Remember the old saying about "building castles in Spain"?
No, I didn't build one but I did live in one for a week. My castle in Spain went by the grandiose name of El Castillo de Alarcón.
El Castillo is 200 kilometers from the capital, Madrid, and is set on a rocky promontory surrounded by a deep gorge through which the River Júcar flows.
It looks across the gorge to the rolling green, yellow and red countryside which characterizes so much of inland Spain. The various greens of cultivated areas, fruit trees, olive groves and scrub; the yellows of fields of brilliant sunflowers and the pale gold of wheat ready for harvesting; and the reds of the deep, rich soil and patches of scarlet Flanders poppies.
Credit: Spanish
El Castillo (somehow I will always think of it as "my castle") dominates the tiny village of Alarcón, with its squat, centuries-old houses which have been replastered and whitewashed so often that they no longer have angles, only rounded bumps and curves. It's a village of narrow, winding, cobbled streets in which children play and old men sit chatting in the sun.
The castle dates back to the year 785, when it was a fortress. The old watch towers still stand at strategic points around the gorge. The castle has a chequered history, and changed hands many times in the various battles between the Moorish muslims and the Christians.
From the 13th to the 15th century, it was the scene of many battles and was severely damaged in 1290, when it was handed over to the Marques de Villena, after which it was made practically impregnable.
Gradually it fell into ruin until it was restored during the Spanish civil war of 1833-40, the last war in which it played a part.
Now it is a parador (loosely translated as "resting place"), one of about 70 ancient castles, monasteries and stately homes which the Spanish government has redecorated and turned into inns for travelers.
Externally, our castle has changed very little since its eighth century origins. Its meter-thick stone walls are intact. So are the tower and the battlements and the high walls with their arrow slits and the great stone walls, with their arched gateways, surrounding the village.
The huge banqueting hall and the reception room are decorated with early Spanish furniture, ancient tapestries, valuable old paintings, suits of armor and light fittings which could have held flares once, but are now connected to electricity.
The ancient cobbled courtyard contains the original well, now decorated - as are the balconies - with pots of brilliant red geraniums. The tower and battlements are reached by the original narrow spiral staircases.
In the bedrooms (there are 11) the scene is as modern as today, with well-equipped bathrooms (yes, the plumbing works), automatic lighting and refrigerators.
One morning I heard the almost frightening, high-pitched sound of an old woman mourning her husband's death. That night the villagers gathered outside her house to pray, and I realized that although modern amenities have come to Alarcón primitive instincts survive in the old people.
Many of the younger villagers work the farmlands across the gorge and although farming in Spain is highly mechanized they still use the trusty, sure-footed, unflappable burro (or donkey).
At lunch time I watched them wend their way up the narrow road through the archways in the high walls around the village, astride their laden burros, lean and friendly dogs trotting at their heels.
Sometimes I perched perilously on the wide window-sill, leaning far out to watch the shepherds on their burros leading their flocks of sheep and goats - all with clanking bells - up the steep gorge.
My Spain will always be the lovely highlands, the music of the goat bells, the patient, plodding burros, El Castillo, and the friendly villagers of Alarcón.
Reference: Castle of Alarcón
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