcher, Angel, whose vocal chords, when singing the traditional ‘Jotas’, can shrivel a bunch of grapes at ten paces. Imagine that! An accomplished guitar, percussion and accordion player I have had the pleasure of joining him and several other such maestros of music on many occasion. Angel also loves to talk about his various trips abroad to America and to the pubs in Ireland where judging by the amount of free Guinness he consumed; he was very much appreciated by all he encountered.

In Spain no village is complete without a mayor and in fact there are, at the moment of writing, eight thousand one hundred mayors registered. Even taking into consideration that the Spanish mayoral capacity unlike the English involves considerable administrative duties it is still a great deal in comparison with England’s small number.

The present Lady Mayoress of Linares de Mora, Yolanda Sevilla, is another elected official dedicated to the welfare of the town, its inhabitants and the delicate work of guiding the locality through modern day murky waters to an unsure future. A spry young woman who, it would seem, would have difficulty in keeping her feet firmly on the ground when facing the blustering snow laden winds that hurry down from the Pyrenees Mountains to the north. However Yolanda not only conducts the affairs of the village but also manages the Hostal Portalico at the same time.

Having stayed there on many occasions in the winter months I soaked myself in the warm atmosphere of good company, a cheery wood burning iron stove and rousing live music from some of the local musicians. The Portalico restaurant is well worthy of a mention. Not only do they provide a fairly varied menu that includes the ‘Migas’ but also a wonderful selection of prime meats supplied from their own cattle. Wild boar cooked to perfection is also a fine alternative.

Now a curious thing is that until my time spent at this hospitable refuge I had not, in the past, paid much attention to window sills. I mean to say that window sills to me, up until then, were what they are …just window sills. Some are narrow others wide enough to accommodate the usual geranium filled flower or whatever plant on which their owner’s choice descends. Now the wide solid grey stone window sills in the bedrooms of the Portalico have taken on for me an entirely new aspect. Not that the Portalico’s accommodate plant filled pots, although I am certain that Yolanda would supply them if I had requested. No, these window sills have turned out to be something more of a practical nature and a serious aid for my personal pleasure and well being.

To wake up on a cold winter’s morning, pull back the curtains and feast my eyes on the white wonderland of bright sunshine and the mountain laden with snow is pleasing enough, but to see the bottle of cold dry Spanish Cava sitting on the window sill together with a carton of fresh milk within hands reach is the icing on the Christmas cake. Why the milk you may ask? Well quite simply this. I normally travel with a small electric water heater which enables me to brew two cups of tea and the fresh milk is the result of my improvised fridge. The Cava, of course, is the back up as with a couple of glasses consumed during breakfast it works miracles. Believe me there is no better tonic for turning what might be a good day into a great one.

We certainly cannot move on without mentioning the previous Mayor of Linares, Antonio Benedict. Born in Linares de Mora he was the son of a father dedicated to cattle breeding. Antonio lived with his family on one of the hundred odd ‘Masias’ in the area, of which today only five are habitable. Like all the ‘Masias’ in that vast region the nearest neighbours were quite some distance away. He remembers the time when his grandfather was complaining how one of their dogs had been killed by wolves that had come down out of the mountains seeking food; apparently not an unusual occurrence in those days. Antonio attended the local village school and was obviously a bright pupil with a leaning towards the arts and particularly local history. As he grew up he became interested in everything and anything that coincided with the interests of his fellow villagers. Active with the organising of the local ‘Fiestas’ of which there were, and still are, a considerable number he is always to the forefront. Also, apart from his mayoral duties, he dedicates what time he can to his small factory where he forges anything to do with metal for construction for the local builders. An outstanding craftsman, he was responsible for the impressive statue of St. Christopher which is to be found at the entrance to Linares village. A slim wiry figure of a man with a wide smile and quick dark eyes given to dressing in what one might say ‘smart casual’, usually consisting of jeans and one of those brightly coloured lumberjack shirts, he has certainly improved the lot of many of his compatriots who live in the area, and having an interest in their well being it was natural that after an interest in politics over the last years he should be nominated mayor.

And so it was that over dinner one evening in ‘Los Tres Hermnos’ that Antonio inspired me to see for myself what lay on the other side of the mountain where the ‘Labyrinth of Silence’ lay in wait.

He began by filling me in on his background.

“I lived and worked in the town of Cantavieja,” he explained. “Cantavieja is known as the official historical capital of the Maestrazgo and although it doesn’t have a great deal to offer in the way of architecture I can assure you that is as good a place as any to start exploring the Maestrazgo. That is if you are seriously planning to go up there.”

Pencil at the ready I made a note on one of the paper napkins which are always to hand in any bar or restaurant, then asked laughing, “What about wolves. Will I be seeing any wolves?”

He smiled, his face then taking on a more serious expression. “Who knows? You never can tell. Anything in the way of wild life could be up there. They say that Tio Juan is back again near Morella. Two packs have been sighted and quite recently if I remember correctly there have been sightings actually within forty kilometres of Barcelona.”

“Tio Juan?” I repeated. “Who the hell is Tio Juan?”

“Tio Juan or as you might say, Uncle John,” explained Antonio, “refers to the wolves.”

It was my turn to look serious. “You’re joking aren’t you?”

“Certainly not joking, Chris. No way. You might well be surprised to know that in the Spanish language there are, at least, seventy words used to talk about wolves without mentioning the actual word ‘Wolf’.” Here he paused and sipped a little more wine before continuing and I noticed that the fingers holding the glass were strong calloused fingers obviously used to manual labour. “You see in the old days,” he continued, “people believed that if they spoke the name ‘Wolf’ the animal itself would suddenly appear before them. It might appear silly in this day and age but even a hundred years ago things were very much different. I’m sure you know that throughout history one way and another, wolves have been serious business. Wolves have been around for something like fifty odd million years. Can you imagine that? There is no animal on this planet that has evoked more fear and respect from mankind than the wolf. So if ‘Tio Juan’ has returned to Spain, smarter and, more resourceful than before it means that he is here to stay this time.”

We were both silent for a while giving me time to digest his words. I could even begin imagine an animal that has been around that long.

“Even our dictator Franco,” Antonio, went on, “viewed the wolf as a third world animal and actively encouraged its extinction. In fact even today the wolf in Spain is looked upon as a game animal that can be killed the same as wild boar or deer. I might well be correct in saying that certain local governments on the other side of the River Duero actually make money by granting licenses to hunt the animal. I think they consider it more beneficial than paying out farmer’s compensation for any damage that the wolves might have done.” He paused then said, “It’s different in Catalonia. There they pay compensation for animals slaughtered. I think I read somewhere where it is around ninety-five euros for a sheep to something like two thousand five hundred for a cow.” He then laughed and said. ”Even that is calculated by the local government as it is packs of wild dogs that kill the most, and for them there is no compensation.”

“And I always thought the wolf was a protected species,” I said.

“Of course there are certain areas where it has been added to the protected list, but there is usually some sort of proviso that if there is any damage attributed to wolves then they can be hunted down and killed. Either way the animal just might have been a loser in Spain. But being a wolf is one of the world’s finest survivors; I now doubt that very much.”

“So what makes you think that Tio Juan is back in the Maestrazgo?” I asked.

Antonio grinned. “Logic really, I suppose. With people abandoning their non economic ‘Masias’ in the remote areas the environment is what you might say more wolf friendly; meaning less populated. Also the species that has been spotted is originally from Italy. How about that? There exists a theory that the wolf has taken twenty years to travel across the Alps to Catalonia so a few more kilometers in this direction is well….. nothing really.”

“And what about Spanish wolf legends, Antonio? Do you have many of those?”

“Well I don’t think we have as many as Russia and the northern countries but we certainly have our share and in several cases they are well documented and not just myths.” He paused and I could see he was thinking. Then making up his mind he said. ”For example look what happened to Marcos Rodriquez who is still alive today.”

My curiosity was now thoroughly aroused and sensing a good story I leaned across the table towards him. “Go on, Antonio. Tell me about this Marcos.”

He could see that I was keen to know and like the good storyteller he said nothing; just reached over for the bottle of wine, poured a little in each of our glasses and sat back looking at me. We both knew he was going to tell me but was determined to make me wait just that little bit longer.

Now the only people left in the restaurant, we were sitting at a table near to the fire place. Matilde came in quietly and as serious as ever tossed another log onto the glowing embers. There was an impressive shower of sparks that rapidly disappeared up the chimney. It was the time and place for a good tale. Even the head of the ‘Montesa’ goat mounted on the wall seemed to be quietly observing us; listening intently.

“Come on, Antonio,” I encouraged again, “Tell me about Marcos and Tio Juan.”

But Antonio was still not to be hurried. Another sip of ‘vino tinto’ then placing the glass onto the table he sat back and wriggled himself into a comfortable position.

This is the story he told.

Marcos Rodriguez Pantoja was born in the small village of Añora in Andalucia, Southern Spain; the year 1946. He lived with his step family who treated him extremely badly. Beaten cruelly and most of the time going hungry he was not unhappy with the arrival one day of a stranger on a chestnut coloured horse. Funnily enough the colour of the horse is the one thing he remembers clearly until this day. The stranger who, after some exchange of words and certainly money, Marcos was lifted up onto the animal and taken away. In a country which at that time was still licking it’s wounds only eight years after the end of the Civil War it was not uncommon for families beset by hunger to do such bartering.

It turned out that the man was a shepherd who lived in one of the most inaccessible parts of the Sierra Morena Mountains. And so it was there that Marcos was put to work tending the goats. All went well for some months until suddenly the old shepherd died and the boy was left to fend for himself. Around eight years of age, he survived by eating berries, mushrooms and what meat he could catch in the form of birds and rabbits. He devised a means of fishing by preparing a trap and stunning the fish with rocks then eating them raw. All in all it appeared that Marcos was a most resourceful child.

Then one day he heard whimpering sounds coming from behind some rocks and on investigating found several baby wolf cubs. Whilst sharing his meagre supply of meat with them he was surprised by their mother who appeared and gave the boy a sharp nip, warning him off. It was only a few days later when he was in his cave that the she wolf reappeared. Marcos was terrified that the animal was going to attack him but instead the wolf laid down some meat she was carrying and wandered off. And so began his relationship with the wolves.

Things improved rapidly as he integrated into this unusual life with the animals. As Marcos explained, “They were my family and we looked after each other.” Together they would hunt food and by observing them Marcos quickly learnt how to out manoeuvre some of the larger animals like Roe Deer. By this time his skin had taken on a leathery appearance and he had little need for clothing in the warmer weather. However when the bitter mountain winters came he would use the hide of larger animals to cover himself. Sure there were times when he went hungry as did the rest of his “family” but even this did not compare with what he had suffered in his first seven years in Añora. To quote Marcos, “The twelve years living with the wolves were the happiest years of my life.”

Then things changed considerably.

One day he was spotted by a hunter who had wandered into the area and the man reported the incident to the Civil Guard. Within a short time they had Marcos cornered and virtually dragged back to civilisation. Initially he was taken to Madrid and was cared for by some nuns who, although well meaning, found him a problem particularly in respect of his eating habits and diet. Marcos found it almost impossible to adapt to the food he was offered especially after years of living on raw flesh and what the land had to offer. Having also lost the ability of coherent speech things became even more difficult. Then, not surprisingly, Spanish bureaucracy intervened and poor Marcos was drafted into obligatory military service. Whichever way one might look at it he passed an extremely bad time in what we term as liberty.

However as sometimes happens things do turn out for the better and Marcos now lives with a retired policeman and spends his days wandering around the countryside picking mushrooms, wild berries or whatever. Only once, after forty years, has he returned to area where he lived for those twelve years.

Antonio finished telling his story then sat back looking at me.

“So Marcos must be ten years younger than me,” I said. “And is he still around?

My friend smiled and gazed at the now empty wine carafe as though wondering whether we had drunk it or perhaps it had evaporated into thin air.

“Oh, yes. Apparently very much so. A funny thing though. The retired policeman with whom he lives says that Marcos is still a boy. Those twelve years seem to have had the effect of slowing down his normal development as a man and no matter what they have attempted to try to regain those lost years, he still remains a child.

That night I didn’t even want to think about driving back to Valencia. Antonio had taken his leave so I just wandered into the kitchen where Matilde was busying herself with the preparation of the next day’s meals and asked her for a room. “The keys are over there,” she said nodding to rack on one wall. “Take number three. That’s nearly over the fireplace and next to the chimney. You’ll be fine there.” Thanking her I left the kitchen and mounted the stairs feeling deliciously tired. Falling into bed I was soon asleep and dreaming of wolves, but in a nice way. Not the curling lipped, snarling animals I was used to seeing on the screen but the carefree ready to play type of animal who only reverted to type when they were hungry. In fact one might use the same criteria when we say that a hungry man is an angry man would serve equally so that a hungry wolf is an angry wolf.

PATHFINDERS TO THE LABYRINTH OF SILENCE

From all major points of the compass there are now reasonably surfaced highways for finding your way to the Maestrazgo by car and having experienced almost all of them my personal preference will always remain the road that passes Linares de Mora. Not, I hasten to add, because it was the first, but because it is the one that creates within me a glorious feeling of expectation. Once past the village there is a short sharp climb then turning off to the left the road drops down until it is following the course of the river Linares through rocky pine clad gorges of the Sierra de Güdar. Then climbing upwards again we finally come to the highest municipality in all of Spain; Valdelinares. It is at that point that wide open spaces roll out before you like some giant magic carpet with the ski slopes on the Peñarroya mountain to the left and at only a few kilometers further on that one encounters the Puerto de Valdelinares at over 1.800 metres.

To stop there for a moment and walk away from the car on a windless day is to find oneself in complete limbo. Everything stops, nothing moves. Apart from the gorse bushes clinging to the dry stony earth there is no vegetation to speak of and no trees. No birds, no nothing. Just silence. And that faint hint of thyme in the air.

Awesome.

The first time I made this approach to the Maestrazgo it brought to me an almost childish sense of feeling that before me is something within my reach that exudes adventure; a feeling that something pleasant akin to that of a child on Christmas Eve. These feelings of expectations have, as I have grown older, not always been on the positive side. In fact when things tend to go wrong, car breaking down or similar, I always try and view them with a curiosity, a feeling of ‘I wonder what is going to happen now attitude?’ And, of course, I am never disappointed as something always does.

It was only recently that by chance I came across another approach to the Maestrazgo. I was in Huesca that slate grey, delightfully ancient, town nestling in the lap of the Pyrenees Mountains just fifty miles from Zaragoza the autonomous capital of Aragon.

Let me explain.

Nowadays in Spain it is virtually impossible to buy a car, new or second hand, that does not have air conditioning. In other words a car has to be extremely old not to provide the comfort of being able to travel in extremely high temperatures. My car does not have air conditioning which gives some indication as to the age of Betsy III. Whereas this omission, I am certain, causes discomfort to anyone travelling with me, I personally, am little affected. This is because in my early years I developed this rather unusual taste for experiencing extremes where weather is concerned. I remember being repeatedly told that ‘Absolutely nobody goes to La Mancha (Don Quixote country) in August. The heat is unbearable.’ “Ho! ho!” I thought, “I must try some of that. Mad dogs and Englishmen….. and all that sort of thing!” They were, of course, absolutely correct. It was overpowering particularly as the Poniente that dust laden fierce west wind from the Sahara desert was blowing like crazy. The whole area was just like some huge dust filled spin dryer.

During the trip I remembered how such winds can affect people, children and even pets. The well known ‘Mistral’, signifying ‘Masterly’, that blows in the South of France is a fine example. I read somewhere that even today an old Napoleonic law still exists in that part of France which decrees that if the ‘Mistral’ blows for more than fifteen consecutive days then murder cannot be classified as a capital offence. Wow! I, personally, would not be tempted to test this one but I fully understand the frustration involved.

At least on my La Mancha trip I had experienced both heat and wind at first hand and, for some reason, felt exhilarated by this. The same occurred with the town of Teruel mentioned earlier. I just had to try for myself those sub zero temperatures of midwinter and it certainly was bitterly cold. I was reminded of the saying, as cold as charity.

And so it was some years on when Spain had been subjected to one of the hottest summers on record that I was sitting in a cafeteria in Huesca. On every side of me were young people wearing what would have a few hours’ earlier pristine white shirts and trousers all with dark green scarves knotted at the throat. However at that particular moment they looked like survivors of a massacre. Their outfits were splattered stained and soaked with red wine. Whereas most of the boys looked as though they had just emerged from barrels of the local ‘Vino’ with their hair plastered about their heads the girls seemed to have fared better. There were only the odd one or two Señoritas whose locks had not survived virtually intact. I was sure that if all present had wrung out their clothes we could have all remained merry for the next couple of days.

It was a spacious high ceiling Cafeteria with those hanging rotary fans that just moved the hot air around so we all received our share and it was fascinating just observing these youngsters. Most were still in the festive mood, some groups with voices raised in harmony, others appeared to be shouting across tables to one another whilst others just sat there quietly gazing into space obviously a little more worse for wear. And, believe it or not I could see, at least two, who were sleeping regardless of the mayhem. I also noticed that the attire that these young people wore was exactly the same as that worn for Spain’s most popular fiesta, the ‘San Fermin’ fiesta in Pamplona where they have the running of the bulls through the streets. The only difference being that the scarves worn in Huesca were green instead of Pamplona’s red.

This was the night preceding the start of the fiesta in honour of Huesca’s patron saint; Saint Lorenzo. By the way Saint Lorenzo (Lawrence in English) was destined to be burnt at the stake and is of all things the patron saint of librarians. When I first thought about this I wondered about there being a literary connection somewhere with our English born T.E. Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia fame. Now here was man for whom I have a great respect, not only for his literary work, ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom’, but also because the first manuscript of around 450.000 words he inadvertently left in the refreshments room in Reading railway station. After all efforts to recover this he decided to re write the whole thing again. Now that, whichever way you look at it, deserves a great deal of admiration.

Anyway observing the wine soaked clothes about me reminded me of the ‘Tomatina’ fiesta held in the month of August in the village of Buñol some twenty miles from Valencia. This particular event only lasts for just one mind blowing hour when 120 tons of tomatoes, (Yes that is correct – 120 tons!) are used as ammunition to hurl at all those participating. Of course it is not surprising that the same effect is obtained with the discolouring of clothes although at the ‘Tomatina’ many participants wisely elect to wear swimming gear. This particular fiesta is just second to Pamplona’s fiesta on the world popularity rating scale.

So despite all the commotion surrounding me in the Huesca cafeteria I turned my mind to my now rather tatty Michelin map and attempted to concentrate. My attention was automatically drawn to the Maestrazgo region, which significantly lay between Huesca and Valencia. So it took only a little deliberation to decide on a totally different approach to the area. This time I was going to leave Huesca the following afternoon, bypass Zaragoza on the eastern side and head for the Ebro river delta, which I would cross around the town of Caspe. After that it was on to Alcañiz and the ‘Maestrazgo’ that Labyrinth of Silence.

I knew Caspe to be a rather none descript town which, according to legend, was founded by Tubal, one of the sixteen grandchildren of Noah. That is correct, Noah’s grandson. Well if nothing else Caspe deserves of few thousand points for originality wouldn’t you say? I had passed through the town on several previous occasions and with a population of just less than ten thousand inhabitants the place itself did not appear to have a great deal to offer in the way of sightseeing. The guide book mentioned prehistoric cave paintings but on one occasion in the short time I was there I did not manage to find the place.

One thing however does make Caspe stand out for originality, is a much specialised kind of tourism; that of fishing. In the early 1970’s someone introduced the ‘Silorus’ or Catfish into the lakes and rivers of Spain. Apparently conditions in the Ebro Delta were ideal for this prehistoric looking fish with its be whiskered jaws so much so that at this moment they are thriving and can weigh up to 130 kilos. I say ‘at this moment’ as naturalists predict that in the not too distant future these fish will be weighing around 150 kilos or more and several meters in length. Reason enough for enthusiasts come from many parts of the world to fish for this ugly monster. I have seen some fine pictures of ecstatic anglers with their colossal catches. There are varying species of Catfish with apparently many being on the edible list. However in Caspe it is not to be found on the menu in the local restaurants as they are automatically returned to the river after the usual photographs, of course.

Examining the map and underlining villages that I would be passing through I realised that I had reached an age where I was in no mood for experimenting with weather extremes either hot or cold so I decided to cheat a little and leave around four o’clock on the following afternoon. This was on the assumption that it just might be that little bit cooler to traverse what was going to be kilometre after kilometre of nothingness. Nothingness that is but dust and huge fields now bereft of their annual crops of wheat, corn and barley.

Ah! The best laid plans of mice and men! How wrong could I be?

It was not so easy to find my way out of Huesca that afternoon. Many of the roads had been blocked off for the fiesta and I had to double back on a couple of occasions and try again. Finally I made it and a sign reading Sesa, the next town of any consequence, confirmed that I was heading in the right direction.

Once outside Huesca it did not take long to realise that I was again wrong where weather calculations were concerned. At four o’clock in August it was just as hot as midday. A full English breakfast prepared on the bonnet of the car certainly would not have been beyond the realms of possibilities.

As was expected the countryside opened up into vast fields as far as the eye could see. Pale ochre coloured spiky stubble of what remained of the harvest lay in uniformed lines with dry chunky clods of earth as a background. The highway was reasonably surfaced and straight with long stretches of several kilometers dwindling to a pin point in the shimmering hazy distance. I maneuvered the window of the car down partly for air conditioning purposes and found I was breathing in the hot peppery smell of dust laden air. Occasionally on both sides of me I could see smoky clouds rising up from the scorched earth where tractors were already at work preparing the ground for more crops. At one point, much to my surprise, I spotted a ‘Dust Devil’ or ‘Whirlwind’. Rotating furiously and drawing into the vortex whatever lay in its path the column must have been at least twenty meters in height. It was moving purposefully across the horizon from left to right eventually disappearing as quickly as it had begun. This phenomenon apparently is not uncommon in this part of Spain. Whether it is also possible to see mirages I do not know but I would certainly not be surprised.

Eventually the road became more interesting and there was evidence of greenery in the form of plants and fruit trees. My sense of smell also returned to normal and the air was that much fresher.

I was approaching Caspe.

A wide blue expanse of the Ebro River lay to the left and there were occasional signs offering boats for hire although I saw no evidence of anyone fishing at that particular moment. It was only later that I learned that many fishermen preferred to fish at night for the in the depths during the heat of the day it is understandable that the giant fish has a tendency to lie up on the muddy bottom.

To the right appeared a sign which indicated Alcañiz and I soon found myself travelling along a small, but perfectly adequate, bypass. There was no need to pass through Caspe itself. Great! Time was getting on and the sun was now dropping to the west and I wanted to be well into the area before stopping for the night. Alcañiz, who’s luxurious Parador Hotel dominates the town, came and went in the distance and it wasn’t long before I was passing through Calanda where the reservoir, being fed by the rivers Guadalupe and Guadalopillo, helped to irrigate the surrounding area and produce an abundance of top class peaches the size of grapefruits as well as apples, pears, greengages and almonds.

The presence of a thickish green line alongside the road on the map denoted that Mr. Michelin had designated this highway to being a Scenic route or National Park. In this instance it was named the Maestrazgo National Park. I was almost home. As apposed to the road through Linares de Mora to the Maestrazgo which, after taking you up to nearly two thousand metres then flinging you out on to the edge of nowhere, this particular route from Calanda dropped me plunging into deep wooded canyons with twists and turns and sudden dark tunnels until I was dizzy. Occasionally I passed huge outcrops of colourful layers of rocks that would send a geologist into raptures and knew that one slight error in my driving I would finish up on the boulders below and into a gushing torrent. After some ten kilometres I careered into one such tunnel and much to my surprise shot out at the other end into bright sunlight and found myself right in the centre square of a small town. I was in Castellote second in population size to Cantavieja..

Spotting a parking space directly outside of the tourist information office, I drove in and cut the engine. Then stepping out of the car I digested my whereabouts. Behind me was the tunnel looking rather like a dark vulgar open mouth contrasting with the pleasant surroundings. A fountain was happily bubbling away in the centre of the square on the other side of which was one very attractive house, mainly of wooden construction, with an amazing amount of plants and flowers decorating the façade and balconies. On the opposite side of the road to where I stood there was a bar which had, much to my surprise, a sign fixed to the wall announcing,

HARMAN’S

BROWN ALE

BOTTLED AT

THE OLD BREWERY

UXBRIDGE

BREWERY LTD.

Definitely worth a look at for curiosities sake, I decided. But first I wanted to see what the tourist office had to offer in the way of information about the immediate area. Nowadays I love visiting these information offices. Without doubt every single one in this region seems to have rather special staff that is prepared to go out of their way to be more than just helpful to visitors. Olivia, the charming girl in charge of the Castellote office was of no exception. She welcomed me warmly and after introducing herself asked, “Now, just what are you interested in? Walking, mountain bike, fishing, history…?”

“Yes,” I said before she could continue any further.

“Yes what? She looked puzzled.

“Yes everything that you just mentioned.”

“Oh good,” she smiled.

“Throw in a couple of restaurants and a bodega, if there is one in the area,” I added.

She bustled around organising pamphlets and papers in surrounds that appeared to be a general jumble of just about everything to do with tourism and commerce in general. Whereas she did not have any actual brochures or pamphlets concerning the winery she did write down the address and pointed me in the right direction for when I set off.

“It’s in Las Planas about five kilometers along the road to Bordon,” and then she added, “Keep you eyes open because it is only small and you might miss it.” We both laughed and I thanked her.

Other information she insisted I take away included leaflets and maps nearly all explaining the virtues of being somewhere like the Maestrazgo. Anything and everything to do with enjoying outdoor activities was to be had in and around Castellote. So thanking Olivia I clutched the bag of information and turned to leave the office when she called out, “As you drive out of Castellote look out to you right. There are beautiful views of the Santolea reservoir.” I promised her that I would and walked out into the early evening sun.

Next keeping a watchful eye on the tunnel just in case it spewed forth any other vehicles I skipped across the road and into the bar opposite. The Llovedor, ably managed by Maria, was a remarkable local based on, it seemed, a Spaniard’s idea of how a pub should look – plus. I say plus as the place was decked with just about everything that involved drinking in general and more besides just in case something had been left out. It was fascinating. There were old faded photographs mixed in with signs advertising German, Irish and English beers. Funnily enough I did not see any excelling the virtues of French beers. Perhaps we were too near the frontier with France and a memory of the Napoleonic invasion was proving too bitter to be forgotten.

Anyway I ordered a genuine Spanish beer chose a quiet corner to sit and examine the information which Olivia had presented me.

It turned out that Castellote has one attraction that no other part of the Maestrazgo has; the Santolea Reservoir. Construction began in 1902 and when it was eventually completed it was found they many people in the area were committed to taking a boat to arrive home. This was rectified a while later when a rather dubious foot bridge was built which had the habit of swaying so much on windy days that pedestrians were in constant fear of being hurled into the water and having to swim home. Not a happy prospect when carrying the weeks shopping at the same time. So now they have an excellent bridge together with a very impressionable reservoir which has turned into a fine centre for camping, fishing, boating and viewing the remarkable amount of wildlife in the area.

So I sat there happily examining the various brochures sadly noting that the Knights Templers were responsible for plundering and almost destroying the Castellote Castle until a glance outside confirmed that night was coming on quickly and it was time to motor on.

The mainly curved highway ran along side the reservoir and was just as Olivia had described, beautiful. Creamy green still waters contained by high cliffs of varying layers of colours had me wishing that it were possible at that moment to be sitting in a small open boat and just drifting quietly along.

I was lucky enough to find that the winery was still open and the sign outside read Bodegas Borraz. Originally founded by Thomas and Adolfo Borraz the vineyard owes its existence to the small microclimate in the area and such hardy grapes as, Tempranillo, Garnacha and the trusty Cabernet Sauvignon. As far as I am aware it is the only vineyard in the whole region producing a palatable wine that is very popular locally.

Once more on the road I drove prudently on to Mirambel where I stopped for the night at the Hostal Guimera, falling into bed quite happily after dinner during which I consumed an excellent bottle of the Vino Borraz.

ELEPHANTS, A SPANISH REBEL GENERAL AND A GAME OF GOLF IN ENGLAND

If there is any one town in the Maestrazgo that could be termed the historical heart of the region, that town just has to be Cantavieja. Not surprisingly it is one of the only three places in the Maestrazgo with a population exceeding five hundred inhabitants and by reason of its strategic location, built on an almost vertical outcrop over a thousand metres in height, it can definitely be termed a classical example of a fortification. With its turbulent past history Spain, and in particular the Maestrazgo, presented ideal terrain for guerrilla warfare for which Cantavieja was certainly well prepared.

Legend has it that the castle was actually built by Hannibal when he invaded Spain from Carthage on his way to Rome, at the same time hounding the complacent Roman armies who had had it fairly easy until then. And what a sight he must have presented as he led forty-thousand troops together with fifty fighting elephants through Spain to the Pyrenees. I say ‘fighting’ elephants as the animals were, in fact, trained to attack the enemy by trampling on them and wreaking havoc with their tusks. Not a pretty sight I would imagine. Also their natural armour, consisting of a thick skin, made them immune to arrows and sharp weapons. They had to be extremely practical when you think about it.

Cantavieja was also the centre of attention when in the twelfth century King James II of Spain, encouraged by the Pope at that time, put an end to the religious Order of the Knights Templars. Following this the next five hundred years of rule was to remain in the hands of the religious Order of Saint John of Jerusalem which must have been more cooperative with the ecclesiastical rulers at that time. On the plus side, however, it was from that moment onwards that records were kept of everything to do with the region.

Economically the town thrived in the early part of the last century due to the cattle and textile manufacturing. Also curiously enough hat making in the town of Tronchon was also contributing, apart that is, from their popular cheese production. However since that time things began to wane and as if that were not the only problem there has been a slow decline in population figures. From nearly two thousand inhabitants at the beginning of the last century today Cantavieja has less than eight hundred persons registered there and is now, in keeping with others in the area, attempting to rectify the situation.

The good news is that it can be viewed as an ideal centre for the ‘New Era of Tourism’. Everywhere and anywhere of interest from Cantavieja is less than an hour’s travelling time by car and you can name whatever sport or pastime you wish to pursue you will find it nearby.

It pleases me to say that the town has a definite historical advantage over the rest of the region’s centres; that of a ready made hero, General Ramón Cabrera y Griño. El Cid might well have been wandering around the area some several hundred years before promoting his ready made mercenaries to the highest bidder, or Hannibal with his elephants and army tramping through, but Cantavieja can lay claim to being the authentic stronghold of a more recent, in fact, less than two hundred years past, leader of the Carlista rebels which was first mentioned to me by Alberto the veterinary surgeon.

And what a character was Ramón!

Born in Tortosa in 1806, a thriving fishing village crouched on the banks of the Ebro River, a little before it spills into the Mediterranean sea; Ramón was the son of a reasonably well off family. His father, a successful merchant mariner who owned a 25 ton sloop, unfortunately died when the boy was only five years old and his mother, Maria Griño, pressed him into religious studies. Eventually Ramón was admitted into the seminary at Tortosa where it soon became obvious by his unruly behaviour that he was certainly not going to be capable of acting as a spiritual guide to anyone. It was Bishop Victor Saez that suggested he would possibly be more suited to a military career. So taking the Bishop’s advice Ramón joined the military on the side of the Carlistas in favour of the pretender to the throne, Don Carlos brother to Fernando VII. This had come about due to the death of Fernando IV in 1833 when Maria Cristina had become Queen Regent on behalf of the Infant daughter of Isabel II. Because of his ability and daring, Ramón Cabrera rapidly rose through the ranks and eventually made it to general. However it was then that he began to attract adverse publicity for his attitude towards the lives and property of non-combatants and the shooting of prisoners.

The time then came when the queen’s generals seized his mother as hostage and Ramón, instead of pondering on the possible outcome in detail, shot several town mayors and officials together with other leading government supporters. This action resulted in the order being given to execute his mother. The enraged son immediately set out on a policy of reprisals of such ferocity that he became known as ‘El Tigre del Maestrazgo’ or ‘The Tiger of the Maestrazgo’.

The Carlista war lasted over a period of four decades and finally Cabrera was forced to flee across the Pyrenees to France, with around eight thousand of his troops and their families. There the French confined him to a fortress before eventually releasing him. It was then Ramón made the decision to go to England as the British were sympathetic to the Carlista cause and where he would be made welcome.

What is also interesting is that his troops, finding themselves unemployed, apparently there was a lack of wars in Europe at that particular time, headed off in the other direction, to America and that country’s own particular Civil War. Enlisting in the various confederate armies including the ‘Louisiana Tigers’ and the ‘Tennessee Second Division’, they must have felt somewhat at home fighting with much ferocity and excelling themselves to the extent that the survivors were automatically awarded North American Citizenship by the orders of Jefferson Davis who was the problematic statesman in charge of the Confederate armies. It was after a particular gruelling battle of Malvern Hill in Virginia they were allowed to fight under their own officers and the Carlista flag, fighting side by side with the Republicans and wearing their red berets. Confederate General Ambrose P. Hill, recognising their ability was quoted as saying, “My rough, tattered and brave lions of providence.”

As for Ramón Cabrera, officially ‘Conde de Morella’ now in England, he was fortunate enough to marry Marianne Catherine Richards the daughter of Robert Richards QC. This wealthy family of merchants and lawyers were sympathisers with the Carlista cause and befitting such a family the General and his wife settled into their home in Wentworth, Virginia Water, just twenty miles from London in the year 1850. This particular property having belonged to the Duke of Wellington’s brother in law, Sir Edward ‘Ned’ Pakenham and is today, believe it or not, the prestigious Wentworth Golf Club. Imagine that! After forty years in the most bleak mountainous region of Spain, as a rebel leader, to the comparative comforts of being a gentleman farmer in sophisticated Surrey, England. They had four children of which one, Ramón Cabrera Richards became the bodyguard and Master of Ceremonies to Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany. The old General Ramón Cabrera died in 1887 after which his wife continued to support the Carlista cause by generous donations of money.

Today there is the Carlista museum in Cantavieja in the same building as the local tourist office which consists of three floors of graphic illustrations combined with an audio video depicting the Carlista wars. This is well worth a visit.

reaMS OF PAPER, TEXTILES AND NO TROUT AT THE ‘TROUT HOTEL’.

I was awake before I even opened my eyes; just lying there, comfortably warm beneath the blankets and sheets. It was a moment or so before I realised where I was. Possibly the very faint smell of furniture polish accelerated my drowsy morning memory into action and for a split second I thought I was back in the king’s bedroom in Morella all those years past. I opened my eyes and stared up at the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling. Raquel had put me into my favourite room; top floor attic. Stretching out and then relaxing again I listened and from somewhere deep in the old house could detect those vague sounds of morning activity. They would be preparing breakfast and what a pleasant thought that was to begin the day. In the ‘Casa Sara’, for me it would be a crime if at least forty minutes were not dedicated to that fortifying first meal of the day. No, it was not a breakfast as one would expect to find in any British or French establishment and only in a very limited, if any, amount of Spanish lodgings. Breakfast at ‘Casa Sara’ was something exceptional, to say the least, and compatible with someone ready to take on this mountainous region of Spain. Raquel’s breakfasts were as solid as the wonderful antique furniture that she had carefully scattered around the house. Napoleon seemed to have things clear when he said that an army marches on its stomach. Well perhaps that had something to do with it. In full flight with the old Duke of Wellington and his troops hot on their heels it might well have been that the French had passed through Cantavieja on their way to the Pyrenees some four to five hundred leagues away. The French would certainly require plenty of provisions in those days what with having to cross this terrain and at possible sub zero temperatures whilst fighting a rear guard action particularly in the appalling winter of 1813/14.

However that was not my problem at the moment. It was September and although the air had an invigorating chill to it in the mornings the thermometer usually climbs stealthily to a comfortable height around midday.

Time to move myself.

Showered and dressed I creaked my way down the wooden stairs to the dining room and went in. Raquel was standing by the window. I said, “Muy buenos Dias, Raquel.” She turned, “Muy buenos Dias, Señor Chris.” Greetings over, I asked what the weather was like out. “Fine,” she confirmed and nodded across the narrow street to the red tiled roofs opposite. “I can tell by the colour of the tiles,” she explained, then laughed as though she thought I might find that rather silly. “So could I,” I said, “especially if they had snow on them.” We both laughed together and she nodded to the large circular dining table. “I will bring your coffee and toast Señor, if you make yourself comfortable.” She moved towards the door then turned, “Would you like me to put on the television for you?” I grinned, “No thanks, Raquel. This is breakfast time and serious business and I don’t want to be distracted.”

The table looked worthy of a painting; neatly set out almost like an artists impression of a gourmet orientated Fortnum and Masons window display. Raquel’s family are local farmers and are accustomed to a no nonsense breakfast table. Everything necessary to put you in a mood to tackle whatever the day might bring. The goodies included a small jug of fresh orange juice which was dispensed whilst allowing me to turn my attention to the important things on view. One dish displayed very finely sliced cured ham together with triangles of tasty goat’s cheese. Another plate was spilling over with ‘Cecina’, fine slices of cured beef; prepared in a similar way to the ham but with a much stronger flavour. Sharing the plate of ‘Cecina’ were ample slices of ‘Jabali’ or wild boar which is similar to what we know in England as brawn together with a small amount of local ‘Morcilla’ or black pudding and the spicy ‘Chorizo’, sliced sausages. Naturally as for any artistic composition it would not serve as an overall arrangement without the back up team of accompaniments. And these included fine home grown tasty tomatoes not the round red things so often pushed on to us at the supermarkets. Raquel’s tomatoes are the real McCoy, sliced together with a little salt some home made virgin olive oil, and if one wishes a sprinkle of oregano, are one of life’s simple gifts. Naturally there is also present an assortment of jams to go with the buttered toast. Then if is that is not sufficient to finish the feast a selection of sweet pastries and almond flavoured butter biscuits, ‘Tarta del Alma’ a semi circle of pastry with a filling of pumpkin mixed with sugar and, last but not least, ‘Tarticas’. These fine crunchy biscuits often come with the flavour of liquor, often as not, anis. What a feast!

Afterwards, being boosted by a further coffee in one of those outsized cups that always give me the impression that if it inadvertently tipped up I would need resuscitation aid for drowning, I concentrated on what, hopefully, was going to turn a good day into a great one.

Clearing a small space on the table I took from my wallet an ancient rather creased Spanish banknote and laid it in front to me next to my map of the area. This particular banknote was the last of the collection of such banknotes which I had saved over the years as curiosities. As a schoolboy attending a local philately society, in which was also included a small section dedicated to coins and banknotes, I had acquired several old Spanish Peseta banknotes. These aroused my curiosity as all of the notes had printed on them;

‘BRADBURY, WILKINSON Y Cª GRABADOS, NEW MALDEN, SURREY, INGLATERRA’

For me it was fascinating to think that every weekday at school I had been staring at the large maps on the classroom walls and that we had actually been printing money for Spain at one time and that particular country had not, like so many others, been coloured a distinctive Empire red. The particular note in front of me was marked one hundred pesetas which must have been of considerable value at that time. It showed the head of King Felipe II with the usual elongated features that seem to obsess the Spanish treasury when deciding on portraits for their currency. In the background there was also an attractive drawing of ‘El Escorial’, the final resting place for Spain’s Kings and Queens. The date read, ‘Madrid 1 de Junio de 1925’. Further consideration led me to believe that the reason for this situation might well be the superior British expertise with the printing, the lack of paper in Spain; or possibly both.

Most of us know that the invention of paper was attributed to the Chinese and one in particular. Teacher Ts’ai Lun who, having grown fed up carrying his material around inscribed on wood in carts, decided that there just had to be something easier. So out of necessity paper came into being. From then on the art of paper making gradually spread across the world via Bagdad over the following hundred or so years and on one fine day the first paper mill in Europe was constructed by Arabs, in the town of Jativa, some hundred kilometres south of Valencia. Now what was interesting is that paper from Jativa was transported by mules and pack horses over the Pyrenees Mountains then all the way to Britain and the rest of Europe; an incredible achievement when you think about it in those far off days. It was some three hundred later before the first English paper mills were constructed and put to good use and this method of transport came to an end.

However it was here in the Maestrazgo at what was just one small ‘pueblo’ that paper manufacturing really came into being. The paper mill of Villaluengo laid claim to being the first factory ever to produce paper in continuous rolls. So why pick on this village in the mountains of the Maestrazgo in the first place? Simply that it was blessed with one major advantage that attracted this Spanish/French joint manufacturing operation team that was to revolutionise Europe; the ’Rio Guadalupe’ or Wolf River.

Aptly named this river has its source in the Sierra Gúdar beyond the delightfully picturesque ‘pueblos’of Miravete de la Sierra and Villarroya de los Pinares. Although the Guadalupe flows through the centre of these small villages, it is little more than a stream. However, once under way it gathers momentum being fed by waters from the surrounding mountains and in particular the ‘Sierra de la Lastra’. So by the time it reaches Villaluengo it is nothing less than a raging torrent cascading through narrow gorges and generating enough force to drive all the machinery necessary for manufacturing paper, or anything else for that matter.

So it was there to where I was heading that day. Not that I expected to see any paper being made at the mill, that had long since ceased to be, but from what I had gathered the place had, enjoyed some years as a major textile factory it had now been turned into a magnificent hotel; ‘Hostal de la Trucha’ or the ‘The Trout Hotel’. Here, I was assured by the guide books and people personally acquainted with place, that the cuisine was exceptional and in particular trout from the ‘Wolf River’ being served with fine cured ham. It all sounded fine to me.

So I drove out of Cantavieja on that crisp sparkling September morning. The valley opened out to my right sheltered by the Sierra Palomera then falling away towards the village of Mirambel some ten kilometres distance. After passing several pig farms, easily identified by even a blind person, I eventually came to the turn off for Villaluengo. There was no name just the number of the highway, 1702. The surface of the road changed immediately to one with the usual pot holes and no obvious markings. Driving became a sort of game of which required skill in assessing which holes were large and required missing altogether and which ones could be bounced over without causing imminent disaster to the already worn suspension. No matter though, it was all very pleasant and there was plenty to see so I slowed down to a leisurely pace. The verges were choked with wild flowers from daisies through to cowslips and poppies together with an abundance of yellow flowered gorse bushes more prickly than the hedgehog in the garden or last night’s angry wife. The usual ruinous looking farms lay scattered about like lost souls together with their quota of cattle all taking advantage of the autumn sun and probably wondering at the same time what the coming winter had in the offing.

The odd juniper trees and small pines lay on either side of the road and the colourful silver birch rippling in their near autumnal covering were in evidence as it crossed and re-crossed over stone bridges beneath which hastened a stream marked on the map as La Cañada. The road became narrower and almost without warning I was twisting and turning between high cliffs crowned with Scots pines and gorges so deep that it seemed as though the only thing they had to offer were cold inhospitable shadows and the smell of damp moss. I slowed to a snail’s pace as the road signs, telling me of a dangerous bends ahead, were coming at me thick and fast. As I was on the nasty side of the highway it took little imagination as to what would happen if I lost control. Occasionally however, I did risk glancing above me and I could see solitary eagles gliding silently on the air currents almost as though providing company. There was not a single vehicle to be seen in either direction.

When eventually I pulled into Villaluengo with its cramped streets and bewildered dwellings, all dominated by the inevitable enormous church, I found it difficult to imagine that this popular village once claimed, at the beginning of the last century, a bustling population of nearly ten times that of today. It seemed that it had always been as it is now. I mean there must have been considerably more houses. So what happens to them? I don’t know. They cannot have just disappeared into thin air.

There was nobody around when I parked in the square next to the church and the only being interested in my arrival was a somewhat moth eaten looking dog that seemed to offer a welcoming nod in my direction. I returned the salutation with, “Buenos dias,” and received in return a joyous bark as the animal turned and headed down the hill every now and then glancing over his shoulder. Not being too interested in the cavernous church at that particular moment I strolled happily after my canine acquaintance. And a friend he was indeed. Without hesitation he turned a corner and disappeared into a dark doorway over which a board announced that the place was a ‘Fonda’. Here again I would mention that a ‘Fonda’ in Spain has nothing to do with American film stars and actually denotes that the establishment is a small boarding house equipped for travellers, passing or otherwise. This particular Fonda turned out to be one of two in the village. And it was indeed a pleasant place to find oneself after the rather hazardous last twenty kilometers.

It was around twice the size of the bar at the Bishop’s Castle but there the similarity ended. Here was the atmosphere of the true Spanish ‘Taberna’. Polished dark stained wood everywhere, a wood burning iron stove firmly planted in the centre of the bar for the cold winter nights. There were a few decorative items on the walls including an excellent detailed map of the local footpaths for hikers, ramblers or walkers. The bar to the right was ably attended by someone who I discovered was the lady of the house; the charming Dolores. She was attending the few customers with a smile and professionalism that is not easily found in Spanish towns these days. I was served a glass of red wine which she told me came from some obscure bodega some forty kilometers distant. I carefully read the label on the bottle and discovered that it came from the Borras Bodega near Castellote. As always a Spanish speaking foreigner attracted the other clients, particularly in respect of wine, and so I passed a very pleasant hour talking to Dolores and the locals. Then just before I left I was told that the Trout Hotel was just three to four kilometers further on. I would have loved to have said, ‘Adios’ to my friend the dog but he seemed to have disappeared; possibly out searching for more clients for the ‘Fonda’.

It was after crossing the bridge over the Guadalupe River and passing through a couple of narrow tunnels in the mountainside that I eventually came across a rather sad little arrow fixed to a stake that pointed to the right and read ‘Hostal de la Trucha’. I followed the direction and after parking in what I assumed was part of the old factory locked the car and walked over to the hotel entrance. It was rather a nondescript doorway for a three star rated hotel; more the kind of access one might expect to find in ‘Ye Olde Tea Shoppe’ in one of the UK seaside resorts. However once inside it really was something special. Immediately facing me was a small reception desk behind which was an enormous stone column that supported a ceiling of wooden beams covering an area of several hundred square meters. An abundance of comfortable arm chairs and sofas were scattered around the place mixed in with various coffee tables and chairs carved out of what appeared to be tree trunks. At the far end were windows that looked out over the Guadalupe River. To the right of the reception desk was a delightfully agreeable looking bar. So bidding the charming lady receptionist, “Buenos dias,” and being rewarded by a dazzling three star smile, I wandered over there. The barman, a thin rather gaunt looking individual, who reminded me of someone but I couldn’t think who, dutifully served me a pleasant dry white wine and then disappeared leaving me to take stock of my surroundings. One particular item which did attract my attention was a very large raised fireplace strategically placed in the middle of the room. I could easily visualise the crackling logs throwing out heat in the winter months and myself sitting there with a glass of mulled wine or whatever they drink during those long winter nights. All in all it was a very pleasant place to be. However, there were no other customers in sight.

When the bartender eventually returned I paid for the wine and asked to be directed to the dining room. “Take the lift. It’s over there, Señor,” he said pointing behind me. I started off in the direction he had indicated when much to my surprise the well proportioned receptionist leapt out from behind her desk and was there well before me. “Here you are,” she said, standing back and letting me pass. “Press that button there.” I thanked her and said, “You’re South American. Brazil I think.” She rewarded me with another full frontal of perfect dentistry. “Yes Señor. Rio de Janeiro.” “Then perhaps we might meet at next year’s carnival?” I said jokingly. The doors began to close but not before she replied, “Quite possible. I will be there.”

The dining room was not as large as I had expected. There was seating for around sixty people but on the other hand the décor was exactly what I had imagined. Walls covered with animal’s heads of all types mixed in with old photographs that must have been taken around the beginning of the last century. In fact the far wall was totally covered with one huge photograph of what, I assumed, would have been the building during the time the place was dedicated to making paper and textiles. I was examining this photograph when I heard a slight movement behind me and turning I found myself face to face with the bartender who had sneaked up behind me. “Good Lord,” I found myself thinking, “Not another one man hotel.” He permitted himself a smile almost as though congratulating himself on the fact that he had been successful in catching me unawares. “Sit anywhere you like, Señor,” he said, with a wave of his hand. And it was at moment I knew who he reminded me of. He was a smaller version of ‘Lurch’ the cadaverous looking character in the old TV series, ‘The Adams Family’.

Thanking him I chose to sit near to the window where I could look down onto the hotel grounds and the swimming pool. Without water, and a vast number of weeds that seemed to be making short work of the concrete, the pool had obviously not been used for some time. In fact everything down there was a mess and not really compatible with a fifty-five bed roomed three star establishments. Anyway there was nothing I could do about it so I turned my attention to immediate necessities: lunch.

The leather bound, rather ostentatious, menu that ‘Lurch’ presented me with, together with a slight bow, seemed fairly straight forward although I had already made up my mind before arriving what I was going to have. He then stood back with pencil poised over his order pad waiting patiently.

“Well now, I think I will begin with a plate of cold meats. Cecina, jamon, chorizo etc. Oh and little cheese from ‘Tronchon’. Alright?”

“Yes, Señor. That will be fine.”

He then smiled, and asked, “And your main choice, Señor?”

It was my turn to smile. “And what is the name of this establishment?” I asked and without a moments hesitation he answered, “The Trout Hotel, Señor.”

“Correct,” I said. “And tell me, why exactly is it called the Trout Hotel?”

“Because Señor the trout is a fresh water fish that abounds in the rivers around here and as there are so many of them this hotel was named thus.”

“Excellent,” I congratulated him as though he had passed the first round of Sr. Brain of Spain. “Then for my main course I will definitely be having one, if not two, depending how the appetite is, of those fresh trout that not so long ago were abounding in the rivers around here.”

He was about to answer but I raised my hand. “And….” I continued, “I would like them grilled and stuffed with fine slices of cured Teruel ham. How does that sound? Alright?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just remained silent. Then I heard him say, “Sorry Señor, but….”

“Sorry Señor, but what?” I asked a little more than just puzzled.

He wouldn’t look at me directly. Just stood there gazing out of the window.

“Sorry Señor. It is just that the trout is off,” he said suddenly.

I have always appreciated a good joke and this was no exception. I laughed, “Alright. When it’s on I will still have it with those thin slices of cured Teruel ham.”

He continued staring out of the window. “Sorry Señor. I don’t think you understand. The trout is off. We have no trout.”

“Good, Lord!” I thought as these words sank in. “The man is serious.”

“What do you mean you have no trout?”

“Exactly that Señor. Yes, we have no trout.”

“Are you seriously telling me there is not even one small trout at the Trout Hotel? If so I really cannot believe it.”

I must say he had the decency to shuffle his feet a little and dropped his gaze to the table.

“No Señor. We do not have even one small trout in the Trout Hotel.”

“Not even frozen trout that might have been abounding in a river sometime back?”

“No Señor. Not even a frozen one.”

Then the bomb dropped. Looking very businesslike he took a deep breath, looked straight at me and said, “We can do you a lovely Spaghetti Bolognaise, Señor”

I glared at the head of a nasty looking wild boar on the wall behind him then returning my gaze to him I said slowly, “Listen, my friend. I did not come all this way to eat bloody Spaghetti Bolognaise at the Trout Hotel.”

He was becoming nervous now. “Perhaps some ‘Albondigas’. Meat balls in a sauce?”

I just could not believe it spaghetti and now meat balls in a sauce.

“I really must make a complaint, Lurch. I realise that you are probably not to blame, but really it is too much. There was an Australian singer called Slim Dusty who wrote a hit song about a pub with no beer. But however hard I try I just cannot see a song about the Trout Hotel with no trout having the same impact.”

He was staring out of the window again, I supposed hoping that the odd trout might be abounding out of the river and in the direction of the hotel kitchen. “I really am sorry Señor,” he said.

“Next you will be telling me that there is no room in this fifty-five bed roomed inn,” I grumbled.

Now he was safer ground. “Take you choice, Señor,” he said. “They are all empty. We have no guests.”

Suddenly I felt a little guilty. This huge hotel was being hit by the present crisis and must be in unavoidable, but serious, trouble. Time to make amends I thought or I’m going to finish up with a nasty attack of indigestion so I delved into the menu again. “Right, Lurch. Let us say no more about it and let’s see what tasty morsel you can tempt me with.”

“Well Señor. Might I suggest the ‘Cabrito’ or baby goat. A very popular choice around here.”

I smiled up at him. “You might well indeed suggest the ‘Cabrito’. A good idea, not so much abounding around the fountain as abounding around the mountain, what?”

He laughed, well more of a relaxed chuckle, and wrote laboriously on his pad.

“Wine Señor?”

I had already beaten him on this one.

“Ah, yes. I see you have that delightful crianza from the Somotamo bodega near Huesca.”

“We do indeed Señor and an excellent choice if I might say so.”

There was no doubt it was an excellent meal during which I resisted the urge to take a quick peep into the kitchen as I was almost certain that Lurch was labouring over a hot stove. After, resolutely denying myself a sweet, I said that I would be taking my coffee in the bar upstairs where I could observe the Brazilian beauty that I might be seeing at the Carnival next year. “A fine chance,” I thought. Anyway dream or no dream it didn’t seem too bad at the Trout Hotel where in ambiguous terminology, ‘Yes, they had no trout!’

MIRAMBEL, TRONCHÓN AND DON QUIXOTE’S FAVOURITE CHEESE

The following day was going to be a special day. My Danish friend was arriving that afternoon to join me for a couple of days. I sat enjoying a glass of the excellent red house wine in the lounge of the very comfortable Hotel Balfagon in Cantavieja just sitting there by the window feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the glass panes. I saw him arrive parking his car across the road from the hotel alongside the local petrol station. There was no mistaking Axsel as the first thing he did after climbing out of the car was to plonk firmly on his head one of his several white ‘Panama’ straw hats. Although at that hour of the afternoon there was not much heat in the sun, having a fair Nordic skin he did tend to suffer a little. Not that you would notice any suffering as the man always looked ‘disgustingly’ robust. Thick set, dressed as usual in a grey suit with an open necked shirt he always gave the impression of some one ready to do business, which most of the time he was. Curiously enough he was also the only person I have ever met with an ‘x’ in his Christian name. It quite suited his personality. He was different.

Two minutes later he had skipped up the steps to the hotel’s entrance and appeared in the lounge. Not one to beat about the bush, after our initial greetings his first serious words were, “how the hell did you find this place?”

I smiled and felt pleased, as though I had just delivered something in the way of a surprise package by convincing him to come up to the Maestrazgo.

“Well Axsel,” I said, “I sort of drove all the way up here and there it was.”

He grinned, “well I must say you’ve certainly have been keeping it to yourself. I came up the way you suggested and enjoyed every minute of it. The scenery and the mountains; it’s fantastic. Oh yes, especially the lack of noise!”

“I knew you would like the silence Axsel, especially after the coast. Mopeds, motor bikes and all that. Awful!”

“Yes, that’s true. It’s certainly appears different up here, that’s for sure. Just great for a bit of peace and quiet.”

We made ourselves comfortable and by way of a small celebration I ordered a plate of small triangular slices of hot toast covered with that fine black olive pâté they produce in the area and to go with it a bottle of Marques de Murrieta Rioja. We chatted about things in general and then when we considered that the wine had had sufficient time to breathe I carefully poured the velvety potion. Axsel raised his glass, examining the contents, sniffed it appreciatively, said ‘Skol’, took a mouthful, closed his eyes and swallowed. He then said, “In fact I’ve been reading a great deal about the interior of Spain like the Alpujarra mountains of Andalucía, the Picos de Europa, Galicia and that sort of thing but there is almost nothing at all about this area the ..the….what’s it called again?”

“Maestrazgo,” I offered. “Pronounced My-strath-go.”

“Yes that’s it, My-strath-go. Now tell me why you are so keen on the area?”

“The thing is,” I began slowly after also sampling the wine, at the same time blessing the hand that had planted the grape and produced such an elixir, “there are two major points worth remembering. The first is that there are hardly any foreign visitors to Spain that can immediately pronounce Maestrazgo. This is a major drawback for most of us foreigners. I mean how do you tell your friends or neighbours where you are going if you cannot pronounce the name of the place. Names like Benidorm, Malaga, Valencia, all come easy to the tongue, but being unable to pronounce Maestrazgo; well that’s definitely a disadvantage.”

He nodded, “And the second point, Chris?”

“The second point is Spain’s coastal tourism. This really began in earnest when legend has it that Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner were around in Spain in the 1950’s. It was said that they visited Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava and from that point on was when the tour operators began to wake up. It was all there, sandy beaches, over three hundred days’ sunshine a year, together with inexpensive booze and cigarettes. I remember it well. I was there towards the end of the 50’s and Spain really was different then. Things like bed sheets from the hotels being spread out to dry on the beach in Tossa all weighed down with stones. Big slabs of ice wrapped in sacks being delivered to the bars by horse and dray; no freezers in those days. Oh yes, and the local girls at the dance places accompanied by their mothers. That really was a drawback for the young package deal boys from the UK.”

Axsel grinned, “No need to tell me how different it was. I know,” he said. “I was in Madrid at that time. But it wasn’t supposed to be a holiday. I was studying. Or I was supposed to be studying.”

“Were you really?” I had not heard about this before.

“Yes, Chris, Madrid was really something in those days.”

“Tell me about when I’ve finished.” I said and he nodded.

“So,” I continued, “after half a century things have changed in Spain for the tourist. Almost all the picturesque picture postcard fishing villages on the Mediterranean are now gone forever. In their place we have high rise blocks of buildings together with even higher prices. In fact I understand that the cruise line captains call the whole coastline the ‘Costa del Concrete’ it is so built up.”

I paused for a moment and helped myself to one of the little triangles of toast and pâté and pour some more wine. Both were perfect.

“Now what I am getting around to, Axsel, is that nowadays I believe the average family tourist is looking for something different in the way of holidays. The cut price air travel is assisting people to visit the kind of Spain they have read about in books or magazines. Perhaps something to induce a feeling of healthy adventure and, of course, less expensive compared to the coastal resorts. Here we have it in this region. This really is the last hidden corner that is the real Spain.”

My friend nodded. “Well it looks as though you found it. How long have you known about it? And why tell everybody else about it?”

“To be honest I have known about it for years but it was only recently that I have grown really attached to area and feel that I want to share it.”

“Attached?”

I was silent for a moment, “Yes attached, Axsel. Every time I came up here it is as though I am coming home.”

“Coming home?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “a feeling of coming home. You know the immensity of the countryside, the attractive Spanish ‘pueblos’, and above all the people. Weird but there it is. I suppose some psychologist could give me an answer but I certainly can’t.”

Then feeling a little embarrassed by my admission I was about to change the subject when Axsel said, “What made you think the people here are special?”

I hesitated, thinking back. “Well,” I began, “I suppose mountain people are different the world over. Obviously climatic conditions and such influence their way of life. This in itself must make them just that bit harder than their neighbours in the lower more comfortable regions and in other ways somewhat nobler in character. You know, not prepared to put up with pettiness, meanness and that sort of thing. Also it is the way you find things initially. First time incidents leave a lasting impression…, with me anyway. One of my first experiences with the people in this region happened many years ago.”

“Go on,” said Axsel. “Tell me about it.”

“Well it was like this,” I began. “It happened one Sunday when I was up here and found myself passing through Fortanete. That’s a small ‘pueblo’ not far from here.”

“I know where you mean,” he smiled, “I passed through it less than an hour ago and if it had not been for those sharp bends I wouldn’t even have known it was there. Go on tell me about it.”

“Well,” I continued thinking back, “it was around lunchtime, so dropping to a snail’s pace in order to negotiate those same sharp bends, I suddenly spotted a small sign that read ‘Restaurant El Rincon’. I followed the white arrow which pointed down the narrow street and came to a small square. What I took to be the place would certainly not normally have drawn my attention. In fact it looked nothing at all like a restaurant, rather more like a private house. Parking was not easy, not because of any other cars around, there were none; just that any car parked normally would block the street. So I parked half on the pavement against the wall of the building and in I went. There I was greeted by a grey haired homely looking lady wearing a spotless white apron, a wide smile and oozing an air of home cooking ability. “This must be the place,” I thought as she directed me upstairs to the dining room.

Sometime in the past it could well have served as the main lounge or bedroom and was exactly as I had expected; a few nondescript tables and chairs and none of the usual rustic decorations cluttering the white walls. I noticed that to one side the tables had been pushed together and laid ready for a group of people. In fact all in all it appeared to be a no nonsense type of place for serious eating, the sort of place where you are not usually disappointed. The only thing on the down side was that I found myself to be the only person there. This in itself can be rather disturbing if I started wondering why. However as it was a Sunday I assumed that everyone was elsewhere so I chose a table near to the window and was pleased to see that I could keep an eye on the car. Within a few minutes the lady reappeared and took my order. I say took my order but what really happened was that I said that I would eat whatever she brought along. She thanked me for my confidence and left.

Since Kathy, my wife, had died I had taken to always carrying a book everywhere which was an excellent travelling companion but certainly not a substitute for a wife and daughter. Anyway I made myself comfortable and became engrossed in whatever the story was about. I do not suppose I had reached the end of the first page when my attention was drawn to the street by the sound of excited chatter mixed with laughter and children’s voices. I sat there watching with a tinge of envy at this large happy family who were obviously enjoying their Sunday outing. There were, I calculated, around a dozen or fifteen of them all gathered about an elderly lady dressed in the traditional black attire of a widow. Taller than average with silver hair swept back into a bun she led the colourful cavalcade walking briskly along with the family on all sides. It was obvious she was a well thought of Granny as both adults and children seemed to be jostling to attract her attention. Eventually they passed from my view but not for long. The next thing I heard was the sound of voices followed by footsteps coming up the narrow stairs. Then the door burst open and in they all came. Grandma was in the lead and immediately nodded to me. “Buenos dias, Caballero,” she called out. I came to my feet and with a slight bow, returned the greeting and sat down. She was followed by the family and every one of the adults greeted me with ‘Buenos dias,” or ‘Que aproveche’ (Good appetite). Next Granny took control and directed all to their places at the prepared table. Adults were instructed to sit at one end and children at the other. I continued reading my book, trying not to stare at the party, when suddenly she called across to me.

“Señor, where are your wife and family?”

After many years living in Spain I had become accustomed to this direct questioning which would be frowned on in English society. However here it was just a healthy curiosity and so I was not unduly surprised. Naturally all the adults and a few of the children turned their heads in my direction.

“Thank you for asking Señora,” I replied, “but I am a widower and have no family with me.”

“Dios mio!” she said as though some minor disaster had suddenly taken place. “No family and all on your own. A stranger in our country, alone and on a Sunday lunchtime as well. That is terrible. We certainly cannot have that.”

Dutifully mumblings of agreement from the others present and all heads now turned expectantly in her direction to see just how Granny was going to resolve this one.

“Indeed no,” she announced firmly. “You must join us over here.”

Then before I could protest she turned to one of the adults near by and said, “José, arrange an extra place to be set please. Not too far away from me. He must have someone to talk to.”

Axsel laughed, “And did you join them all?”

“I sure did Axsel, and what would have been a good lunch turned out to be a great one. I still remember the main course. It was a fantastic lamb stew, famous in that area. I have never had one like it before or since. And the whole family, well they were just wonderful. Now you tell me my friend where else would you find that sort of incident?”

“It would certainly be most difficult to answer that one,” said Axsel.

So then we chatted about Madrid in the old days, with him remembering exactly how much he was paying for his accommodation in the big city all those years ago. It was only when I asked about food that the Dane suddenly sat up, slapped his hand face down on the table and almost shouted, “Damn it! Forget Madrid! All this talk! I had almost forgotten. Is it still on for tomorrow?”

I sat back and roared with laughter as I had been expecting this at any moment. There was no need to ask what he was referring to as Axsel’s main interest in life, apart from business, was wine and food. Of course the wine and food items, on his insistence, had to be of excellent quality as he claimed that with his age he could not afford eat and drink inferior quality.

At sometime in the past he had read Miguel Cervantes’ ‘Don Quixote de la Mancha’ and remembered that in the book the chivalrous Knight had expressed a weakness for the cheese produced in the village of Tronchon, just an erratic but short drive from where we were sitting at that moment.

All this had come about sometime before by my mentioning that I had the Tronchon ‘pueblo’ firmly planted in my agenda for a place to visit. Then when he approached me for more details I had explained that Cervantes had actually lived for a short time in the area and it might prove interesting.

“That was four hundred years ago, Axsel,” I said. “The cheese could very well be different by now.”

But the only answer I received at that time was a dismissive wave of the hand and his muttering something about wanting to see for himself.

“Of course it is on for tomorrow,” I confirmed pushing the plate of toast and olive pâté together with the wine in his direction. “That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

“Just checking that’s all,” my friend smiled.

He then poured what remained of the Rioja into our glasses and raising his own to his lips, sipped and after a lengthy silence, said, “You know something, Chris? You should never try and describe a good wine. Examine it, sniff it, drink and enjoy, but never attempt to describe it.”

There were certain subjects on which you could not argue with the Dane who I knew through experience to be a first class cook with leanings towards being something of an expert on wines. So I just nodded and for my part relaxed, letting the ‘Rioja’ find its way into my own particular system.

Then I began to explain my plans for the following day, beginning with the short journey to Mirambel almost a stones throw from where we were at that moment. It was around half an hour later that I glanced out of the window and noticed that the orange and red lights of the petrol station opposite were now being extinguished so we decided to call it a day and turn in before we fell asleep at the table and could not make it to the Casa Sara at the bottom of the hill.

The weatherman continued to be kind to us the next morning. Bright sunshine was bouncing happily off the red tiles roofs opposite Raquel’s dining room window. Then after immersing ourselves into another of her fine banquet breakfasts with conversation interspersed with appraisals of the spread from both Axsel and myself we set off. Stepping out into the street from the Casa Sara we were greeted by the scent of wood smoke blending with that of freshly baked bread. I drew in a lungful. ‘Wonderful’ we both agreed.

Then as we turned into the main square, Axsel asked, “Where is the bakery?”

“Don’t know Axsel. But we can soon find out.”

In Spain bread is a culture. People will discuss the subject of bread with the same enthusiasm reserved for football or paella. In this country there are registered three hundred and fifteen different types of bread. Naturally amongst that number there are many that are similar in production but the names vary from each region and each has its personal preferences. For example in the majority of places bread is usually bought to be eaten on the same day as it is baked. Other types of bread can be eaten in this way but are often better consumed the following day. In Galicia, Spain they produce a type of bread that is certainly not recommended for eating on the same day. as it is baked; due to its weighty consistency it is not easily digested. However, after two days it is said to be superb.

Bread can also take you by surprise in Spain. My personal taste for this basic product is the very crispy texture, almost burnt, appearance of certain bars of bread. In the early days in a very small village I was attracted to a small bakery that still produced their bread baked in ovens fuelled with wood. I chose a very dark crispy looking bar of bread, paid and left the shop. Noticing that it was still extremely hot, being just baked, I could not help breaking a chunk of to try.

I was then amazed to see that inside it was hollow. What little crumbs it had were displaced around the crust. Intrigued by this discovery I returned to the shop and asked the owner for an explanation. Not that at any moment did I suspect any intentional fraud as there were other customers from the village also buying this particular bread. The owner was, as one would expect, a stout lady who reminded me of one of the characters in the card game we used to play as children; ‘Happy Families’. She was the image of Mrs. Bun the baker’s wife.

”This bread,” she explained, “is ‘Pan de Hueco’ (Hueco signifying ‘hole’). It is baked like that for customers who prepare their own fillings; sausages, tortillas, salads or whatever.” Then she added with a smile, “and of course people like yourself who just like toasted bread.”

“Well you live and learn,” I thought as I left the shop.

Axsel and I found the delightful bakery, Artepan, just around fifty paces from the main square of Cantavieja. The owner, Carlos, was obviously a man of vision, young, dark with that rather sallow complexion that goes with his trade and complete with earring, he had realised that there was a need for a traditional bakery in the town. Traditional baking in that he uses nothing but original ingredients for example pure olive oil instead of the usual butter or margarine. Artepan offers several types of bread from the freshly baked bars to the ‘Pan de Pueblo’ which also tastes even better consumed one or two days after buying. With the thought in my mind that I would be returning to Valencia in the next days I invested in a football sized ‘Pan de Pueblo’ knowing that it would be just right for eating on arrival home.

Later we drove out of Cantavieja and the multi-curved road dropped away down into the valley towards the river leaving the town high and dry behind us perched uncertainly on the seemingly edge of nowhere together with a backcloth of pale blue sky and the occasional passing white cotton wool cloud.

“You know what Axsel?” I said. “I lived down the coast by the sea for three years and loved it. After originating from Leicester in the very heart of England it was, to me, something very special to be able to look out each day and see what changes there were in the sea views. Always seemingly different one day to the next. My apartment faced south and sometimes I would wake early and just sit on the terrace, see the sun rise and watch the sea. I really couldn’t imagine ever living anywhere else.”

“So what happened, Chris?” asked my friend at the same moment skilfully avoiding one of the larger pot holes with a bull fighter’s precision by a rapid turn of the steering wheel. “A mixture of things I suppose. Quite simple really, when I think about it. A combination of the usual marriage problems, the selling of the business and an attempt to re-settle myself in Valencia City. In fact, as someone once said, it appears that everything in my favour was against me. A fine contradictory statement if ever there was one that I personally still find quite easy to believe.”

My friend laughed. “Typical of you British,” he said, “turning negative things into positive ones. After all it could only be the Brits who could describe the retreat from Dunkirk as a victory in the last world war!”

The name Mirambel, according to what I had read, seems to have originated by bringing together both Latin and Catalonian; ‘Miror’ signifying ‘admire’ in Latin and ‘Bell’ meaning ‘beautiful’ in Catalan; hence the name ‘Mirambel’. Well that’s what was said and I’m certainly not one to argue. Anyway the name does, in my mind, have a pleasant sound to it and can conjure up visions of a charming place to visit.

In my travels I have noticed that amongst the people who actually know Mirambel that when the name is mentioned their facial expression changes. Initially a faraway look comes into their eyes as though I had referred to some almost forgotten love affair that had touched their hearts. Then suddenly their faces light up and their response is, “Ah, Mir-am-bel!” Yes, the place does have a lasting effect on all those who know it. In fact Mirambel, could well claim to be a ‘diamond in the crown of the Maestrazgo’ and is a ‘Must’ for visitors to the region who wish to absorb themselves in what can only be described as Spain’s historical past and present day activities.

Only a few weeks before this visit I had written to Silvia Ferrer of the tourist office, requesting information and she had immediately responded to my letter. Much to my delight she had included a list of three books that related to the village, its history and inhabitants together with a fine map of the area showing the whereabouts of a dozen or ‘Masias’ together with seven different fascinating routes for walking enthusiasts many of which are routed so that the whole family can enjoy the experience. Talking of ‘Masias even now it is hard for me to believe that in this twenty-first century there are still these places without facilities of main line electricity or water.

It goes without saying that there were celebrations in the last days of nineteen-ninety six with the arrival of electricity at some of these out of the way dwellings. Until then there had been no television and certainly no facilities for computers or such necessities for the young people of today.

According to Mirambel’s long and chequered history it was less than half a century ago that the village elders met and decided that if neglected much longer the whole place would fall down, brick by brick, around their ears; survival demanded immediate action. Drastic measures were implemented to such an extent that Mirambel was virtually restored almost stone by stone; thankfully, however, keeping rigidly to the original form.

Such was the outcome of this ambitious undertaking that in the year 1981, of the five hundred applicants, the town architect for restoration work, Miguel Angel López, was awarded the golden medal in the European, ‘Our Europe’ competition. This was followed in 1982 by a visit from Her Majesty Doña Sofia of Spain who presented this genius the coveted prize. Since then Mirambel has continued to grow in popularity but strangely enough has not developed as a tourist centre like Morella. However having said that Mirambel would not then be Mirambel. If you know what I mean.

The village itself slumbers peacefully in a long confused valley that somehow does not appear able to make up its mind whether to be crop growing or grazing land, just a random variation of cultivated fields, grazing pastures and areas of general neglect. I discovered later that this had come about over the years with the impact of people leaving the villages and seeking what they believed to be a better life in the cities. Many towns and villages like Cantavieja and Mirambel have a decreasing population problem and at present have less than half the number of inhabitants that existed just one hundred years previously. This, of course, has resulted in the silent encroachment of the wilderness to re-embrace the cultivated land as nature returns once again to claim what was hers by rights before any of us were here.

Surrounded by peaks that range up to three or more thousand feet in height one has the impression of being in some sort of gigantic amphitheatre. To be honest as you approach the village from the direction of Cantavieja, along a road blessed with a surface that leaves a lot to be desired, the first impression is that the place is attempting to play hide and seek. One moment you glimpse the church tower and then next moment the road drops and you are passing between avenues of tall thick grass and weeds and cannot see anything at all. Eventually when you do manage to catch sight of the place there is not really anything that immediately distinguishes it from any other ‘pueblo’ in the area; white walled houses, red tiled roofs, the inevitable church tower all seemingly set in the middle of a field. However taking into consideration that one cannot judge a book by its cover, that first impressions are not always correct, we were animated to find out for ourselves just why this one village should hold such an attraction.

So finally we bumped into Mirambel through the most famous of the five gateways; the Nuns’ Gateway; named thus because it lies next to the old convent of the Augustinian nuns. Above the gateway the ancient village watchtower still stands but its use to discourage enemies by showering them with boiling oil has long since gone, as have the nuns. Parking near to the church and town hall we discovered that both were closed. “First on the negative side of the day,” I thought.

Leaving the car we wandered around peering into dark secret doorways, glimpsing the interiors of the villager’s homes, coming across small captivating corners where unchecked roses rambled, birds sang, butterflies dithered, crickets chirped and the odd cat slid casually away disturbed by our passing.

“Just take a look at this,” said Axsel as we passed one particular house.

I stopped and stared over his shoulder and there built into the brickwork was a beautifully carved stone face complete with cap and a wide gaping grin.

It’s got to be a letter box,” I said. “It cannot be anything but a letter box.”

“How original,” I thought as we moved on. “a stone mason with imagination

Eventually we came upon the Hostal Guimera which would no doubt provide us with all the information we required. The owner was a serious, rather sad figure who served us with the minimum amount of effort and seemed to converse with us by nodding or shaking his head. Obviously foreigners were to be treated with suspicion. However on the mention of my quest to see Silvia Ferrer his face lit up and he became more animated. “She is my niece,” he explained proudly, “and as it is Tuesday she is in Castellon.”

“Then it is not possible for me to buy one of the books,” I said producing the letter I had received and passing it over to him.

He studied the missive carefully and smiled. “Which book did you want?” he asked. “I have several copies here.”

“The one by José Miguel Marin,” I said. “100 Crónicas de Mirambel. It’s about the history of the village, I think.”

He turned and disappeared into the back of the bar returning almost immediately with a copy.

“Here you are, Caballero. I’m sorry that you came on a day when Silvia is away,” he said passing it over to me.

“No problem. I now have what I came for.”

I paid the amount he quoted and then asked. “I know it is out of season but when is the tourism office open?”

“Out of season it is normally open at weekends, but in season everyday.”

I found this information most enlightening as in the cities like Valencia the tourist information office is always closed at weekends when there are more visitors to the city than during the week. And here we were in a small village off the beaten track that had realised that there were more tourists around at the weekends so they changed the system and it was working. Good for them.

Later when I asked him how much we owed for the coffees he dismissed this and said that it was, indeed, a pleasure to serve us. Nothing as queer as folk is there?

“Where to now?” asked Axsel as we drove out of the village and bounced up on to the main road once again.

“Olocau del Rey,” I said.

“Olo what del what, Chris?”

“Never mind Axsel drive straight on. There are only two ways out of Mirambel; the one we arrived on and the one we are leaving on.”

So on we went following the course of the Cantavieja River to our right which now appeared to be somewhat narrower but still fairly healthy as regards water. Nevertheless it was still appealing with the various willow trees, birch trees and verdant vegetation of bulrushes and reeds choking the banks but occasionally leaving cool green grassy areas where the sunlight filtered through and that had me thinking, “What a nice spot for a picnic.”

The fields were interspersed with the piggy farms and seemed more organised compared to the ones we had passed before entering Mirambel. There was one such farm that could be approached over a dubious looking bridge with a sign that bore the name. ‘Masia Torre de Abajo’. The general appearance of this particular holding was attractive with its original castle-like tower still in place. However judging by state of the brickwork this would also certainly require some sort of renovation in the not too distant future. And one might take into consideration that a sharp drop in the price of pork could possibly prove disastrous to the owners.

A short while later we passed a signpost that directed the traveller to ‘La Cuba’.

“Well you really do find some places,” commented Axsel. “I wonder if that is where ‘El Comandante’ has his winter residence.”

Then on arrival at a small, but well asphalted, junction there was a sign which read Tronchon. We turned left and it wasn’t long after that the village came into sight. Missing the rather misleading signs pointing out the centre of the village we found ourselves suddenly past the place and driving by an extraordinary assortment of buildings rather like a builder’s yard; bits of scaffolding, wood piles and makeshift huts scattered about.

“This just might be the cheese factory,” said Axsel for some unknown reason and swung the car into an open gateway.

The whole area was a complete disaster. Littered with scrap iron, logs and planks of wood it looked a mess. There were also chickens wandering aimlessly around, birds in cages swinging from the trees and on top of poles, cats seemingly everywhere and all this accompanied by a raucous background of barking from two evil looking dogs, fortunately well tethered by chains. However the best part was to come when we alighted from the car.

“Good Lord Axsel, this smell cannot be just from cheese,” I said as we were immediately enveloped in a most unearthly aroma.

“I don’t think you need to look any further than there,” said my friend pointing across the yard.

And there in front of us staring out from behind solid iron bars were two sets of malevolent eyes set into two spiky haired faces both with long snouts on either side of which were a pair of very nasty looking tusks; two enormous wild boar. They sniffed and snorted and grunted thrusting their snouts between the bars. Whether or not they believed that we might be passing suppliers of food or actually were the next meal, I didn’t know. But I was certainly not going close enough to find out. Not, I hasten to add, for safety reasons but for fear of being gassed.

The backup pong emanated from a cage alongside which was open. There standing staring at us was fair sized ram. Sporting a fine set of horns and the traditional beard I could almost see him considering whether or not a charge might be appropriate immediate action. Behind him were several small goats one of which pushed past him and headed in our direction. Naturally he came for me first and began playfully butting me on my leg. I pushed him away and he headed towards Axsel who wasn’t in the mood to be butted and who delivered a hearty clout sending him back towards the cage. This obviously dissuaded the old Billy who turning paused and after expressing himself by delivering an abundance of excrement directed towards us he wandered back into the cage.

“Ever had the feeling of not being wanted?” I asked Axsel.

“Wanted or not,” he replied, “let’s go look for the cheese.”

At the far end of the yard we found what turned out to be the shop. The door was open and we wandered in. Once inside our sense of smell adjusted itself and we were blessed with a new, very much more agreeable odour; that of strong cheese, smoked ham and sausages. There was nobody around so we set about examining the various products that were spread about the place paying particular attention to the range of cheeses that looked ready for tasting. Then a female voice from the doorway said, “Buenos dias, caballeros.” And that was our introduction to Pilar who was obviously in charge. Dark hair, dark eyes wearing a prim white apron and white wellies she was all business like. Producing a rather sinister looking knife she set about preparing samples of Tronchon cheese for us while Axsel and I continued rooting around the display shelves. Then when all was set Pilar invited us to sample the various types of cheeses. Several different varieties were all laid out on a wooden board that looked like it was carved from an olive tree. As some olive trees, in particular the ‘Pitongo’ olive, can live up to around one thousand years it might well have come from a time that Cervantes was around.

Axsel was in his element.

“Hey Chris. Do you think that these are something like the cheese mentioned by Cervantes?”

I smiled, “Frankly Axsel taking a look at the area and what I saw of the villages as we passed by including this cheese board it doesn’t seem as though things have changed much over the years.”

So enthusiastically we sampled the various cheeses commenting on their texture and flavour while Pilar, encouraged by our positive response, dedicated herself to providing more samples. Finally we each selected our cheeses together with several other goodies in the form of smoked sausages, ham, and honey and, of course, a local wine that came from a bodega not far from there in the direction of Castellote.

“Take a note of the winery,” said Axsel over my shoulder. “It might be interesting.”

Thanking Pilar for all her help we paid and made for the door. Once outside clutching our bags we held our breath and hurried to the car. The dogs began barking again and the wild boars looked even meaner whilst the goats had disappeared into their quarters.

What is interesting is that despite the praise that Tronchon cheese received in Cervantes’s masterpiece today it does not enjoy the same commercial popularity as the Manchego cheeses. Though having said that it did occur to me that things might just have been very much different especially, that is, if events leading up to the French revolution had taken another turn.

It happened like this.

Fifty years after Cervantes’s death in year of 1616, Tronchon cheese found fame in the court of King Louis XVI through Count Aranda, who was at that time, Spanish Ambassador in Paris. Aranda presented samples to the King and Marie Antoinette which, according to the historians, were exceptionally well received. I, personally, somehow feel that the Duke had never heard the expression ‘Taking coals to Newcastle’ in that someone coming from a country like Spain that had around one hundred different types of cheese and introducing something similar into a country that boasts around ten times that amount, must have had considerable faith in the product or was lacking in diplomacy.

On the other hand he could possibly have been aware that Marie Antoinette just might have changed her mind and instead of suggesting that if the poor had no bread she might just have come up with the words, “Let then eat Tronchon cheese.” Just think for a minute what might have happened. It would certainly have involved a vast change in the Maestrazgo history. There might now be cheese factories everywhere competing with the piggy farms and if the development of six legged chickens had come off…, well it doesn’t bear thinking about. The sky would have been the limit.

"Where to now, Chris?"

“Well after the aperitif I think that we can now treat ourselves to a good lunch. That is if we can find our way into the village.”

With only two mistaken turns, where it was necessary for us to leave the village start again, we eventually found our way, noting that most of the main street was such that two cars could not pass each other. Coming to the most uneven cobbled square in front of the church we parked. Climbing out of the car we stood gazing about us and it was the, for some reason, I thought of a nursery rhyme.

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile

He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked style.

He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse

And they all lived together in a crooked little house.

The whole village was crooked. The crooked streets, the crooked houses with their crooked roofs and balconies; it seemed impossible to see anything that wasn’t crooked. Even as we began our search for the restaurant it seemed that we were going up or going down, turning sharp corners or climbing crooked steps. It was amazing.

Then of all things we were actually confronted by what appeared to be an odds-on winner for the crooked man stakes coming very slowly up the street in our direction. A thin frail looking round shouldered figure with a cloth cap pulled well down over his eyes. Leaning heavily on his walking stick and paying more attention to where his feet were than where he was actually going. I could not blame him as the cobbled street might well prove disastrous for anybody unsteady on their feet. He looked exactly like the character drawings I had seen of the crooked man in the rhyme. A quick glance around on my part determined that there were no crooked cats, styles or sixpenny coins around.

“I’ll ask him,” I said to Axsel, “He must know where it is.”

“Then better we head down to meet him,” was reply. “By the looks of things he might not make it this far. At least not before tea time.”

“Buenos dias, Señor,” I said, as we came up to him.

The old fellow straightened up as far as it was physically possible, turned his head to one side in order to look up at us.

Cupping his hand round his ear he croaked, “Que?”

“Deaf as well, Just our luck,” grumbled Axsel who was obviously tired, hungry and in need of a drink.

“Ca-sa Ma-til-de!” I almost shouted to his improvised hearing aid.

“Yes, it has always been like that in Tronchon,” he agreed. “They were going to do something about it at one time, but you know what the town hall is like,”

“This just isn’t true, is it?” said Axsel behind me. “What’s he on about?”

“Shut up, Axsel!” I ground my teeth.

“What’s the matter with your friend?” said the old man twisting his head to look at Axsel.

“Nothing,” I hissed. “Just tell us where the Casa Matilde is.

“Ah, the Casa Matilde,” said the old man. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? The Casa Matilde is down that street there.”

“But we’ve been down that street twice and there is absolutely nothing that even looks like a restaurant,” said Axsel desperately.

The crooked man looked up at Axsel and made as if to raise his walking stick. Axsel stepped back a pace just in case. Being barked at by savage dogs and being glared at by mean smelly wild boar was one thing, but being clobbered by crooked men was making my friend paranoiac. However the man thought better of it and went back to studying the uneven cobbles, possibly deciding that this was not the place for excess activity. So once again he just nodded in the same direction.

“See those boxes of fruit and vegetables outside that house on the left?” he asked without turning his head.

We nodded.

“Well it’s the house next to that one.”

So thanking him we quickly left him to wend his crooked way whilst we wandered back down the road for the third time. Arriving at the terraced house with the fruit and vegetable boxes outside we stopped. The houses on either side gave no impression that there might be a restaurant within. Both had the usual beaded fly screen in place with the doors open but apart from that no indication at all. So after a moment’s hesitation I chose the one on the left brushed the curtain aside and walked in. Axsel followed and we found ourselves in a short dim passage way cluttered with boxes, bits and pieces. The wall on the right had various papers and pictures attached that were almost impossible to read in the gloom.

“Anyone at home?” I called out and almost immediately the door in front of us opened and we were confronted by a short round lady with the brightest smile I had seen in ages.

“Matilde?” I ventured.

“Si Señor,” she nodded.

“We would like to eat,” I said, feeling rather silly at the same time imagining what sort of reception we would have received if we had knocked on the door of a private house in England and announced that we were hungry.

“Por supuesto Señores. Of course you do. Come in.”

Stepping back to let us pass her smile grew even wider. She did not come up to my shoulder and looking at her I calculated that if she stretched her arms out straight on either side the distance between her finger tips would be equal to her height.

“Where would you like to sit?” Here she pointed to a flight of stairs that appeared to disappear into the cellar. “There’s a small dining room down there.” Next she pointed to her right. “Then there is my own sitting room through there which is comfortable and then I have another room near the kitchen just through here.”

We glanced through this nearest doorway and saw a table that would seat around eight and took up most of the room space.

”This looks fine,” we both agreed without any hesitation.

“Then make yourselves comfortable. You must be tired after your journey. Something to drink perhaps?”

“I think a couple of cold beers would serve nicely,” put in Axsel already in a better frame of mind.

Another broad smile and Matilde bustled off into the nearby kitchen while we made ourselves at home at one end of the splendid long wooden table that looked as though it had been possibly been made of some excess wood that came from building the Ark..

On one wall there was a large floor-to-ceiling cupboard; one of those with an abundance of shelving used for just about anything and everything. This had me wondering just how this little lady managed to reach anything on the top shelf. Without some sort of steps it would be impossible. At the time the place was built the average Spaniard would have been little more that one meter sixty in height.

I remember being told that it might appear that the architects and builders seemed to have constructed these houses according to their personal whims; a bedroom here, a dining room there and the odd cupboard or two when the fancy took them. However this was not necessarily true. There was a fundamental reason for all their planning; that of practical survival. Everything was designed for the purpose of conserving the crops as the seasons progressed so that food was available all year round. Pumpkins, potatoes and apples together with sweet corn and bundles of rosemary, thyme, sage and many other items enjoyed the balconies at the top of the house where they received a constant flow of air.

This particular house had an atmosphere that generated in both Axsel and myself a feeling that we had stepped back in time at least one hundred years. There was cosy warmth about the place and it required little imagination to visualise whole families living there with all the members from grandparents to grandchildren. It even measured up to my idea of ‘Crooked House’ requirements: all nooks, crannies and hidey holes. Without doubt I am sure that previous owners had experienced difficult times, especially in this wild region and particularly during the civil war. However, unlike some old dwellings that convey a sensation of sadness and general disaster, the Casa Matilde was quite the opposite. It was a joy to be there.

Matilde returned with two bottles of ice cold beers, a paper tablecloth and a handful of knives and forks. She began organising the table at the same time asking us what we would like to eat.

Axsel took a hearty mouthful of beer and said, “Doesn’t matter just bring whatever you like.” I nodded in full agreement.

And so it began.

We were certainly hungry by now having enjoyed Raquel’s breakfast some seven to eight hours earlier and were well prepared. Within a short time Matilde reappeared with two large plates which were set in front of us. One contained the usual cold meats; Teruel ham, and various other interesting cuts of meat, and the second plate displayed slices of what must have been a tomato that appeared to be bordering on the size of a football. I speared a slice with my fork and found the flesh was firm and juicy unlike the tomatoes on the coast that seem to have developed thick skins and when sliced the fleshy part just slithers out onto your plate. After adding a little of the region’s virgin olive oil together with a pinch of salt it did things to my taste buds that the other lowland tomatoes could never do. Likewise with the second plate containing cured ham, ‘cecina’, ‘salami’ and creamy Tronchon cheese.

“This is something really special,” said Axsel. “Absolutely ideal as a first course.”

“Sorry, Axsel,” I said, seeing Matilde coming through the kitchen door with a huge tureen and a couple of soup plates. “I think that was the aperitif.”

And so it continued.

After the ‘Sopa de Fideos’ (fortunately, we were able to control our intake by the presence of the tureen) followed a further tureen in which were two quail resting in a sauce of white beans. Needless to say the combination was delightful and as Matilde pointed out a popular dish for that region.

Then came the pièce de résistance which was, in fact, in the form of three dishes; ox tail prepared in a thick rich sauce with local herbs, rabbit with garlic in a similar, but much lighter sauce, and of all things, ox cheek which had been cooked to such a point over a very long time that it just melted in my mouth. Matilde explained that she prepared the cheek the previous night and left it cooking on a very low gas light all night so with hardly a ripple it was ready the following morning.

“The woman is a genius,” said Axsel as he gently lifted a small wedge of cheek to his mouth.

“Too right, my friend,” I replied following his example and feeling my taste buds in full flow as the meat delicately disintegrated.

Needless to say little room was left for a desert but we did find a space to finish the second bottle of wine with the local cheese.

Talking over the coffee and a glass of brandy that must have been produced around the time that Matilde’s house had been built, Axsel and I sat there comfortably going over the events of the day and wondering what kind of future lay in store for this wild, but hospitable, corner of Spain. Of course we decided that the smoked ham and the superb Tronchon cheese would continue selling to a greater or lesser degree as the market dictated and perhaps one day there might even be fresh trout on the menu of the Trout Hotel. We both concluded that as things were at that particular moment the region would continue to suffer a destabilising effect due to the insidious depopulation situation. Naturally less people around for the ramblers and other enthusiastic lovers of outdoor activities would be considered as being most positive.

Axsel and I would go our separate ways the following morning, after one of Raquel’s fine breakfasts. However one thing was certain - it would not be long before the Maestrazgo felt my presence once more. Yes, that was definite. In fact I had already noted that the seven kilometre hike around La Cuba looked very attractive or possibly something more adventurous like Mirambel (Ah, Mirambel! speaks the small voice within me once more) to Tronchon. The trouble was that I could only foresee one insurmountable problem; that of lunch at Matilde’s. I do not think that it would be really compatible with wending my crooked way along the crooked miles back to Mirambel. Though having said that I suppose I could see if Matilde had a spare nook or cranny in her crooked house and then I could return after a siesta. Yes, that sounds like a plan. Definitely must look into that.

On our return journey to Cantavieja that late afternoon we stopped at one of the ‘Miradores’ or sight seeing points that looks down the long valley towards Mirambel. Surrounding us was a rich wild tapestry of mountains and valleys all bathed in that faint golden sheen of twilight that precedes the coming of darkness and seemingly turns everything into an unreal dimension, creating the feeling that we were not really a part of the setting, just voyeurs from another world. As I stood there I felt an almost imperceptible breath of air brush lightly across my face and had the unusual feeling that we were not alone. Some three hundred metres below in the valley I could just make out the slim silver thread of the stream and almost hear the quiet rustle of the voices whispering secrets to one another as a slight breeze weaved in and out of the birch trees and bull rushes along the banks. I glanced up and the now darkening sky was sadly bereft of eagles. Then at that moment high up on the side of the mountain opposite in one of the isolated ‘Masias’ a tiny spot of bright light flickered on and off several times before settling down to become a steady reassuring beacon. Almost at once others followed suite and I thought of other ‘Masias’ that were still not blessed with mains electricity. They would be lighting their oil lamps and candles and hopefully enjoying a warm hearth. Behind each of these pinpoints of light there was a family, of human activity, each one a small world in its entirety. It was not difficult for me to imagine the relief felt by foot weary travellers out after dark on these barren mountains to see, at last, some beacon of welcoming refuge in the form of a light no matter how small it appeared to their eyes. It was than that I remembered reading somewhere, in what seemed another lifetime that someone once said that there was not enough darkness in the whole world that could put out the light of even one small candle. Now there is food for thought.

Later, whilst lying comfortably in my bed beneath the eves of the ‘Atico’, I knew that whatever befell this enchanting region in the future it would always be somewhere for me to come home to. Then moments before I surrendered to a deep sleep that comes with a day well spent, I felt myself enveloped in a deliciously warm cloak of self complacency and knew that in all honesty I could say that here I was happy. It was also in those few brief seconds that I promised myself that I would keep this precious secret to myself and not breathe a word to anyone else about it. This, in the end, only goes to prove just how wrong I could be at times.

NOTES ON THE ‘MAESTRAZGO’

For the traveller to arrive at the Maestrazgo region either by car, bicycle, on foot, or by any other means is, in itself, a fascinating experience. Here, exists a little known world of which few people are aware, just waiting to be discovered.

Located in the eastern part of the Teruel Province, it consists of fifteen municipalities covering a total area of 1,204 km2 or a little less than 500 sq. miles. At one time in the past it was prosperous and active in light industry such as paper manufacturing, textile production, as well as agricultural work. Now the area has only around 3.700 residents and is considered to be the most depopulated region in Western Europe.

The Maestrazgo with its impressive mountainous range, whose rugged peaks attain heights of up to 6.000 feet, is to be located between Aragon, Valencia and Catalonia. To the north west of Valencia lies the actual capital Arragones a town of Teruel, a city rich in architecture together with a great deal of cultural heritage and notoriety in the Spanish Civil war (1936 – 1938). This is the nearest town, of any size, from which to embark upon the Maestrazgo region.

The area, with good reason, is also known as the ‘Labyrinth of Silence’. Villages lie scattered in rugged terrain where there are deep ravines displaying fascinating rock formations and narrow fertile valleys, mostly crossed by the river network of the Guadalope or ‘Wolf’ river. Here are also extensive pine forests, grasslands and moor lands and everywhere blessed with an abundance of wild life together with flora and fauna; a virtual paradise for nature lovers.

HISTORY

Man has been present in these mountains since prehistoric times and has left a legacy that includes ancient forms of cave paintings, ‘Levantine Rock Art’ dated between 6.000 and 2.500 BC. These are located in the area of Castellote and Ladruñan near to the Guadalope River. There are also multiple examples of Iberian and Roman settlements in the region.

However it was in the Middle Ages when the current system of urban settlements was brought into being, with the many unique characteristics defining the inhabitants of the region. that the historical personality of the Maestrazgo was forged It was then that in the late XII and XIII centuries that the region was permanently incorporated into the Kingdom of Aragon thus becoming a ‘Frontier Land’ before the Moorish Kingdom of Valencia.

In the struggle to recapture Valencia from the Moors the Military Orders were strongly involved, supporting the Arragones crown and inspired by the crusading spirit that prevailed at the time. The Order of the Temple (The Templers) was centred on Cantavieja and Castellote, including the surrounding villages. On the other hand, Fortanete, Villarroya, Sollavientos Pitarque belonged to the Knights of Aliaga, of the Order of St. John's Hospital. Upon termination of the Order of the Templers in the early fourteenth century, their domains passed to the Sanjuanistas (Order of Saint John of Jerusalem), with their jurisdiction extending to almost all of the Maestrazgo. Today we still have castles, fortifications, towers and defensive walls, vivid reminders of a turbulent past.

During the thirteenth Century the wool trade together with cereals was the main source of income for farmers in the region and then it was in the late fourteenth Century when the wool (Marino) from the Maestrazgo entered the Mediterranean trading area with the Italians who were mainly from Florence. This was early modern period when the Maestrazgo laid the groundwork for what would be an economy with significant potential for success. A thriving agrarian economy was the perfect addition to become involved in sheep farming. The quality of the wool provided an important market position and income of rural families were well recompensed with textile manufacturing. Many farmers allocated a portion of their time working on looms installed in their homes that provided new income to the family unit. The highlight of this fully integrated production model was reached during the XVI and XVII centuries. At that time some municipalities became important textile centres. In general all the local controlled areas experienced a period of economic bonanza easily noticeable in the buildings that housed the municipal councils or in the palaces or the homes of the artisans.

The Maestrazgo boasts a disorderly history and was to the forefront of the great wars involving Spain. However what finally moulded the Maestrazgo as we know it today was the Carlista wars of succession. These changes came about on the death of Ferdinand IV in 1833 without any of his four wives bearing him a son. His daughter, later to become Isabel II, was named as his successor with the late King’s wife acting as Queen Regent. The King’s brother, Carlos, according to supporters of Salic law in that women were not allowed to rule, formed a resistance led by Baron Herves, which mobilized a group of musketeers and controlled the Spanish authority in the councils of the area of the Maestrazgo.

The municipalities of the region resisted the first volleys of the Carlistas but finally yielded because of the ineffective protection offered them by the liberal authorities. Cantavieja’s strategic position led to the Carlista general Ramón Cabrera to fortify the town as the capital of the surrounding area which he controlled. Gradually the rest of the towns were fortified and played a very important defensive role until the liberal offensive of 1840 returned control of the area to the liberals. Three decades later Carlist flags again flew over the same places and Cantavieja once again became the capital of the Carlist insurrection. It was later that the city of Valencia relented in 1875.

ARCHITECTURE

Gothic. The middle ages left interesting examples of ‘Levantine Gothic’ architecture. For enthusiasts’, however, a visit to the town of La Iglesuela del Cid is necessary. It is here that exists examples of such architecture so the visitor can see for himself the fine buildings that confirm the richness that existed in bygone days. Both Cantavieja and Castellote also have fine specimens of gothic architecture with the former boasting wonderful examples of covered porches near to the church and town hall.

Renaissance. The palaces of the sixteenth and early decades of the seventeenth century are example of the golden age in the civil architecture of the Maestrazgo. There are many examples of palaces and manor houses of renaissance style structure and influences of Neapolitan Arragones. From the XVI century the popular designs of the Arragones palaces with their galleries and decorative eaves began to spread throughout the region of Maestrazgo following the Italian renaissance style. Normally they are three-storey buildings with no yard or corral, so focusing on the main facade. Almost all have wide doorways with cobble stones at the entrance together with stone arches on which rest the wooden structures.

Most have large and elaborate staircases and sometimes include a chapel in the building, such as the palatial homes of Julianes and Castellot in Mirambel. Probably from the standpoint of historical architectural highlights, fine examples can be found in Mirambel (Palace of the Aliaga, the Castellot, the Barceló and Julianes), in Iglesuela del Cid (Palace of the Aliaga and Guijarro) together with Tronchón (palace of the Marquis de Valdeolivo).

Baroque religious architecture of the XVII and XVIII is well represented, reaching a high artistic level. This is demonstrated by the parish churches, usually of large and slender proportions. Examples of this are to found in the churches of Fortanete, Mirambel, La Cuba, La Cañada de Benatanduz and Allepuz. However the church of Cantavieja has a greater monumentality by its cathedral-like proportions. The bell towers invariably attached to the churches are all part of the urban scenery. There is also a broad range of chapels, mostly Baroque, aged examples of popular religious sentiments of the people. Although there are different types of chapels the most formal are those dedicated to the worship of the Virgin of Loreto, in Cantavieja, Villarroya and Fortanete.

The Masadas, signifying fortifications or palaces are rural buildings representative of the Maestrazgo. Symbolizing traditional ways of life these are farms adapted to the harsh conditions of life imposed by the environment together with the varying political changes over the ages. The house or Masada in most cases is a rustic domain of variable length, centred in the main house with separate spaces for its production function and the distance to housing. Included are usually barns, outbuildings, corrals, stables or yards. The oldest Masadas date from the middle Ages. The Order of the Temple at that time gave permission to live in what was known as ‘Masias’ or 'fortified buildings.' These are numerous in this border area. They are located in strategic locations to control a vast territory and to communicate with each other. But most were built between the XIX and XX centuries. At this time there was a strong demographic pressure and many lands were split, so some large country houses were divided into 'Masicos' or smaller houses that had corrals, barns, pastures, forest and farmland.

The dry stone houses in this area are most unique, particularly those in Iglesuela del Cid. They were built without mortar and covered with false vault or dome. Simple building, but highly functional in the past, linked to forms of life based on agriculture and livestock.

GASTROMONY

The traditional cuisine of the region is based on the use of products of the land for example pork, lamb and wheat bread which is cooked in wood ovens. The cuisine is simple, without excessive development, based on the quality of these natural products and old family recipes. Amongst the local produce are the hams cured by the pure air of the Maestrazgo, olive oil is also used to conserve cuts of local meat and game like rabbit and partridge and. of course, let us not forget the trout from the Guadalupe River. Cheese, produced in Tronchon deserves a special mention as it has been around for over five hundred years when Cervantes mentions it in ‘Don Quixote de la Mancha’. Let us not detract, however, from the traditional bakery, which features pastries and muffins or the refined and exquisite tasting of Thousand Flowers and Rosemary honey. Recent times have seen the development of these fine artisan products so that now each has a corresponding ticket confirming to where the product originates; Protected Geographical Indication (PGI).

All this quality production of the raw materials provides the basis for the regional chefs to prepare delicious soups, stews and casseroles. Venison, lamb or pork products, all well flavoured, are served with olive oil together with various species of mushrooms or herbs. One interesting local dish is prepared just using breadcrumbs (‘Migas’) as a base.

ARTISAN

Traditional crafts are closely linked in their origins to fit the needs of rural society and include wood carving, basketry, textile, and leather products. Villages such as Tronchon became notorious for their rabbit fur hats as was the pottery of Montoro and Cantavieja. The textiles are in evidence throughout the region and can be found in Iglesuela del Cid in the form of bedspreads and tablecloths etc. Even today there are looms still functional that date back to the eighteenth Century.

MAESTRAZGO TOWNS AND VILLAGES

Listed here are details of the towns and villages with which the author is familiar. Local tourist information can usually be found at the local town hall if a tourist office is not available or via the Web.

Allepuz

Population: 137. Altitude: 1,424 m. Allepuz is a name of Arabic origen which signifies ‘Shell’. The village is perched on the side of a hill near to the river Sollavientos. At the entrance to Allepuz is the shrine of Loreto (1692), which conforms to the usual form of this type. The most noteworthy building, by virtue of its size, is the Church of the Purification of Our Lady (1771). It is most imposing with its tower of masonry, brick and multicoloured tiles. In the village we find monumental houses of the XVII and XVIII centuries, such as Casa Grande with its supports of archways. Then finally there is the chapel of St. Isabel of Sollavientos which is located on the Valdelinares road.

Bordón

Population: 144. Altitude: 828 m. Located in the northeast region of the Maestrazgo on the banks of the river Bordón. It is said that the Carthaginians founded the town. Then in the year 1192 the Knights Templar’s ruled before it passed into the hands of the Hospitalarios. Bordon is interesting for its mixture of Gothic and Roman architecture and certainly worth studying is the chapel of Santa Lucia.

Cañada de Benatanduz

Population: 59. Altitude: 1,422 m. The town originally settled at the mouth of the River Glen in Monjuí, where there is rock outlet to act as a defence other buildings. In the adjoining districts of La Villa, San Cristobal and Santa Barbara there is the Church of the Assumption of the XVIII century together with the town hall (1540) and the Hospital for the Poor (1568). In the neighbourhood of San Cristobal can be found a small chapel, the manor La Posada. Also near the village is the chapel of Santa Mary Magdelana

Cantavieja

Population: 800. Altitude: 1.299 m. This is the historic centre of the Maestrazgo. Situated on a rocky spur high above the river Cantavieja it is the most impressive fortification towns in the region and provided the ideal Carlista stronghold for such colourful figures as General Ramon Cabrera known as ‘El Tigre del Maestrazgo’ and General Jovellar Joaquin the latter describing Cantavieja as being the ‘Eagles Nest’. There are theories that the castle, now in ruins after being destroyed in the first Carlist war of succession, was built by Hannibal on his way through Spain from Carthage.

The most notable building is the town hall approached with the huge Church of Asunción (XVIII Century) on the left with the actual road passing through the bell tower. On either side of the square are stone archways. Of particular interest is the artistic Gothic ceiling in the Legislation Chamber. Other buildings include the former Baroque Hospital of San Roque, the Gothic Church of San Miguel and several stately homes such as Bayle House and Noveles House.

Castellote

Population: 787. Altitude: 774 m. As we indicated Pascual Madoz (1847), Castellote Lies at the foot of a ridge of high rocks that extends from west to east, in rough terrain. In the vicinity are the ruins of an ancient castle, believed to be built by the Templers, which was destroyed in the last dynastic war. Near the castle lie the remains of the aqueduct typical of the region. The village itself sits in the middle and lower southern slope of the Templers Castle ruins. Here also is the XIV century gothic church of San Miguel and certainly worth a visit is the picturesque Ermita de Llovedor, XVIII-XIX century.

La Cuba

Population: 56. Altitude: 882 m. Area 6.5 km2. La Cuba is based on the side of a high mountain to the west. The town hall has several stone arches and decorated window sills, facing east. The church of San Miguel was built in 1753. Of baroque construction it stands above the village. Outside the village is also the chapel of San Cristobal.

Fortanete

Population: 208. Altitude: 1,353 m. The village is located at the foot of a hill in a wide valleys and meadows. The former St John of Fortanete enclave is situated in the center of the basin of the Rambla de Mal Burgo, head of the river Pitarque, territory dominated by the tall grasses and, above all, by the extensive and well cared for Scots pines. The river is now dry but the presence of elm and willow trees leave no doubt that it lies just below the surface.

In the XVI and XVIII centuries was thriving with the wool exports. Then in the 1950’s to the 1980’s there was a population decrease as people moved to the cities.

There are many architectural interesting buildings including the town hall which displays large painted shields. Close by are other buildings: the Dukes of Medinacelli (1587), the Marquis of Villasegura (XVI), the Dukes (XVI) and the Gauden (XVII) etc. Then within the municipality there is the Castle of the Cid (XI-XII) together with several chapels.

Iglesuela del Cid

Population: 501. Altitude: 1227m. One of the most populated towns of the Maestrazgo which offers a veritable feast of architectural variation from the many well preserved, round, dry stone huts and walls outside the town to a mixture of noble houses, churches and such in this enchanting location. Iglesuela del Cid is famous for its textile industry.

Mirambel

Population : 137. Altitude 993 m. Without doubt one of the gems of the Maestrazgo. This walled mediaeval town was awarded the ‘Our Europe’ prize some years ago for the restoration involved. There are several ‘Portales’ or gateways for entering Mirambel but the most perfectly preserved is the ‘Portal de las Monjas’ or The Nun’s Gateway with its plaster latticework decoration. The actual town hall is a monumental three story building with its typical colonnade market. The building houses the Gothic prison and a beautiful legislative chamber. Next to it is the Baroque parish church. Highlights include the Gothic Augustinian Convent, the San Roque chapel which has an XVIII century altarpiece together with a baptismal from the XVII century.

The narrow streets and squares of Mirambel are truly architecturally harmonious and the visitor comes across small palaces and stately homes such as those in the Plaza Aliaga built on three floors

Miravete de la Sierra

Population: 12. Altitude 1.218 m. Without doubt this village could well be termed as the epitome of what the average person would consider as an ideal place where there are no cars, no traffic lights, no crowds and just a sense of peace. Miravete de la Sierra is known as ‘El pueblo en el que nunca pasa nada’ or ‘The village where nothing ever happens’. It is said that one of the inhabitants does not require even a clock as she knows the exact time when a neighbour passes by on the way to the baker to buy bread. With narrow cobbled streets, small quiet corners, interesting architecture and above friendly people, this is the place for peace and quiet.

Pitarque

Population: 94. Altitude 1.000 m. Charming village situated at the foot of mount Peñarrubia. The village is traditionally dedicated to agriculture although today it welcomes many tourists who visit the source of the river Pitarque and see the wonderful variation in the natural wildlife.

Villaluengo

Population: 194. Altitude 1.119 m. The village has eight centuries of history beginning in the year 1317. In 1877 Villaluengo had a population of 1.599 and by 1950 this had dwindled to 893. Today there are less than 200 inhabitants.

Approaching the village from the direction of Cantavieja you are greeted by a most outstanding spectacle as the village is placed on a spur of rock formation with houses perched, as it were, on the edge of nowhere. The church in Villaluengo was reconstructed in 1859. Of neoclassic-mudéjar design it has two most imposing towers. Apart from the two classical chapels near the village dedicated to St. Bartholomew and St. Christopher there are, in the area various Masias or fortified farms; Torre Montesanto, Torre Gorque, Torre Sancho and Torre Soriano.

Villaroya de los Pinares

Population: 172. Altitude 1.227m. A fine example of depopulation, this village dedicated to agriculture, in 1900 boasted a population of 1.095 inhabitants. Nowadays it relies on rural tourism and visitors to the area ski slopes. There are also signs of people returning to original art and craft work such as the thriving ceramic workshop to be found in the village main street. One point of architectural interest is the Torreón (tower) that belongs to the church but is built some distance away on higher ground. It is said that the original castle was given to Berenguela Fernández by King Rey Don Jaime I in 1623.

SIERRA DE GÚDAR

Linares de Mora

Populación: 312 Altitude 1.311m. In fact Linares de Mora lies some kilometres outside the Maestrazgo region but is certainly worth mentioning as it possess all the ingrediants of what a Spanish mountain village should be. Historically, like most of Spain’s villages, it was under Moorish rule for many years. Finally being rescued by Alberto II of Aragon it came under the ruling by the Templers and later by the Carlists. The castle remains date from XII century and the church (Iglesia de la Imaculada)from the XVIII century. Being well known in the region for its ‘Fiestas’ the village also has a remarkable following of musicians and boasts, with reason, one of the finest orchestras in the area.

As for the traveller there is a choice of four fine, and reasonably priced small hotels all of which welcome whoever decides to pass the night or dine there. All in all a small village with a big heart.

CHRIS WRIGHT

Born in Leicester, prior to the Second World War Chris was the only son of typical English ‘Bobby’. Before being called for compulsory national service he had various menial jobs and played boogie woogie piano for the American, Canadian and British servicemen in the less desirable pubs of the city.

Next he completed three years national service in the RAF after which he joined the Exeter City police force in Devon. Good career intentions were rapidly brought to an end when one night, whilst on duty, he received a call ordering him to stop the next car to pass by as there had been a smash and grab at a local jewellers. A well aimed truncheon at the car’s windscreen effectively completed the order and it was only after the vehicle had buried itself into the front of a local newsagents that Chris discovered that it was a police car; the thieves having passed by minutes earlier. After some years in the world of trainee management with a large chain store he was then attracted to representation work in the pharmaceutical industry based in Surrey and then the Midlands area.

A desire to attempt some form of self-employment he then, together with his wife, took on a pub in Northamptonshire accompanied by a depressed Bassett hound, a neurotic donkey, oversexed cockerel and a delinquent goat, all of which seemed intent on destroying his livelihood.

It was the offer of a partnership in Spain that attracted him to that country. Having spent various holidays there he always seemed to be drawn to out of the way places and villages, mixing with the local people, enjoying their Fiestas, customs and food. Later he was to discover the little known area of the Maestrazgo, also known as the Labirynth of Silence, with its rugged mountains, quaint villages and ancient history linked to England, where time has literally stood still. It is there Chris spends most of his time when he is not in his Valencia home.

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