Mein Buch

Dies ist eine automatische Übersetzung des Google-Dienstes, dessen Original in Englisch verfasst ist

Das letzte „Spanish Secret“

CHRIS WRIGHT

Copyright © 2012 Chris Wright

Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

ISBN-10: 1481837826

ISBN-13: 978-1481837828

Für Samantha Eva

Aus der Ferne betrachtet sieht die Welt blau und grün.

und die schneebedeckten Berge weiß.

Aus der Ferne auf den Ozean trifft den Strom

und der Adler nimmt die Flucht.

Aus der Ferne, dort Harmonie,

und es hallt durch das Land. 
Es ist die Stimme der Hoffnung, es ist die Stimme des Friedens ist, 
es ist die Stimme eines jeden Menschen 
- von den Texten für ‚From A Distance‘ (Bette Midler)

Gehen Sie nicht hinter mir, ich kann nicht dazu führen,

Gehen Sie nicht vor mir kann ich nicht folgen,

Gleich neben mir gehen und mein Freund sein.

-Albert Camus

Bevor ich gehe sehen Sie bitte lassen Sie mich, was ist

auf der anderen Seite des dort Bergs.

-Der Autor

INHALT

	Anerkennungen	ich
1	Einführung	15
2	Südlich der Pyrenäen	6 bis 12
3	Im Namen des Königs von Spanien	13-21
4	The Amazing Shepherd und die Jungfrau	22-28
5	Die Bischofsburg, Dinosaurier und wahre Liebe	29 -57
6	Ein Teller mit Schinken und Eier mit „Onkel John“ und die Wölfe	58-68
7	Pathfinders zum 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

improvisierter Tisch, forschten wir in unsere Tornister und legt die Leckereien. In kürzester Zeit wurden kauen wir an einem klaren Bar Brot weg, in denen wir rot ‚Chorizo‘ Wurst geschoben, ‚Jamon‘ von Teruel und einem scharfen, wohlschmeckenden Käse aus Don Quijote, ‚La Mancha‘.

Nachdem wir unseren Appetit und entsorgt einem fairen Betrag von ‚Mr. hatten zufrieden Jimenez Beitrag, kam es natürlich, dass wir festgelegt wird, mit dem, was dem Nachmittag warmer Sonne auf unseren Gesichtern verlassen wurde, für eine einvernehmliche, kurz ‚Siesta‘. Nun, das ist, was beabsichtigt wurde, zu sein.

Ich erwachte erst viel später und war nicht nur kalt, aber das Einfrieren und zugleich fragen, wo zum Teufel ich war. Die leichte Bewegung von nur Satz Glocken sitzt in meinem Kopf klingeln und es schien, als ob der Berg ein wenig geneigt. Ich wartete, bis die Dinge selbst eingestellt und über mich sah. Die Sonne war aufgegeben und rutschte unter den Bergen weg hinter uns dunkel verlassen, finsteren Wolken an seinem Platz. Die griechische lag immer noch dort mit seiner Windjacke über ihn drapierte und Schnarchen sanft.

Beugte sich über, grub ich ihn in die Rippen.

„ Wach auf. Es ist spät und dunkel, dank Ihren Freund Pedro '“.

Er stöhnte, rollte über und setzte sich schließlich auf.

„ Sieht aus wie regen“ , sagte ich, an der Verdunkelung Himmel über nach oben zeigt.

„ Besser einen Schritt machen dann.“ Er machte aufzustehen und umklammert seine Hand an die Stirn.

„ Was ist los, Pany? Wollen Sie etwas mehr Wein?“

„ Sehr witzig, mein englischer Freund,“ er zurückkehrte, um seine Füße klettern schwankend.

Wir sprangen beide auf und ab und liefen in Kreisen für einige Minuten um versuchen, einen Anschein von Wärme in unseren Körper zu vermitteln.

Und es war der erste Tropfen regt in diesem Moment begann zu fallen. Es war der Beginn der schweren festen Berg regen und, als ob meine Gedanken zu bestätigen, gibt es einen Blitz aus Art und Weise aufzuhellen war über in Richtung des Aitana Bergs. Eine Minute später der Donner rollte über uns.

„ Lassen Sie sich bewegen“ , sagte ich auf meiner Windjacke Ziehen und Fixieren meinen Tornisters auf dem Rücken. „In all diesen I, für ein, will nicht heute Abend auf einem blutigen Berg ragte werden.“

Leichter gesagt als getan.

Nicht auf einen bestimmten Track übernachtet haben, hatten wir uns auf den Weg nach unten zwischen Platten aus grauen Felsen zu wickeln; einige kleine und einige von der Größe der Häuser.Es war immer sehr dunkel und der Sturm schnell aufzubauen, mit der Zeit zwischen den Blitzen und dem Donner von Minute zu Minute kürzer werden. Wir waren gleiten nach unten mit sehr wenig Ahnung von dem, was vor uns liegen könnte. Die regen Tropfen wurden pelting nun nach unten und treffen auf die umliegenden Felsen mit solchen Kraft, dass sie einen feinen Sprühnebel erzeugt, die, wenn sie durch die Beleuchtung beleuchtet, die ganze Szene einen surrealistischen Eindruck erweckte.

Pany war unter mir und ich rief ihn zu stoppen. Er tat, und als ich ihn einholte ich durch einen besonders hellen Blitz aufzuhellen, dass seine normalerweise lächelnd Features auf einem ernsteren Ausdruck genommen hatte sehen konnte. „Was ist los, Chris?“, Fragte er.

„ Oh, nichts, Pany,“ rief ich. „Das ist einfach wunderbar, umher hier in der blutigen dunkel, nicht zuwissen , wo wir sind oder was nur ein Schritt vor uns ist. Dies hat zu verrückt sein.“

„ OK. Was schlagen Sie vor?"

„ Nun, ich persönlich denke , wir sollten ein wenig Schutz finden und einfach liegen und zumindest warten , bis diese viel passiert.“

Er nickte: „Von mir aus.“

So schließlich nach Scrambling um, wir konnten erfolgreich über einen ziemlich großen Stein mit einer fairen großen Nische in der kommenden, die beide von uns unterbringen konnten. Dort mit unseren Köpfen und in unseren Hauben begraben, haben wir versucht, zu beruhigen und für die miserable Nacht warten. Gelegentlich war das Ziegenleder handed hin und her zwischen uns in Ruhe, während wir von den Überresten entsorgt, was sicherlich ein entscheidender Faktor für unsere Situation. Die Stunden hinzog und ich schaffte es ein wenig dösen. Gelegentlich warf ich einen Blick auf Pany über die schien ganz glücklich zu sein, zu schlafen. Nicht einmal die bösartigen Donnerschläge schien ihn nicht zu stören. „Verdammte Greek!“, Dachte ich. „Er all dies verwendet wird.“

Morgendämmerung kam langsam wie der Sturm schließlich in Richtung Nordwesten weggezogen.Nach und nach konnte ich unsere Umgebung ausmachen. Wir hatten keine Ahnung, wo wir waren, so dass es mit der nur eine Frage der Bewegung auf unten war dachten wir irgendwo ankommen müssen, irgendwann. Es war Pany, wie immer nur, dass etwas vor mir, der aus rief, dass wir über einen bestimmten Fußweg gekommen waren.

„ Gute Nachrichten“ , dachte ich, aber ich war immer noch zu nass beschwingt zu fühlen.

Dann zu einer Biegung in der Spur kommt, entdeckte ich plötzlich ein orangefarbenes Licht vor und als wir näher kamen ich den kleinen Neonschild ausmachen konnte, die ‚Bar‘ zu lesen. Plötzlich waren wir beide lachen und sich auf der Rückseite im wahren Latin-Stil Stampfen.

„ Da bist du ja “ , rief Pany. „Wir haben sterben wieder dort und hier ist das Tor zum Himmel!“

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.

“Yiamas,” 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’s voice said in my ear, “Did you ring, 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.

Austreiben durch die beeindruckende Torbogen des ‚Torres de San Miguel‘ zogen wir Blicke von den Einheimischen, von denen einige zu Graham einen Abschied winken reagiert. Wenige Minuten später kehrten wir nach Süden auf die Hauptstraße und wieder einmal waren auf dem Weg. Ich wusste in diesem Moment, dass ich in nicht allzu ferner Zukunft zu Morella zurückkehren würde.Was ich tat, war nicht, dass auf einem dieser Besuche würde ich ‚erbittert‘ im Namen von König Juan Carlos von Spanien sein.

IM NAMEN DES KÖNIGS VON SPANIEN

Diese erste Übernachtung in Morella fand zu Beginn der siebziger Jahre und auf der konsequenten Besuche, nachdem ich fest Süden in Valencia etwa zweihundert Kilometer gegründet wurde, sah ich, wie die Stadt eine vergessene geändert davor, fast Einsiedlerin, Ort in das, was die Führer Bücher haben die "Maestrazgo Capital genannt. Durch die Art und Weise der Name Maestrazgo (sprich: My-strath-go) leitet sich von dem Wort ‚Maestro‘ und bezieht sich auf ein Gebiet unter der Gerichtsbarkeit eines Großmeister zu sein, in der Regel einer militärischen Form. Die Tempelritter ist, der für 200 Jahre in Spanien in Beweise waren und den meisten Ländern Europas, waren ein solcher Herrscher. Es wird gesagt, dass sie mehr als neuntausend Herrenhäuser und Schlösser in Europa gehören, von denen alle besteuert wurden. So kommt es nicht verwunderlich, dass die sind die Gründer der internationalen Banken sein. Auch sie waren und sind, Ich glaube, an die freimaurerischen Bewegung angeschlossen. Ein weiterer interessanter Punkt ist, dass sie für den Aberglaube Pech verantwortlich sind bezogen auf Freitag, den 13.. Das geschah, so heißt es, dass der letzte Großmeister des Templer, Jaques de Molay, wurde an diesem Tag verhaftet. Also für diesen einen Grund, warum ich persönlich kann nicht sehen, warum alle anderen darunter leiden sollten.

Der ‚Carlisten‘ und ihr Erbfolgekrieg spielten auch in der dramatischen Bildung dieser trostlosen Region ihren Teil; aber wir werden später dazu kommen. Morella ist jetzt ein blühendes Touristenzentrum und empfängt Besucher aus allen Teilen der Welt und scheint als in der Region am meisten zu tun, besser zu werden. Ein Punkt in der Gunst der Stadt, die ihn seinen Charme zu erhalten hilft, ist die begrenzte Menge an Speicherplatz zur Verfügung. Dies hat in einer geschmackvollen Art des Tourismus geführt, da mit diesem eingeschränkten Raum kein Platz für die größeren Läden und Fast-Food-Betriebe ist, dass man über in anderen solchen Orten kommt. In der Tat sind viele der Geschäfte nicht viel größer als die durchschnittliche Größe Garage für zwei Autos.

*

Morella konzentriert sich hauptsächlich auf handwerkliche Produkte für die Touristen, die eine Vielzahl von Textil-Produkte zusammen mit vielen Leckereien wie Schinken, pikante Wurst, köstliche Käse, Trüffel und lecker süßes Gebäck und so umfassen.

Apropos Essen, und ich liebe diesen Zeitvertreib ist es interessant zu erfahren, dass in diesem Gebiet die Koch Tendenzen zu einer Küche lehnen eher würdig eines nördlichen Klima als die des typischen mediterranen Küsten Wetter. Maestrazgo Bauern haben im Laufe der Jahre Tiere und Gemüse angebaut, die sowohl mit der Region und Klima kompatibel sind.

Spanien hat im Allgemeinen eine größere Vielfalt von Pflanzen als in jedem anderen europäischen Land, und es ist interessant zu sehen, dass mit einer solchen Fülle von Rosmarin, Thymian und Salbei rumliegen, dass über die Jahre der Geschmack tatsächlich in das Lamm, Schwein, Rind imprägniert und andere Spezies in der Umgebung, die Produkte eines charakteristischen Geschmack zu gewährleisten. Diese Tatsache gerührt meine Phantasie zu denken, dass, wenn diese Bauern gelungen war, eine wilde Vielfalt von Zwiebel einzuführen zusammen mit sechs Beinen versehene Hühner die Kentucky Fried Chicken Gesellschaft würde nie das Licht der Welt erblickt haben. Sie hätten so viel Geld gemacht, dass es möglich gewesen wäre, den Namen von Maestrazgo zu etwas viel aussprechbar und sind in ihrer Werbung ‚Heimat der weltweit schnellste Free Range Chicken Race‘ zu ändern. „Leider“, wie ein Bauer kommentierte:

*

So ist es in 1982, während Margaret Thatcher, Premierminister von England war, ging unentwegt über die Falkland Affäre Einschwingzeit, entschied ich mich auf eine kurze Reise nach Morella mit meiner Frau, Kathy und Tochter, Samantha. Der Hauptgrund für diesen spontanen Besuch war ganz einfach, dass meine junge Tochter von vier Jahren hatte körperlich nie auf diesem Material ihre Augen gelegt, dass Formen von Atmosphäre Dampf und in weißen Flocken auf die Erde fallen. Mit anderen Worten ... Schnee. Sowohl Kathy und ich liebte Schnee, aus einer Entfernung von mindestens zehn bis zwanzig Meilen. Aber für Samantha war es anders. Sie hatte Geschichten von ihrer Grundschule Freunde in Bezug auf die Wunder dieser weichen, weißen Stoff ausgesetzt worden, dass Sie mit den Dingen aufbauen könnte, werfen bei Menschen und sie würden nicht wütend werden ... nun in den meisten Fällen sowieso. Und natürlich, die lokalen Zeitungen und Reisebüros wurden publik Ausflüge um den Schnee zu sehen. Würden Sie glauben: im Winter gibt es bis heute aktuelle Trainer voller glücklichen Potenzial Schneemann Bauer Valencia verlassen und das nächste Skigebiet in die Stadt zu Valdelinares Überschrift oben?

*

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 ist unser Mann an der Elias hatte gesagt, dass ein Besuch des Heiligtums Zorita könnte interessant erweisen. Das war meine Phantasie gerührt, nicht zu viel, aber nur ein wenig. Wie wir entlang fahren ich in Erinnerung zu lesen, dass Spanien ganz ein Monopol auf Schutzgebiete, Einsiedeleien und Klöstern zu haben schien. Wahrscheinlich nicht so viel wie einige der südamerikanischen Länder, sollte ich, aber genügend Dinge zu halten, in einer positiven Richtung auf der geistigen Front bewegen.

Bei einem meiner ersten Besuchen in Spanien hatte ich zum Kloster von Montserrat in der Nähe von Barcelona gefahren und nur zwei Dinge über den Besuch in Erinnerung hat. Das Wetter an diesem Tag mit Zauber von strahlendem Sonnenschein und gelegentlichen stürmischen Regen stark bewölkt gewesen war. Die umliegende Landschaft war großartig, wild, aufregend und genau, wie man erwarten würde es ein richtig gelegen Kloster zusammen zu sein. Doch das, was die Reise verdorben war, dass bei der Ankunft fanden wir, dass wir nur ein weiterer kleiner Teil einer enormen Menge von Autos und Bussen waren, die auf dem Platz abgestiegen waren. Ich habe vielleicht bereit gewesen, dies zu akzeptieren, aber dann auf das Kloster Schulter zu Schulter im Fußballspiel Stil Eingabe waren wir schnell in Kauf so gut wie alles möglich auch eine Art Kuchen gepresst. Wenn ich mich richtig erinnere war es ähnlich das Saatkuchen, dass meine Tante zu backen verwendet.Vielleicht irgendwo auf dem Weg hatte einige anspruchsvolle Mönch über ihr Rezept gekommen und hatte es ein Plagiat. gesichert gegen die Seite eines Berg und nicht viel anders als auf das Gebäude selbst kann mich nur daran erinnern, dass es ein kolossaler Ort war. Der kommerzielle Aspekt war zu viel, so dass wir den Besuch verlassen entschieden. Natürlich nach, dass jedes Mal, wenn ich auf einem Teil Tante Saatkuchen kaute war ich sofort zu, dass Kloster in der Nähe von Barcelona zurück transportiert.

Als Punkt von Interesse bezieht sich die Montserrat Legende, wie zwei Jungen aus auf den Bergen über eine Höhle kam, aus dem eine Art von hellem Licht ausgestellt und auf Venturing in sie eine Statue gefunden, was sie annahmen, die Jungfrau Maria war. Nach mehreren Versuchen zu versuchen, dieses gewichtigen Objekt zurück ins Dorf sie es dort links zu tragen, auf den ‚pueblo‘ zurückgekehrt und berichtete die Angelegenheit an dem örtlichen Pfarrer. Er wiederum, zu realisieren, möglicherweise die beteiligten Möglichkeiten, um die Angelegenheit zu den höheren kirchlichen Behörden berichteten von denen alle beschlossen, dass die Statue nicht wünschte, die Höhle zu verlassen und so, dass der Beginn der Montserrat Geschichte war.

*

Der Weg zum Zorita lag neben dem Felsen Bergantes Fluss verstreut, die von der Calanda nach Norden in einiger Entfernung dam hinfällt. Nicht, dass wir viel des Flusses sehen können, was mit Schnee überall aufgestapelt, aber ich war sicher, dass es dort war in Ordnung, nur seine Zeit abwartend und halte ein Auge offen in Vorbereitung, wenn der Schnee geschmolzen. Zu niedrig weder konnten wir die Berge markiert auf unserer Karte als Sierra de Manadella, unserer Ansicht nach durch Wände der schneebedeckten Zinnen Ein kurzer sehen blockiert, während nach dem Unternehmen zu halten mit dem Fluss unser Ziel in Sicht kam; überraschend, ohne Panne.

Auf der anderen Seite des Flusses und durch eine gesund aussehende Brücke verbunden lag das Heiligtum des Virgen de la Balma ", während auf unserer Seite war der kleine‚Pueblo‘von Zorita.‚Sanctuary‘ war sehr viel das entsprechende Wort für den eigentlichen Ort lag auf halbem Weg eine Felswand auf der Seite eines Berges und abgesehen von einer möglichen Unternehmen der Gebirgsjäger durch Nahbereichs Artillerie gesichert gab es keine Möglichkeit jemand innen in Verdrängen .

Wie diese speziellen Flecken entdeckt hat immer eine Quelle des Wunders zu mir. Es ist fast, als ob es irgendeine Art von Brüderlichkeit der Menschen, die Suche nach Grotten und Höhlen für Schreine und Kirchen geboren ist.

Ein gutes Beispiel für diese Art von Entdeckung ist ein absolut faszinierender Ort in der Nähe der Stadt Jaca, am Fuße der Pyrenäen liegt. Dies ist das Kloster von 'San Juan de la Peña.'. am Fuß eines Bergs versteckt war die Legende erzählt, wie ein junger Edelmann Jagd und in Verfolgung eines Hirsches kam fast zu Trauer, wenn das Tier springt er über eine Klippe zu jagen war. Absteigen auf der Suche nach seiner Beute entdeckte er eine Höhle, in der die Leiche eines lokalen Einsiedler war, ein Juan Atarés. Er war aus irgendeinem Grunde, so beeindruckt, mit der Umgebung, dass er sofort nach Zaragoza zurück, wo er all seinem Besitz verkauft, offenbar ohne Familie Einwände, und zusammen mit seinem Bruder sie beide wurden Eremiten in jenem Ort, der später war zu werden gegründet Kloster.

*

Nun kommen wir zu Zorita. Was für eine Geschichte! Dies ist sicherlich eine Fünf-Sterne-Legende.Sie konnten die San Juan de la Peña Geschichte mit dem Montserrat Mythos und ein Dutzend mehr in einem Sack und werfen sie in den Fluss zusammen, weil, wenn es keiner der anderen Legenden kommt eine Kerze Zorita halten kann und die ‚Virgen de la Balma‘. Dies hat einen unbestrittenen Gewinner und verdient einen Oscar zu sein oder was auch immer es auch sein mag, wenn es um Legenden kommt.

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, der Tierarzt, spricht mit mir wieder. „Ich, ich, wie Angeln,“ er sagte, „gute, ehrliche Forellen angeln. Nicht der Hit and miss Unternehmen der Seefischerei.“‚Wirklich, das ist schön‘, sagte ich mehr aus Höflichkeit als Interesse. Ich habe mich gefragt, was meines Freundes Mike geworden war und ob die Gezeiten seine Ex-Frau Habseligkeiten begünstigt hatte, und wenn schließlich hatten sie schwebte in Liverpool oder wo auch immer, wenn der Tierarzt sagte langsam: „Die Bischofsburg“, freut sich auf die Worte wie jemand einen guten Wein zu probieren. Ich drehte mich zu ihm ein wenig davon überrascht. „Tut mir leid“, sagte ich, „aber was hast du gesagt über ein Schloss?“ Er rauchte eine ‚faria‘ Zigarre und wurde nachdenklich auf die Länge der Asche betrachtete sie produziert hatte. „Das ist in Englisch“, erklärte er, sorgfältig die Zigarre in Richtung des Aschenbechers zu manipulieren. „Die Bischofsburg, in der Tat auf Spanisch es Castelvispal 'ist.“‚Wirklich‘, sagte ich und fragte sich, was zum Teufel er im Begriff war, auf. „Es ist ein Dorf“, begann er. „Na ja, nein, nicht wirklich ein Dorf. Es ist, was wir einen ‚Aldea‘ nennen; nur ein paar Häuser, eine kleine Kirche und sonst nichts. Nichts, das, abgesehen von gelegentlichen bar.“‚... .nothing sonst abgesehen von gelegentlichen Bar‘, wiederholte ich. Dann fragte ich: „Was auf der Erde ist ein‚gelegentlich‘bar. Er grinste: „Ich glaube nicht einmal, dass Sie Klasse kann es als Bar wirklich. Nicht eine echte Bar, das ist; nur ein kleines Zimmer und sonst nichts, nicht einmal eine Toilette. Sie haben das Haus nebenan für das verwenden. Ich benutze das Wort ‚gelegentlich‘, denn wenn es nicht geöffnet ist, wenn Sie ankommen Sie auf des Besitzers Tür klopfen kann und er wird wahrscheinlich verpflichten.“ nicht wirklich ein Dorf. Es ist, was wir einen ‚Aldea‘ nennen; nur ein paar Häuser, eine kleine Kirche und sonst nichts. Nichts, das, abgesehen von gelegentlichen bar.“‚... .nothing sonst abgesehen von gelegentlichen Bar‘, wiederholte ich. Dann fragte ich: „Was auf der Erde ist ein‚gelegentlich‘bar. Er grinste: „Ich glaube nicht einmal, dass Sie Klasse kann es als Bar wirklich. Nicht eine echte Bar, das ist; nur ein kleines Zimmer und sonst nichts, nicht einmal eine Toilette. Sie haben das Haus nebenan für das verwenden. Ich benutze das Wort ‚gelegentlich‘, denn wenn es nicht geöffnet ist, wenn Sie ankommen Sie auf des Besitzers Tür klopfen kann und er wird wahrscheinlich verpflichten.“ nicht wirklich ein Dorf. Es ist, was wir einen ‚Aldea‘ nennen; nur ein paar Häuser, eine kleine Kirche und sonst nichts. Nichts, das, abgesehen von gelegentlichen bar.“‚... .nothing sonst abgesehen von gelegentlichen Bar‘, wiederholte ich. Dann fragte ich: „Was auf der Erde ist ein‚gelegentlich‘bar. Er grinste: „Ich glaube nicht einmal, dass Sie Klasse kann es als Bar wirklich. Nicht eine echte Bar, das ist; nur ein kleines Zimmer und sonst nichts, nicht einmal eine Toilette. Sie haben das Haus nebenan für das verwenden. Ich benutze das Wort ‚gelegentlich‘, denn wenn es nicht geöffnet ist, wenn Sie ankommen Sie auf des Besitzers Tür klopfen kann und er wird wahrscheinlich verpflichten.“ „Ich glaube nicht einmal, dass Sie Klasse kann es als Bar wirklich.Nicht eine echte Bar, das ist; nur ein kleines Zimmer und sonst nichts, nicht einmal eine Toilette. Sie haben das Haus nebenan für das verwenden. Ich benutze das Wort ‚gelegentlich‘, denn wenn es nicht geöffnet ist, wenn Sie ankommen Sie auf des Besitzers Tür klopfen kann und er wird wahrscheinlich verpflichten.“ „Ich glaube nicht einmal, dass Sie Klasse kann es als Bar wirklich. Nicht eine echte Bar, das ist; nur ein kleines Zimmer und sonst nichts, nicht einmal eine Toilette. Sie haben das Haus nebenan für das verwenden. Ich benutze das Wort ‚gelegentlich‘, denn wenn es nicht geöffnet ist, wenn Sie ankommen Sie auf des Besitzers Tür klopfen kann und er wird wahrscheinlich verpflichten.“

„ Eine Bar , die sich öffnet , wenn Sie es wollen“ , dachte ich. „Das wäre sicherlich ein Novum in Großbritannien sein“

Alberto spricht wieder. „Wie auch immer“, sagte er mit dem Gefühl: „Ich werde dir etwas sagen, abgesehen von der Isolierung des Ortes und die Ansichten, die ich in meinem Leben einige der besten Forellen angeln dort gehabt haben.“

Er sorgfältig die Zigarre auf dem Rand des Aschenbechers angezapft und beobachtete, wie die Asche fiel. „Ja“, fuhr er fort. „‚Castelvispal‘, in Richtung Teruel oben und rechts am Rand des Maestrazgo.Es ist wirklich wild da oben.“Ich ganz Ohr war, als er das Zauberwort sagte, Maestrazgo. Sofort in meinem Kopf war ich zurück in die Nacht transportiert, dass Pany und ich auf dem Berg gegangen waren. Aber bevor ich etwas sagen konnte, fuhr er fort: „Ich glaube nicht, daß Sie von der Maestrazgo gehört habe? Viele Menschen auch in Valencia weiß es nicht. “‚Vielleicht nicht‘, lächelte ich, freue mich auf meine eigene Antwort,„möglicherweise nicht viele Spanier, das ist, aber hier ist ein Engländer, der hat, nicht nur davon gehört, aber hat es. In der Tat war ich in Morella einigen Jahren vorbei.“Ich wartete auf ihn, zu fragen:‚Ist das nicht wo Schießen König Juan Carlos geht?‘Aber es ist nicht geschehen. Stattdessen sagte er: „Morella, Das ist interessant.“Dann‚Wissen Sie, dass es ‚Hauptstadt del Maestrazgo‘ genannt?‘Ich nickte, dass ich gehört hatte. „Nun, das“ Alberto erklärt, „ist, weil es eine der Basislager Carlist Rebellenführer war, Ramón Cabrera, die nominierten‚Conde de Morella‘wurde. Eigentlich ist die Stadt selbst ist Kilometer von der Grenze markiert den offiziellen Bereich des Maestrazgo.“Er lächelte plötzlich,„Nicht, dass das wichtig ist, wenn Sie zu diesem Bereich waren dann schätzen Sie, wie wild kann es da sein werden. “ich nickte:‚Es ist sicher.‘

Er fuhr fort, fast wie zu sich selbst zu sprechen. „Vielleicht ist es etwas zu tun mit mir ein Tierarzt;Sie wissen, ein Gefühl für die unberührten Teilen des Landes. Ich frage mich manchmal, was ich tue an der Küste hier unten.“Er hat eine lange, langsame Bewegung am Ende davon zuckte er die Schulter fiel und grinste. „Noch ist es eine schöne Aussicht da draußen mit den Klippen und dem Strand. Und das Wetter ... nun ...“‚Ja, es ist sicherlich‘, stimmte ich von ganzem Herzen. Dann steigt auf meine Füße Ich drehte mich um und sagte: „Was dagegen, wenn ich zum Auto heraussaugen?Ich habe eine Karte praktisch!“

*

Die nächste Stunde verging schnell mit Alberto; die zwei von uns, meine Karte Gießen über, nicht über eine voll detaillierte Karte, aber dennoch ausreichend für den Tierarzt zu entfesseln einige wichtige Faktoren, die von da an einen kleinen Teil meines Lebens werden würde beeinflussen. In diesem Moment war es nichts zu Hause zu schreiben, aber es war auf jeden Fall da. Sie wissen, wenn Sie erkennen, dass es Empfindungen sind, dass man entwickelt sich als eine im Allgemeinen älter und mehr im Einklang mit Ereignissen und das Leben wird. Zu bestimmten Zeiten scheinen Sie in der Lage zu sein, außerhalb von sich selbst für einen kurzen Moment zu stehen und denken: ‚Dies könnte wichtig sein.‘ Nicht in einer erderschütternden Art und Weise aber zu wissen instinktiv, dass es nur etwas gibt. Also achten, Chris. Ich glaube, dass wir dazu neigen, dieses Bewusstsein in unseren jungen Jahren zu verpassen, vielleicht mit zu vielen Ablenkungen, aber später im Leben, auch das ist etwas anderes. Es entwickelt sich nur automatisch, wenn Sie es wünschen, und es ist an Ihnen, die Zeichen zu beachten. Es könnte, dass nichts von der Situation herauskommt, so dass es unbewusst verworfen. Auf der anderen Seite, auch wer weiß?

Alberto spricht wieder: „Sie kennen die Teruel Straße?“, Fragte er die auf einem nahe gelegenen Kaffeetisch kartieren zu verbreiten.

„ Ich sicher tun“ , antwortete ich. „Been nach oben und unten es viele Male , wenn nach und von England fahren.“

„ Dann werden Sie wissen , dass lausig den Col de Ragudo klettern?“ Der ‚lousy Aufstieg‘ , auf die er bezog die steile schmale Straße mit endlosen Kurven war, die auf das Hochplateau der Teruel Region führte. Diese Kopfschmerzen einer Autobahn sind längst verschwunden und an seiner Stelle ist eine feine ‚Autovia‘ Autobahn. Davor ist es sicherlich eine Gefahr war vor allem , da es gut wurde von Moloch LKW und Anhängern eingesetzt.

„ Ja, ich habe es gut kennen“ , sagte ich. „Kurz vor dem Dorf Barracas.“

„ Das ist richtig, kurz vor Barracas.“

Er nickte zustimmend. Dann schaute mich mit seinen blauen Augen plötzlich funkelten, fragte er,

„ Dann müssen Sie die Metzgerei auf der linken Seite wissen , wie Sie den‚Pueblo‘eingeben?“

„ Es tut mir leid“ , entschuldigte ich. „Ich kann nicht sagen , dass ich es tue.“

„ Dios mio“ , sagte er fühlend , als ob ich eine Sünde begangen hatte , indem sie nicht den Ort zukennen. „Und ich hatte Sie markiert nach unten als derjenige, der die guten Dinge des Lebens gefallen hat.“

„ Nun , ich weiß“ , kam ich eher verlegen zurück. „Aber ich wusste nicht , dass der Metzger in Barracas enthalten.“

Er tätschelte tröstend den Arm und sagte: „Nun, Sie in eine angenehme Überraschung sind.“

*

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.

The 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.”

„ Was ist das Gebäude in der Ferne? Es sieht aus wie eine Art großen Hauses.“Sie deutet hinter dem Dorf und das Tal hinunter. „Ich bin sicher , es kann nicht der Bischof sein, er würde nie so in einem hässlichen alten Platz zu Hause ist . Und trotzdem finde ich die Mandelbäume in voller Blüte da unten auf der rechten Seite noch interessanter.“

Ich starrte in die Ferne und schließlich den Ort gesichtet. „Es hat ein altes Lager oder Unternehmen von einer Art sein. Sicherlich eine Ruine jetzt, aber was macht es da unten?“

„ Fragen wir sie im Dorf, Batman,“ sagte sie. „Und lassen Sie sich bewegen lassen. Es wird bald Mittag , und ich sein für eine in einem dieser Restaurants in Linares sein wollen.

Die Strecke fiel steil nach unten und ich bete, dass es nicht zu einem plötzlichen Ansturm des Schnees sein würde, wie würden wir dann in der Kirche möglicherweise einquartiert werden, bis Betsy die Rückkehr gelänge den Berg hinauf klettern. Es war einer jener trügerischen Spuren, dass man deutlich sehen konnte unten und hin und wieder hat man den Eindruck, dass es nur noch eine Biegung sein würde. Aber nein, es war nicht. Es gab immer ein paar mehr zu gehen. wir es jedoch schließlich aus und schlich sich in das, was einen verlassenen Weiler schien, schlich sich vorsichtig um die Seite ein paar Hütten und kam vor der Kirche zu ruhen. Ich schaltete die Zündung und wir saßen in der Stille. Vor uns war ein Eisen über dem Geländer ein Rückgang von rund fünf Metern wurde. Dies stellte einen natürlichen Balkon, wo es möglich war, das Tal nach unten zu schauen wieder und ich konnte sehen, fast von Bäumen versteckt,

„ Es auf jeden Fall eine Fabrik auf einmal war“ , sagte ich. „Obwohl das, was sie gemacht ich kann mir nicht vorstellen.“

„ Ich würde gerne in der Kirche sehen“ , wandte sich Kathy in dieser Richtung. „Es sieht so schön von außen.“

„ Nun wollen wir sehen , ob Antonia zu Hause ist“ , sagte ich. „Alberto hat mir gesagt , sie den Schlüssel an den Ort hat.“

Wir verließen das Auto und obwohl die Luft war ganz still waren wir von diesem vagen süßen Duft von Kiefernholz Rauch erfüllt. Wandernde über das Eisengeländer wir unten an einigen eher vernachlässigten Gemüsegärten sahen nach unten, erscheint die wichtigste produziert Kohl zu sein und Cauliflowers die Größe von Fußbällen. Dann zurück Drehen gingen wir über zu dem, was wir angenommen Antonia Haus war. Für so ein kleines Hotel war es sicherlich ein großes Haus, wesentlich größer als die Kirche. Es hatte den Anschein mehrfach verlängert worden und hatte möglicherweise mit seinem Besitzer gewachsen. Verständlich, wie wir später erfuhren war es von Wohnungen vierzig von Antonias Familie fähig, wenn sie alle auf sie in der Sommersaison für die Feiertage abstammen. In diesem Moment sah es still, als zwischen dem jährlichen Anfällen von Kinderaufgeregten Stimmen obwohl ruhen, wie sie übernahm, um den Platz Rennen und für die üblichen ‚Fiestas‘ vorbereitet. Und vor allen Dingen waren die Straßen Verkehr frei, ein Geschenk des Himmels in diesen Tagen.

Zaghaft zog ich die üblichen auf der einen Seite Perlenvorhang und geklopft. Nichts. Ich habe versucht, ein zweites Mal und wurde durch eine schrille Stimme belohnt, die etwas rief ich meine nahm zu ‚Un momento‘. So warteten wir, das Gefühl der Sonne auf dem Rücken und auf die Stille zu hören. Ich hatte das Gefühl, dass die Kirche hinter uns schien zustimmend zu suchen auf. In keiner Weise bin ich eine sensible Person, sondern stand da fühlte ich, dass in diesem kleinen ‚Pueblo‘ Versteckt in den Bergen mit der schönen Kulisse wir eine kleine Insel der Ruhe gefunden hatte, wo man sitzen und denken, für eine Veränderung, anstelle von mit einem Hintergrundrauschen des Verkehrs mit Abgasen und der allgemeinen Hektik der Valencias Stadt Existenz kombiniert zu setzen. Zu einem späteren Zeitpunkt könnte ich in aller Wahrheit schreiben, dass ‚Hier war ich auch glücklich.‘ So war das Gefühl, das mich an diesem ersten Besuch des Bischof Castle 'umhüllte. Es war ein warmes Gefühl.

Als Antonia die Tür öffnete, wurde die wulstigen Vorhang zurück gekehrt und wir waren mit der drahtigen Figur von jemandem gegenüber, die zur Anpassung gewöhnt war, was auch immer das Leben auf ihr geben beschlossen. Ein Paar von klugen Augen beurteilt wir sofort und dann zu Samantha huschten, die zufällig eine Art wilder Blume gepflückt hatten, ziemlich gelb Dinge eher wie ein überdimensionalen Löwenzahn, dass sie von der Kirche gefunden hatten, wächst und jetzt war es sie an. Offensichtlich kamen wir Musterung wie sie sagte, „Gracias Pequeña“, die Blume zu akzeptieren und dann: „Was kann ich für Sie tun?“

„ Buenos dias“ , sagte ich etwas , das ich hatte , geistig geprobt, „wir Freunde von Alberto sind, derseine besten Wünsche sendet.“

Ein Blitz der Verdacht gekreuzt ihr Gesicht, die wie bei allen verständlich war die Albertos in Spanien wäre es die gleiche Reaktion in England erhalten haben, wenn ich gesagt hätte: „John seine besten Grüße sendet.“

„ Alberto“ , wiederholte sie ihre grauen Haare langsam neu anordnen, ihre schwarzen Schal Anpassung und kümmert sich nicht um Samanthas Blume, „was Alberto?“ Zu beschädigen

„ Alberto Tierarzt von Valencia oder eher Cullera“ , erklärte ich. „Er kommt hier zu Fisch auf.“

Offensichtlich ist das Zauberwort war ‚Fisch‘ für sie sofort drehte sich um und stieß die Tür auf, die auf den ersten, sie hinter ihr vorsichtig gezogen hatte. Dann kehre zurück der Klapper Vorhang aus Perlen ein zweites Mal sagte sie: „Warum nicht gesagt, Sie so in erster Linie? Komm herrein."

So geben wir hatten zwei Steinstufen zu verhandeln und beide Kathy und ich musste die Hocke, um nicht unsere Köpfe auf einem Overhead-Strahl zu knacken. Als Antonia von unten die Schritte zu uns gesprochen hatte erschien sie jetzt, dass viel größer und es dauerte etwas Phantasie, sie zu sehen eine Fliegenrute zu manipulieren. Sie deutete auf das Zimmer mit einer lässigen Handbewegung.„Richtig, machen Sie es sich bequem, während ich dieses kleine Geschenk geeignet in etwas bringen.“

Ich habe diesen Moment, sie vorzustellen, und sah ihren Ausdruck, wie ich sagte: „Engländer, Amerikaner und wenig von Spanien“, was anzeigt, Samantha. Ich Antonia nehme an, ragten hier in der fast wieder von jenseits, muss sie von den Vereinten Nationen wie eine kleine Delegation erschienen sein. Einführungen abgeschlossen, mit der Doppel Wange küsst, entschuldigte sie mich und in ein anderes Zimmer verschwunden.

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.

An einer Stelle war fasziniert ich absolut von einer mittleren Alter, elegant gekleideten Dame, die beschreibt, wie ein paar Jahre, bevor sie Schwierigkeiten hat, hatte ihre Großmutter davon zu überzeugen, an der Beerdigung von ihrem Großvater zu besuchen. Natürlich denkt, dass dies die meisten fremd, könnte ich fragen, nicht widerstehen, warum. Nur erfreuten auch zu verpflichten, erklärte sie: „Nun, meine Mutter und Vater waren zu helfen Opa für die Beerdigung zu legen, und als er gefordert hatte sie ihn in seinem Sonntagsanzug wurde Dressing. Es war dann, dass meine Mutter bemerkt, dass es eine lustige Rascheln war aus seinem Anzug kommt.“Ich schaute um mich und außer mir und Kathy alle Anwesenden lächelte, als ob sie wusste, was kommen würde. „Und?“, Wagte ich. „Und“, fuhr sie fort „, stellte sich, dass Opa, um die Mühe gemacht hatte, die ganze Futter seines Anzugs und Nähen in allen seinen Ersparnissen von unstitching. Es muss darauf geachtet Alter hat. Es gab viele tausend Peseta Noten. Meine Oma war wütend. Sie wiederholte immer wieder: ‚Die alte Ziege alles mit ihm machen wollte.‘ Wir hatten eine schreckliche Aufgabe, sie zu überzeugen, die Beerdigung sie so wütend war zu besuchen!“Jeder lacht und wir schlossen wir in.

*

Ein paar Minuten später, als ich meine zweite Tasse Kaffee die Tür geöffnet Veredelung und in kam einen kleinen Jungen von etwa zwölf Jahren. „Das ist mein Neffe ist“ einer der anderen Damen sagte, dann fügte hinzu: „Er spricht Englisch.“ Als wir Kathy als Englischlehrer eingeführt hatte ich sie anstieß und sie sagte zu dem Jungen „, Na dann etwas sagen, in Englisch. “Das Kind sah sich an der fertige Publikum und sagte für alle zu hören‚ Looookeee Streeek.‘„Wer hat dich gelehrt, dass?Kathy gefragt. „Mein Onkel“, sagte der Junge stolz. „Sonst noch was?“ Aufgefordert, Kathy. Der Junge nahm einen tiefen Atemzug und sagte: „Falleepi Moorris.“ Jetzt war jeder erwartungsvoll an Kathy suchen, der zustimmend nickte und sagte, in der Art und Weise der Ermutigung: „Nun, ich nehme an, es ist auf jeden Fall einen Anfang.“

Und so das Gespräch verebbt und floss mit Fragen wie: „Ist es möglich, nach Amerika zu fahren?“ Und „Ist die Königin von England hat die Kontrolle über die ganze Geld?“ Wir antworteten auf diese Fragen ernst und ich fühlte, dass wir hatten, an dest entfallen etwas mehr Allgemeinwissen und zumindest einige geographische Mythen korrigiert.

An einem Punkt Kathy gefragt, wie die Dorfbewohner, die dort verwaltet für die Wintermonate waren ihre Grundversorgung zu organisieren und mir wurde gesagt, das sei einfach. „Wir haben einfach der Postbote telefonieren“, sagte eine ältere Dame, „und er bringt alles, was wir brauchen.“ Sie auf die anderen sah sich dann fügte hinzu: „Das ist natürlich, wenn er durchkommen kann.“

Ein Blick außerhalb sagte mir, dass es bald dunkel sein würde, und ich kann auch jene scharfen Kurven durch Scheinwerfer verhandeln. Dieses animierte mich zu unseren neuen Freunden sagen ‚Adios‘ zu beginnen, die in für den Abend schien einzupendeln. Es war dann, dass Kathy beschlossen, sie wünschte, die Toilette zu benutzen und da es keine Zeichen der Anlage an der Stelle war ich Alberto Kommentar über in der Nähe Häuser erinnerte. Doch bevor ich es eine ältere Dame stand auf erwähnen konnte und bot Kathy sie in der Nähe Hütte zu führen.

Es war später, als wir endlich auf die Straße genommen hatte einmal mehr, dass ich Kathy fragte, was der junge Bursche, der, sollte Englisch sprechen, auf etwa gewesen war. Sie lachte und sagte: „Er spricht von Zigaretten; Lucky Strike und Phillip Morris.“‚Du bist ein blutiges Genie‘, sagte ich,‚ich hätte nie gedacht.‘Und Samantha nur kicherte.

Es war feucht geworden und ziemlich kalt und ich Betsys Heizung laufen auf vollen Touren hatte.Dann, kurz bevor wir auf die Hauptstraße kamen wieder gewickelt ich das Fenster herunter und atmete tief durch. Alberto war richtig; es gab nur das gewisse Etwas über die Luft, die das Versprechen gehalten, was später im Jahr zu kommen. Es dauerte wenig zu Bild langen heißen Sommertagen mit dem Hauch von Lavendel, wildem Rosmarin und Thymian zusammen mit Kuhglocken mit Kinder erhobenen Stimmen mischen, wie sie ihre Feste bei der Bischofsburg gefeiert.

EINE PLATTE VON HAM UND EIER MIT "UNCLE JOHN UND DIE WÖLFE

Eine kurze sachliche Geschichte auf Spanier und Lärm.

Tony, ein spanischer Freund von mir seit einigen Jahren erzählte mir, wie er von Valencia, Spanien nach Großbritannien in den 1960er Jahren ausgewandert. Seine Schwester lebte schon in der Nähe von Leicester und es war natürlich, dass zunächst Tony ging zu 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 attention.

There 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.

Jetzt eine seltsame Sache ist, dass bis zu meiner Zeit in diesem gast Zuflucht verbracht hatte ich nicht, in der Vergangenheit viel Aufmerksamkeit auf Fensterbänken bezahlt. Ich meine, dass die Fensterbänke zu mir sagen, bis dahin waren, was sie sind ... nur Fensterbänke. Einige sind schmal andere breit genug, um die üblichen Geranien gefüllt Blumen oder was auch immer Pflanze, auf denen die ihr Besitzer Wahl absteigt aufzunehmen. Nun sind die breiten festen grauen Steinfensterbänke in den Schlafzimmern der Portalico haben auf mich einen völlig neuen Aspekt genommen. Nicht, dass der Portalico des beherbergen Pflanzentöpfe gefüllt, obwohl ich sicher ist, dass Yolanda sie liefern würde, wenn ich gebeten hatte. Nein, diese Fensterbänke haben sich als etwas mehr von praktischer Natur und eine ernsthafte Hilfe für mein persönliches Vergnügen zu sein, und das Wohlbefinden.

Aufwachen auf einem morgendlichen kalten Winter, ziehen die Vorhänge zurück und Fest meine Augen auf dem weißen Wunderland von strahlendem Sonnenschein und den Berg mit Schnee beladen ist erfreulich genug, aber die Flasche kalten, trockenen spanischen Cava zu sehen auf dem Fenster sitzt Sill zusammen mit einem Karton frischer Milch in den Hände zu erreichen ist das Sahnehäubchen auf dem Weihnachtskuchen. Warum die Milch können Sie fragen? Nun ganz einfach diese. Ich reise normalerweise mit einem kleinen elektrischen Wasserkocher, die mir ermöglicht, dass zwei Tassen Tee zu brauen und die frische Milch ist das Ergebnis meiner improvisierten Kühlschrank. Der Cava, natürlich, ist die Sicherung als mit ein paar Gläsern während des Frühstücks verbraucht es Wunder wirkt. Glauben Sie mir, es gibt keinen besseren Tonikum für das Drehen, was man einen guten Tag in eine große sein.

*

Wir können sicherlich nicht weitergehen, ohne den früheren Bürgermeister von Linares zu erwähnen, Antonio Benedict. Geboren in Linares de Mora war er der Sohn eines Vaters an Rinder gewidmet Zucht. Antonio lebte mit seiner Familie auf einem der hundert ungerade ‚Masias‘ in der Gegend, von denen heute nur noch fünf bewohnbar sind. Wie alle ‚Masias‘ in dieser großen Region der nächsten Nachbarn waren ziemlich weit entfernt. Er erinnert sich an die Zeit, als sein Großvater beschwerte sich, wie einer ihrer Hunde waren von Wölfen getötet worden, die Nahrung aus den Bergen herabgekommen sucht; offenbar nicht ein ungewöhnliches Ereignis in jenen Tagen. Antonio besuchte die lokale Dorfschule und war offensichtlich ein heller Schüler mit einer Neigung zu der Kunst und vor allem der lokalen Geschichte. Als er aufwuchs wurde er in allem und alles interessiert, die mit den Interessen seiner Landsleute zusammenfiel. Aktiv bei der Organisation der lokalen ‚Fiestas‘ davon waren und sind immer noch eine beträchtliche Zahl, die er immer in den Vordergrund ist. Auch abgesehen von seinen bürgermeisterlichen Aufgaben widmet er was Mal, wenn er seine kleine Fabrik zu können, wo er etwas mit Metall für die lokalen Bauherren für den Bau zu tun schmiedet. Ein herausragender Handwerker, war er für die beeindruckende Statue von St. Christopher verantwortlich, die am Eingang zum Linares Dorf gefunden werden soll. Eine schlanke drahtige Figur eines Mannes mit einem breiten Lächeln und schnell dunklen Augen gegeben in Dressing, was man sagen könnte ‚smart casual‘, in der Regel bestehend aus Jeans und einer jener bunten Lumberjack Shirts,

Und so kam es, dass beim Abendessen an einem Abend im ‚Los Tres Hermnos‘, dass Antonio mich für mich zu sehen, inspiriert, was auf der anderen Seite des Bergs liegt, wo die ‚Labyrinth of Silence‘ auf der Lauer lag.

Er begann mit mir Füllung auf seinem Hintergrund in.

„ Ich lebte und arbeitete in der Stadt Cantavieja“ , erklärte er. „Cantavieja ist als die offizielle historische Hauptstadt des Maestrazgo bekannt , und obwohl es kann ich Ihnen nicht viel zu bieten in der Art und Weise der Architektur haben versichern , dass so gut wie jeder einen Platz der Maestrazgo Erkundung zu beginnen. Das heißt , wenn Sie ernsthaft , dorthin zu gehen up planen.“

Bleistift an der bereit machte ich eine Notiz auf einem der Papierservietten, die immer griffbereit in jeder Bar oder einem Restaurant, dann fragte lachend: „Was ist die Wölfe. Werde ich keine Wölfe sehen?“

Er lächelte, sein Gesicht dann auf einem ernsteren Ausdruck nehmen. "Wer weiß? Man kann nie wissen. Alles, was in der Art und Weise des wilden Lebens könnte dort oben. Sie sagen, dass Tio Juan ist wieder in der Nähe von Morella. Zwei Packungen wurden gesichtet und erst vor kurzem, wenn ich mich richtig erinnere, gibt es Sichtungen tatsächlich innerhalb von vierzig Kilometern von Barcelona.“

„ Tio Juan?“ , Wiederholte ich. „Wer zum Teufel ist Tio Juan?“

*

„ Tio Juan oder wie könnte man sagen, Onkel John“ , erklärte Antonio, „bezieht sich auf die Wölfe.“

Es war ich an der Reihe ernst zu suchen. „Sie scherzen nicht wahr?“

„Sicherlich kein Scherz, Chris. Auf keinen Fall. Sie könnten auch überrascht sein, dass in der spanischen Sprache zu wissen, dass es zumindest siebzig Worte zu sprechen über Wölfe verwendet, ohne das eigentliche Wort ‚Wolf‘ zu nennen.“Hier hielt er inne und nippte ein wenig mehr Wein, bevor Sie fortfahren, und ich bemerkte, dass die Finger das Glas wurden stark verhornte Finger offenbar verwendet, um die manuelle Arbeit zu halten. „Sie sehen in den alten Tagen“, fuhr er fort, „die Menschen glaubten, dass, wenn sie sprachen den Namen‚Wolf‘das Tier sich plötzlich vor ihnen erscheinen würde. Es könnte albern in der heutigen Zeit erscheinen, aber noch vor hundert Jahren die Dinge waren sehr unterschiedlich. Ich bin sicher, Sie wissen, dass im Laufe der Geschichte in eine Richtung und eine andere, Wölfe eine ernste Angelegenheit gewesen. Wölfe haben für so etwas wie fünfzig ungerade Millionen Jahren. Kannst du dir das vorstellen? Es gibt kein Tier auf diesem Planeten, die mehr Angst und Respekt von der Menschheit als der Wolf hervorgerufen hat. Also, wenn ‚Tio Juan‘ hat nach Spanien zurückgekehrt, intelligenten und einfallsreicher als bisher bedeutet dies, dass er hier ist, diese Zeit zu bleiben.“

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.

Heiligtum der Virgen de la Balma '

Linares de Mora

Castelvispal

A Masia

Hotel de las Truchas

PATHFINDERS DES LABYRINTHS DER STILLE

Von allen wichtigen Punkten des Kompasses gibt es jetzt einigermaßen aufgetaucht Autobahnen für Ihren Weg zum Maestrazgo mit dem Auto zu finden, und die Straße, die de Mora geht Linares bleiben immer fast alle von ihnen meine persönlichen Präferenz erlebt zu haben. Nicht, beeile ich mich hinzuzufügen, weil es der erste war, sondern weil es ist derjenige, der in mir ein herrliches Gefühl der Erwartung schafft. Hinter dem Dorf gibt es einen kurzen scharfen Aufstieg ist dann das Abschalten links die Straße nach unten fällt, bis er den Laufe des Fluss Linares durch felsige Pinie bewachsene Schluchten der Sierra de Gúdar folgt. Dann klettert wieder nach oben endlich wir an der höchstgelegenen Gemeinde in ganz Spanien kommen; Valdelinares.

Um dorthin zu stoppen für einen Moment und geht weg vom Auto an einem windstillen Tag steht ganz im Schwebezustand zu finden, mich selbst. Alles hält, nichts bewegt. Neben den Ginsterbüschen auf den trockenen steinigen Erde klammern gibt es keine Vegetation zu sprechen und ohne Bäume. Keine Vögel, kein gar nichts. Nur Stille. Und der schwache Hauch von Thymian in der Luft.

Genial.

*

Das erste Mal, dass ich diesen Ansatz gemacht Maestrazgo es eine fast kindliche Tastsinn zu mir gebracht, dass vor mir etwas in meiner Reichweite ist, dass verströmt Abenteuer; ein Gefühl, dass etwas angenehm ähnlich der eines Kindes am Weihnachtsabend. Diese Gefühle von Erwartungen haben, wie ich älter geworden, nicht immer auf der positiven Seite. In der Tat, wenn die Dinge sind in der Regel falsch, Auto gehen, brechen oder ähnliches, ich versuche immer, und betrachten Sie sie mit einer Neugier, ein Gefühl von ‚frage ich mich, was jetzt Haltung passieren wird?‘ Und natürlich bin ich enttäuscht nie als etwas immer tut.

*

Erst vor kurzem, dass ich zufällig über eine andere Herangehensweise an das Maestrazgo kam. Ich war in Huesca, dass schiefergrau, herrlich alten, Stadt Küchlein in den Schoß der Pyrenäen nur 50 Meilen von Zaragoza der autonomen Hauptstadt von Aragon.

Lassen Sie mich erklären.

Heute in Spanien ist es praktisch unmöglich, ein Auto, neu oder gebraucht zu kaufen, die keine Klimaanlage hat. Mit anderen Worten hat ein Auto sehr alt sein, nicht den Komfort zu schaffen, bei extrem hohen Temperaturen zu reisen zu können. Mein Auto hat eine Klimaanlage, die einen Hinweis nicht über das Alter von Betsy III gibt. Während dieses Versäumnis, ich bin sicher, verursacht Unbehagen zu jeder Fahrt mit mir, ich persönlich bin wenig betroffen. Dies liegt daran, in meinen frühen Jahren habe ich diesen eher ungewöhnlichen Geschmack entwickeln für Extreme erlebt, wo Wetter betroffen ist. Ich erinnere mich, dass immer wieder gesagt, dass ‚Absolut niemand geht nach La Mancha (Don Quijote) im August. Die Hitze ist unerträglich.‘ „Ho! ho!“, dachte ich,„ich einige davon versuchen müssen. Mad Hunde und Engländer ... .. und all so was!“Sie waren, natürlich, absolut korrekt. Es war überwältigend besonders als Poniente, dass Staub beladener heftigen Westwind aus der Sahara wie verrückt weht. Die ganze Gegend war wie einige riesige Staub Schleuder gefüllt.

Während der Fahrt erinnerte ich mich, wie solche Winde Menschen, Kinder und sogar Haustiere beeinflussen können. Der bekannte ‚Mistral‘, was bedeutet, ‚Meisterliche‘, die Schläge in Südfrankreich ist ein gutes Beispiel. Ich habe irgendwo gelesen, dass auch heute ein altes napoleonisches Gesetz existiert noch in diesem Teil Frankreichs, die die Dekrete, wenn die ‚Mistral‘ Schläge für mehr als fünfzehn aufeinander folgende Tage dann Mord nicht als Kapitalverbrechen eingestuft werden. Beeindruckend! Ich persönlich würde nicht versucht sein, diese zu testen, aber ich verstehe voll und ganz die Frustration beteiligt.

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.

Weitere Informationen, die sie darauf bestanden, ich nehme enthalten Faltblätter weg und Karten zu erklären fast alle Tugenden irgendwo wie der Maestrazgo des Seins. Alles und alles zu tun, mit Outdoor-Aktivitäten zu genießen waren in und um Castellote werden mußten. So danken Olivia ich die Tasche von Informationen und drehte umklammerte das Büro zu verlassen, als sie aus rief: „Wie Sie von Castellote Recht auf Sie achten auszutreiben. Es gibt schöne Aussicht auf das Santolea Reservoir.“Ich versprach ihr, würde ich und ging in den frühen Abendsonne.

ein wachsames Auge auf dem Tunnel nur für den Fall es spie her alle anderen Fahrzeuge, die ich über die Straße übersprungen und in der Bar gegenüber Next halten. Die Llovedor, geschickt von Maria gelang, war eine bemerkenswerte lokale Basis auf, wie es schien, eine Idee des Spaniers, wie ein Pub aussehen sollte - Plus. Ich sage Plus, da der Ort mit so ziemlich allem geschmückt wurde, die beteiligt Trinken im Allgemeinen und andere mehr nur für den Fall etwas ausgelassen hatte. Es war faszinierend. Es gab alte verblasste Fotografien gemischt mit Zeichen der Werbung Deutsch, Irisch und Englisch Biere. Witziger hat genug ich nicht sehen, jeder die Vorzüge der Französisch Biere auszeichnet. Vielleicht waren wir auch in der Nähe der Grenze zu Frankreich und der Erinnerung an der napoleonischen Invasion zu bitter erwies vergessen.

*

Auf jeden Fall bestellte ich ein echtes spanisches Bier eine ruhige Ecke entschied sich für die Informationen zu sitzen und zu untersuchen, die Olivia mir vorgestellt hatte.

Es stellte sich heraus, dass Castel eine Attraktion hat, dass kein anderer Teil des Maestrazgo hat; das Santolea Reservoir. Der Bau begann im Jahr 1902 und als es schließlich beendet wurde, wurde sie viele Menschen in der Umgebung gefunden zu nehmen ein Boot nach Hause kommen begangen wurden. Dies wurde eine Weile später, als eine ziemlich zweifelhafte fußbrücke behoben wurde gebaut, welche die Gewohnheit wiegende so viel an windigen Tagen hatten, dass Fußgänger in ständiger Angst waren in das Wasser und mit zu schwimmen zu Hause geschleudert zu werden.Keine glückliche Aussicht, wenn die Durchführung der Wochen in der gleichen Zeit einkaufen. So, jetzt haben sie eine hervorragende Brücke zusammen mit einem sehr leicht zu beeindrucken Reservoir, das in ein feinen Zentrum für Camping, Angeln, Bootfahren und sah die bemerkenswerte Menge von Wildtieren im Bereich gedreht hat.

Also habe ich dort saß Prüfung glücklich die verschiedenen Broschüren leider unter Hinweis darauf, dass die Ritter Templers für Plünderungen und fast der Zerstörung der Burg Castel verantwortlich waren, bis ein Blick außerhalb dieser Nacht bestätigte schnell kommen würde auf und es war Zeit zum Motor auf.

*

Die hauptsächlich gebogene Autobahn läuft an der Seite von dem Reservoir und war ebenso wie Olivia beschrieben hatte, schön. Cremige grün noch enthaltene Wasser von hohen Klippen von unterschiedlichen Schichten von Farben hatte ich wünschen, dass es möglich wäre, in diesem Moment in einem kleinen offenen Boot zu sitzen und nur ruhig entlang driften.

Ich hatte das Glück zu finden, dass das Weingut war noch offen und das Schild draußen las Bodegas Borraz. Zitat von Thomas und Adolfo Borraz gründete der Weinberg verdankt seine Existenz das kleine Mikroklima in der Gegend und so abgehärtet Trauben wie Tempranillo, Garnacha und der treuen Cabernet Sauvignon. Soweit ich weiß, ist es das einzige Weingut in der ganzen Region ein wohlschmeckendes Wein, die lokal sehr beliebt ist.

Noch einmal auf dem Weg, den ich vorsichtig auf Mirambel gefahren, wo ich für die Nacht im Hostal Guimera gestoppt, ins Bett fiel ganz glücklich nach dem Abendessen, in dem ich eine ausgezeichnete Flasche Vino Borraz verbraucht.

ELEFANTEN, EIN SPANISCHER REBEL ALLGEMEINE UND EIN SPIEL DES 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’.

Ich war wach, bevor ich mir die Augen geöffnet; gerade dort liegt, unter den Decken und Bettwäsche angenehm warm. Es war ein Moment oder so, bis ich begriff, wo ich war.Möglicherweise ist der sehr schwachen Geruch von Möbelpolitur beschleunigt meinen schläfrigen Morgen Speicher in die Tat umzusetzen und für einen Bruchteil einer Sekunde dachte ich, ich war zurück in das Schlafzimmer des Königs in Morella in all den Jahren Vergangenheit. Ich öffnete die Augen und starrte auf den Sparren bis kreuz und quer durch die Decke. Raquel hatte mich in mein Lieblingszimmer setzen; Dachgeschoss Dachgeschoss. Ausstrecken und dann wieder entspannen Ich hörte und von irgendwo tief in dem alten Haus konnte diese vage Klänge der Morgenaktivität erkennen. Sie würden das Frühstück und was für einen angenehmen Gedanken, den Tag zu beginnen war. In der ‚Casa Sara‘, für mich wäre es ein Verbrechen, wenn mindestens 40 Minuten, um die stärk erste Mahlzeit des Tages nicht gewidmet waren. Nein, es war kein Frühstück wie man erwarten würde in jeder britischen oder Französisch Einrichtung zu finden, und nur in einer sehr begrenzten, wenn überhaupt, die Höhe der spanischen Unterkünfte. Frühstück in dem ‚Casa Sara‘ war etwas Besonderes, gelinde gesagt, und kompatibel mit jemandem bereit, auf dieser bergigen Region von Spanien zu nehmen. Raquel Frühstück war so fest wie die wunderbaren antiken Möbel, dass sie sorgfältig um das Haus verstreut hatten. Napoleon schien die Dinge klar zu haben, als er sagte, daß eine Armee marschiert auf dem Bauch. Nun vielleicht hatte das etwas damit zu tun. In voller Fahrt mit dem alten Herzog von Wellington und seinen Truppen auf den Fersen wäre es gut gewesen, dass das Französisch durch Cantavieja auf dem Weg in den Pyrenäen einige 4-500 Ligen vergangen war.

Doch das war im Moment nicht mein Problem. Es war September und obwohl die Luft eine belebende Kälte, um es in dem Morgen hatte in der Regel das Thermometer klettert verstohlen auf eine angenehme Höhe um die Mittagszeit.

Zeit, mich zu bewegen.

Duschte und zog ich knarrte mich auf den Weg der Holztreppe zum Esszimmer und ging hinein. Raquel am Fenster stand. Ich sagte: „Muy buenos Dias, Raquel.“ Sie drehte sich um, „Muy buenos Dias, Señor Chris.“ Grüße vorbei, ich fragte, wie das Wetter draußen war. „Gut“, bestätigte sie und über die schmale Straße, die roten Ziegeldächer gegenüber nickte. „Ich wurde von der Farbe der Fliesen sagen kann“, erklärte sie, dann lachte, als ob sie dachte ich, dass eher albern finden könnte.„So konnte ich“, sagte ich, „vor allem, wenn sie Schnee hatte sie auf.“ Wir lachten beide zusammen, und sie nickte mit dem großen runden Esstisch. „Ich Ihren Kaffee bringen und Toast Señor, wenn Sie es sich bequem zu machen.“ Sie ging zur Tür, dann drehte, „Soll ich für Sie auf dem Fernseher setzen?“ Ich grinste, „Nein danke, Raquel.

Der Tisch sah würdig ein Gemälde; ordentlich fast aufgeführt wie ein Künstler Eindruck eines Gourmet-orientierten Fortnum und Maurer Fensteranzeige. Raquel Familie sind lokale Bauern und an einen no-nonsense Frühstückstisch gewöhnt. Alles Nötige Sie in eine Stimmung setzen zu bekämpfen, was der Tag bringen könnte. Die Leckereien war mit einem kleinen Krug mit frischem Orangensaft, die während mir erlaubt, verzichtet wurde meine Aufmerksamkeit auf die wichtigen Dinge zu sehen einzuschalten. Ein Gericht zeigte eine sehr fein Schinken in Scheiben geschnitten zusammen mit Dreiecke an leckeren Ziegenkäse. Eine weitere Platte wurde als Überlauf mit ‚Cecina‘, feinen Scheiben aus gehärtetem Rindfleisch; in ähnlicher Weise wie die Schinken hergestellt, jedoch mit einem viel stärkeren Geschmack. Gemeinsame Nutzung der Platte von ‚Cecina‘ waren reichlich Scheiben ‚Jabali‘ oder Wildschweine, die ähnlich ist, was wir in England als Sülze zusammen mit einer geringen Menge an lokalen ‚Morcilla‘ oder Blutwurst und den würzigen ‚Chorizo‘, Wurst- kennen . Natürlich wie für jede künstlerische Komposition würde es nicht als Gesamtanordnung ohne den Rücken Team von Begleitungen dienen. nicht die runden roten Dinge so oft aufgeschoben, die wir in den Supermärkten, und diese enthielten feines Haus schmackhafte Tomaten angebaut. Raquel Tomaten sind die realen McCoy, in Scheiben geschnitten zusammen mit einem wenig Salz einig Haus natives Olivenöl gemacht, und wenn man eine Prise Oregano will, sind ein einfachen Geschenk des Lebens. Natürlich gibt es auch eine Auswahl an Marmeladen präsentieren mit dem gebutterten Toast zu gehen. Wenn dann ist das nicht ausreicht, um das Fest eine Auswahl an süßem Gebäck zu beenden und Mandelgeschmack Butterkekse, ‚Tarta del Alma‘ ein Halbkreis von Gebäck mit einer Füllung aus mit Zucker gemischt Kürbis und, last but not least ‚Tarticas‘ . Diese feinen knusprigen Kekse kommen oft mit dem Geschmack von Alkohol, oft nicht, ANIS. Was für ein Fest!

Danach in einer dieser übergroßen Tassen durch einen weiteren Kaffee verstärkt werden, die den Eindruck erwecken, mich immer, wenn es versehentlich gekippt bis ich Reanimation Hilfe benötigen würde ertrinken, konzentrierte ich mich auf das, was hoffentlich würde einen guten Tag in eine verwandeln tolle Sache.

Löschen einen kleinen Raum auf dem Tisch ich aus meiner Brieftasche nahm eine alte eher zerknittert spanische Banknote und legte es vor mir neben meiner Karte des Gebiets. Diese besondere Banknote war die letzte der Sammlung solcher Banknoten, die ich im Laufe der Jahre als Kuriosität gerettet hatte. Als Schüler eine lokale Philatelie Gesellschaft teilnehmen, in dem auch einen kleinen Abschnitt gewidmet Münzen und Banknoten enthalten war, hatte ich einige alte spanische Peseta Banknoten erworben. Dies weckte meine Neugier als alle Noten auf ihnen gedruckt hatte;

' BRADBURY, WILKINSON Y Cª Grabados, New Malden, Surrey, INGLATERRA'

Für mich war es faszinierend, dass jeder Tag in der Schule denkt ich an den großen Karten starrt auf den Wänden des Klassenzimmers war und dass wir hatten eigentlich auf einmal Geld für Spanien waren der Druck, dass bestimmte Land hatte nicht, wie so viele andere, gewesen rot gefärbt ein unverwechselbares Reich. Die besondere Note vor mir war hundert Peseten gekennzeichnet, das zu dieser Zeit von großem Wert gewesen sein muss. Es zeigte sich, den Kopf von König Felipe II mit den üblichen länglichen Features, die die spanische Schatz zu besessen scheinen, wenn auf Porträts für ihre Währung zu entscheiden. Im Hintergrund war es auch eine attraktive Zeichnung von ‚El Escorial‘, die letzten Ruhestätte für Spanien Könige und Königinnen. Das Datum zu lesen, 'Madrid 1 de Junio ​​de 1925'. Weitere Überlegungen führten mich zu glauben, dass der Grund für diese Situation gut die überlegenen britische Know-how mit dem Druck sein könnte, das Fehlen von Papier in Spanien; oder vielleicht beides.

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.

Es war etwa doppelt so groß wie die Bar an der Bischofsburg, aber es ist die Ähnlichkeit beendet.Hier war die Atmosphäre des wahren spanischen ‚Taberna‘. Poliert überall dunkel gebeiztem Holz, ein Holzofen Eisenofen in der Mitte der Bar für die kalten Winternächte fest gepflanzt. Es gab ein paar dekorativen Elemente an den Wänden, die eine hervorragende detaillierte Karte des örtlichen Wanderweges für Wanderer, Spaziergänger oder Wanderer. Die Bar auf der rechten Seite wurde geschickt von jemand besucht, wer ich war die Dame des Hauses entdeckt; die charmante Dolores.Sie besuchte die wenigen Kunden mit einem Lächeln und Professionalität, die nicht leicht in spanischen Städten in diesen Tagen zu finden ist. Ich war ein Glas Rotwein serviert, die sie erzählte mir von einigen obskuren bodega kamen etwa vierzig entfernten Kilometer. Ich las sorgfältig das Etikett auf der Flasche und entdecken, dass es aus der Borras Bodega in der Nähe von Castel kam.Wie immer ein spanischer zogen sprechen Ausländer, die anderen Kunden, vor allem in Bezug auf Wein, und so habe ich eine sehr angenehme Stunde vergangen zu Dolores und die Einheimischen sprechen. Dann, kurz bevor ich verließ ich mir wurde gesagt, dass das Trout Hotel war nur drei bis vier Kilometer weiter. Ich hätte gerne gesagt hat: ‚Adios‘ an meinen Freund, den Hund, aber er schien verschwunden zu sein; möglicherweise aus für die ‚Fonda‘ für mehr Kunden zu suchen. Ich hätte gerne gesagt hat: ‚Adios‘ an meinen Freund, den Hund, aber er schien verschwunden zu sein;möglicherweise aus für die ‚Fonda‘ für mehr Kunden zu suchen. Ich hätte gerne gesagt hat: ‚Adios‘ an meinen Freund, den Hund, aber er schien verschwunden zu sein; möglicherweise aus für die ‚Fonda‘ für mehr Kunden zu suchen.

*

Es war nach der Brücke über den Fluss Guadalupe überqueren und durch ein paar enge Tunnel in den Berg, dass ich schließlich über ein eher trauriges kleines kam Pfeil an einen Pfahl befestigt, dass spitze auf der rechten Seite und lesen ‚Hostal de la Trucha‘. Ich folgte die Richtung und nach dem Parken in dem, was ich annehmen, einen Teil der alten Fabrik war verriegelte das Auto und ging zum Hoteleingang. Es war eher ein unscheinbares Tür für ein Drei-Sterne-Hotel; mehr die Art des Zugriffs man erwarten könnte in ‚Ye Olde Shoppe Tea‘ in einem der britischen Seebäder zu finden.Doch einmal im Innern war es wirklich etwas Besonderes. Unmittelbar vor mir war eine kleine Rezeption, hinter der eine enorme Steinsäule war, die eine Decke aus Holzbalken abgestützt auf eine Fläche von mehreren hundert Quadratmetern. Eine Fülle von bequemen Sesseln und Sofas wurden die in mit verschiedenen Kaffeetischen gemischt verstreute und Stühlen geschnitzt aus, was schien, Baumstämme zu sein. Am anderen Ende waren Fenster, die über den Fluss Guadalupe sah hinaus.Rechts von der Rezeption war ein herrlich angenehm sucht bar. So die charmante Dame an der Rezeption bieten, „Buenos dias“ und von einem blendend Drei-Sterne-Lächeln belohnt, wanderte ich dort. Der Barkeeper, eine dünne eher einzelne hager suchen, die mich an jemanden erinnert, aber ich konnte nicht denken, die mich pflichtschuldigst einen angenehmen trockenen Weißwein serviert und dann verschwand mich verlassen Lager meiner Umgebung zu nehmen. Ein besonderes Element, das hat meine Aufmerksamkeit war ein sehr großer zur Schau getragener Kamin strategisch in der Mitte des Raumes platziert. Ich konnte das Knistern Protokolle werfen Wärme in den Wintermonaten leicht visualisieren und mich dort sitzen mit einem Glas Glühwein oder was auch immer sie während der langen Winternächte trinken. Alles in allem war es ein sehr angenehmer Ort zu sein. Allerdings gab es keine weiteren Kunden in Sicht.

Wenn schließlich der Barkeeper kehrte ich für den Wein bezahlt und bat zum Esszimmer gerichtet werden. "Nimm den Fahrstuhl. Es ist dort drüben, Señor „, sagte er hinter mir zeigt. Ich begann in Richtung weg er, als viel zu meiner Überraschung angedeutet hatte, die gut proportioniert Rezeptionistin springt hinter ihrem Schreibtisch und war es auch vor mir. „Hier sind Sie“, sagte sie, stehend zurück und ließ mich passieren. „Drücken Sie die Taste dort.“ Ich dankte ihr und sagte: „Du bist Südamerikaner. Brasilien, denke ich.“Sie hat mich mit einem weiteren Frontal perfekter Zahnmedizin belohnt. „Ja Señor. Rio de Janeiro.“‚Dann vielleicht könnten wir im nächsten Jahr Karneval treffen?‘Ich sagte scherzhaft. Die Türen begannen zu schließen, aber nicht, bevor sie antwortete: „Gut möglich. Ich werde da sein."

Der Speisesaal war nicht so groß wie ich erwartet hatte. Es wurde eine Sitz für etwa sechzig Menschen, aber auf der anderen Seite das Dekor war genau das, was ich mir vorgestellt hatte. Wände bedeckt mit Tierköpfen aller Art mit alten Fotografien gemischt, die um den Anfang des letzten Jahrhunderts genommen worden sein. In der Tat wurde die Wand vollständig mit einer großen Fotografie bedeckt, was, nahm ich an, würde das Gebäude während der Zeit gewesen, der Ort, um die Herstellung von Papier und Textilien gewidmet war. Ich prüfe dieses Foto, wenn ich eine leichte Bewegung hinter mir hörte und Drehen fand ich mich mit dem Barkeeper von Angesicht zu Angesicht, die hinter mir geschlichen hatten. „Mein Gott,“ Ich fand mich bei dem Gedanken: „Nicht ein anderer Mann Hotel.“ Er erlaubte sich ein Lächeln fast, als ob sich auf der Tatsache, beglückwünschen, dass er erfolgreich gewesen war fangen mich unvorbereitet. „Setz dich überall Sie mögen, Señor“, sagte er, mit einer Bewegung seiner Hand. Und es war im Moment, wo ich weiß, wen er erinnerte mich an. Er war eine kleinere Version von 'Lurch' der cadaverous suchen Charakter in der alten TV-Serie 'The Adams Family'.

Deinnkening ihn wähle ich in der Nähe der Fenster zu sitzen, wo ich nach unten auf das Hotelgelände und das Schwimmbad aussehen könnte. Ohne Wasser und eine Vielzahl von Unkräutern, die kurze Arbeit des Betons zu sein schienen zu machen, war der Pool offensichtlich seit einiger Zeit nicht verwendet worden. In der Tat alles da unten war ein Chaos und nicht wirklich kompatibel mit fünfundfünfzig-Bett-Zimmer Drei-Sterne-Einrichtungen. Auf jeden Fall gab es nichts, was ich dagegen tun konnte, damit ich meine Aufmerksamkeit auf unmittelbare Notwendigkeiten gedreht: Mittagessen.

Das Leder gebunden, eher protzig, Menü, dass ‚Lurch‘ schenkte mich, zusammen mit einer leichten Verbeugung, schien recht geradlinig, obwohl ich schon meine Gedanken vor der Ankunft, was ich zu haben, hatte gebildet. Er stand dann mit Bleistift wieder bereit, über seine Bestellung Pad geduldig warten.

“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“ , bot ich an. „Ausgeprägte My-strath-go.“

„ Ja , das ist es, My-strath-go. Nun sagen Sie mir , warum Sie so scharf auf dem Gebiet sind?“

„ Die Sache ist“ , begann ich langsam nach auch den Wein Probenahme, zur gleichen Zeit , um die Hand zu segnen, die die Trauben gepflanzt hatten und so einen Elixier hergestellt „ , gibt es zwei wichtige Punkte im Wert von Erinnern. Die erste ist , dass es kaum ausländische Besucher nach Spanien , die Maestrazgo sofort aussprechen kann. Dies ist ein großer Nachteil für die meisten von uns Ausländer. Ich meine , wie Sie sagen, Ihre Freunde oder Nachbarn , wohin Sie gehen , wenn Sie nicht den Namen des Ortes aussprechen kann. Namen wie Benidorm, Malaga, Valencia, alle kommen einfach auf die Zunge, aber nicht in der Lage Maestrazgo ausspricht; auch das ist auf jeden Fall ein Nachteil.“

Er nickte: „Und der zweite Punkt, Chris?“

„Der zweite Punkt ist der Küstentourismus in Spanien. Das begann wirklich ernst, wenn die Legende besagt, dass Frank Sinatra und Ava Gardner in den 1950er Jahren in Spanien war um. Es wurde gesagt, dass sie Tossa de Mar an der Costa Brava und von diesem Zeitpunkt an war besucht, wenn der Reiseveranstalter begann zu wecken. Es war alles da, Sandstrände, mehr als dreihundert Tage Sonnenschein im Jahr, zusammen mit billigem Alkohol und Zigaretten. Ich erinnere mich gut.Ich war dort gegen Ende der 50er Jahre und Spanien wirklich anders war dann. Dinge wie Bettwäsche aus dem Hotel Aufstrich am Strand in Tossa zum Trocknen ist alle mit Steinen beschwert. Große Platten aus Eis in Säcke gehüllt zu den Bars mit Pferd und Dray geliefert werden;keine Gefrierschränke in diesen Tagen. Ach ja, und die lokalen Mädchen an den Tanz Orte von ihren Müttern begleitet.

Axsel grinste: „Keine Notwendigkeit, mir zu sagen, wie anders es ist. Ich weiß „, sagte er. „Ich war damals in Madrid. Aber es sollte kein Feiertag sein. Ich studierte. Oder ich sollte zu studieren.“

„ Ist du wirklich?“ , Hatte ich nicht schon einmal gehört.

„ Ja, Chris, Madrid war wirklich etwas in diesen Tagen.“

„ Sag mir , wann ich fertig bin.“ Sagte ich und er nickte.

„ Also“ , fuhr ich fort, „nach einem halben Jahrhundert der Dinge in Spanien für die Touristen haben sie geändert. Fast alle malerischen Bildpostkarte Fischerdörfer am Mittelmeer sind nun für immer verschwunden. An ihrer Stelle haben wir Hochhäuser von Gebäuden zusammen mit noch höheren Preisen. In der Tat verstehe ich , dass die Reederei Kapitäne die ganze Küste nennen die ‚Costa del Concrete‘ ist so aufgebaut.“

Ich hielt einen Moment inne und half mir auf einem der kleinen Dreiecke Toast und Pasteten und gießen Sie etwas mehr Wein. Beide waren perfekt.

„ Nun , was ich bin immer herum, Axsel ist, dass heute glaube ich , die durchschnittlichen Familien Touristen in der Art und Weise des Urlaubs für etwas anderes suchen. Die verbilligte Flugreise Unterstützung von Menschen , die Art von Spanien besuchen sie etwa in Büchern oder Zeitschriften gelesen haben. Vielleicht etwas ein Gefühl von gesunden Abenteuer zu induzieren und, natürlich, weniger teuer im Vergleich zu den Küstenorten. Hier haben wir es in dieser Region. Das ist wirklich die letzte versteckte Ecke , die das echte Spanien ist.“

Mein Freund nickt. „Nun, es sieht aus, als ob Sie es gefunden. Wie lange haben Sie es gewusst?Und warum sagen alle anderen darüber?“

„ Um ehrlich zu sein habe ich seit Jahren darüber bekannt , aber es war erst vor kurzem , dass ich wirklich Bereich und das Gefühl ans Herz gewachsen , dass ich will , es teilen.“

„ In festen Händen?“

Ich war für einen Moment still, „Ja angebracht, Axsel. Jedes Mal, wenn ich hierher gekommen, bis es ist, als ob ich nach Hause komme.“

„ Nach Hause kommen?“

„ Ja“ , gab ich „, ein Gefühl nach Hause zu kommen. Sie kennen die Weite der Landschaft, die attraktiven spanischen ‚pueblos‘ und vor allem die Menschen. Komisch , aber da ist es. Ich nehme an, einige Psychologen mir eine Antwort geben konnte , aber ich kann mit Sicherheit nicht.“

Dann fühlt verlegte ein wenig von meinem Eintritt war ich über das Thema zu wechseln, wenn Axsel sagte: „Was haben Sie die Leute denken, hier sind besonders?“

Ich zögerte und dachte zurück. „Nun“, begann ich, „ich nehme an Berg Menschen auf der Welt unterschiedlich sind. Offensichtlich klimatische Bedingungen und so Einfluss ihrer Lebensweise.Das ist an sich muss sie machen nur, dass etwas härter als ihre Nachbarn in den unteren bequemere Regionen und auf andere Weise etwas edleren Charakter. Sie wissen, nicht vorbereitet mit Kleinlichkeit zu setzen, Gemeinheit und diese Art der Sache. Auch ist es so, wie Sie die Dinge zunächst finden. Zum ersten Mal Vorfälle lassen einen bleibenden Eindruck ..., bei mir jedenfalls.Eine meiner ersten Erfahrungen mit den Menschen in dieser Region vor vielen Jahren passiert ist.“

„ Gehen Sie weiter“ , sagte Axsel. "Erzähl mir davon."

„ Nun , es wie es war“ , begann ich. „Es geschah an einem Sonntag , als ich hier war und fand mich Fortanete Durchreise . Das ist ein kleiner ‚Pueblo‘ nicht weit von hier.“

“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.

„ Natürlich ist es auf für morgen ist“ , bestätigte ich die Platte mit Toast und Olivenpastete zusammen mit dem Wein in seine Richtung drängen. „Deshalb bist du hier, nicht wahr?“

„ Just checking das ist alles“ , mein Freund lächelte.

Er goss dann, was der Rioja in unsere Gläser blieb und sein eigenes an seine Lippen erheben, nahm einen Schluck und nach einer langen Stille, sagte: „Weißt du was, Chris? Sie sollten nie einen guten Wein probieren und beschreiben. Untersuchen Sie es, schnüffeln sie, trinken und genießen, aber nie versuchen, es zu beschreiben.“

Es gab bestimmte Themen, bei denen Sie nicht mit dem Dänen argumentieren könnten, die ich durch Erfahrung wusste, dass ein erster Klasse Koch mit Neigungen zu sein in Richtung auf Weine etwas von einem Experten zu sein. Also ich nicke nur und für meinen Teil entspannt, die ‚Rioja‘ findet ihren Weg in mein eigenes spezielles System im Stich gelassen.

*

Dann begann ich meine Pläne für den nächsten Tag zu erklären, mit der kurzen Fahrt nach Mirambel begann fast nur ein Steinwurf von wo aus wir in diesem Augenblick waren. Es war um eine halbe Stunde später, dass ich aus dem Fenster schaute und bemerkte, dass die orange und rote Lichter der Tankstelle gegenüber nun ausgelöscht wurden, so dass wir es nennen einen Tag entschieden und drehen, bevor wir am Tisch einschlief und es konnte nicht in der Casa Sara an der Unterseite des Hügels.

*

Der Meteorologe weiter am nächsten Morgen zu uns freundlich zu sein. Strahlender Sonnenschein war glücklich weg von den roten Fliesen Dächer gegenüber Raquel Speisesaal Fenster springen.Dann, nachdem sie sich in eine anderen ihr feinen Bankett Frühstück mit Gespräch mit Beurteilungen der Ausbreitung von beiden Axsel setzte Eintauchen und ich gings los. Der Schritt in die Straße von der Casa Sara uns durch den Duft von Holzrauch Blending begrüßt wurden mit dem von frisch gebackenem Brot. Ich zog in einer Lunge voll. ‚Wunderbar‘ wir beide einig.

Dann, als wir in den Hauptplatz drehte, fragte Axsel: „Wo ist die Bäckerei?“

„ Weiß Axsel nicht. Aber wir können es bald herausfinden.“

In Spanien Brot ist eine Kultur. Die Menschen werden das Thema Brot mit der gleichen Begeisterung für den Fußball oder Paella reserviert diskutieren. In diesem Land gibt es dreihundertfünfzehn verschiedene Brotsorten registriert. Natürlich unter dieser Nummer gibt es viele, die in der Produktion ähnlich sind, aber die Namen variieren von jeder Region und jeder hat seine persönlichen Vorlieben. Zum Beispiel in den meisten Orten Brot ist in der Regel gekauft am selben Tag gegessen werden, wie es gebacken wird. Andere Arten von Brot können auf diese Weise gegessen werden, sind aber oft besser am nächsten Tag verbraucht. In Galicien, Spanien erzeugen sie eine Art von Brot, das für das Essen am selben Tag sicherlich nicht zu empfehlen. wie es gebacken;aufgrund seiner gewichtigen Konsistenz ist es nicht leicht verdaulich. Doch nach zwei Tagen wird gesagt, hervorragend sein.

Brot können Sie auch überrascht in Spanien nehmen. Mein persönlicher Geschmack für dieses Basisprodukt ist die sehr knusprige Textur, fast verbrannt, Aussehen bestimmter Bars Brot. In den frühen Tagen in einem sehr kleinen Dorf wurde ich in eine kleinen Bäckerei angezogen, dass nach wie vor ihr Brot in Öfen gebacken hergestellt mit Holz geschürt. Ich entschied ich für ein sehr dunkles knuspriges sucht Bar Brot, bezahlte und verließ den Laden. Bemerken, dass es noch sehr heiß war, wobei nur gebacken, konnte ich nicht helfen, ein Stück zu brechen zu versuchen.

Ich war dann erstaunt, dass im Inneren zu sehen, es war hohl. Was es hatte wenig Krümel wurden um die Kruste verschoben. Fasziniert von dieser Entdeckung kehrte ich in den Laden und fragte den Besitzer für eine Erklärung. Nicht, dass in jedem Moment habe ich jede Art von absichtlichem Betrug vermuten, wie es gab auch andere Kunden aus dem Dorf auch dieses besondere Brot kaufen.Der Besitzer war, wie man erwarten würde, eine dicke Dame, die mich von einem der Charaktere in dem Kartenspiel erinnerte ich früher als Kinder spielen; 'Happy Families'. Sie war das Bild der Frau Bun die Bäckersfrau.

“ Das Brot“, erklärte sie, „ist 'Pan de Hueco' (Hueco Bedeuten 'Loch'). Es ist wie die für Kunden gebacken , die ihre eigenen Füllungen herzustellen; Wurst, Tortillas, Salate oder was auch immer.“Dann fügte sie mit einem Lächeln,‚und natürlich Menschen wie Sie , die gerade wie geröstetes Brot.‘

„ Nun , Sie leben und lernen“ , dachte ich , als ich den Laden verlassen.

Axsel und ich fand die herrliche Bäckerei, Artepan, nur etwa fünfzig Schritte von dem Hauptplatz von Cantavieja. Der Eigentümer, Carlos, war offensichtlich ein Mann mit Vision, jung, dunkel mit diesem eher fahl Teint, der mit seinem Handel und komplett mit Ohrring geht, hatte er erkannt, dass ein Bedarf an einer traditionelle Bäckerei in der Stadt war. Traditionelle Backen, dass er benutzt nichts anderes als Original-Zutaten zum Beispiel reines Olivenöl statt der üblichen Butter oder Margarine. Artepan bieten verschiedene Arten von Brot aus den frisch gebackenen Bars auf den ‚Pan de Pueblo‘, die auch noch besser schmecken verbrauchen einen oder zwei Tage nach dem Kauf. Mit dem Gedanken in meinem Kopf, dass ich nach Valencia in den nächsten Tagen zurückkehren ich in einem Fußball investiert bemessen ‚Pan de Pueblo‘ zu wissen, dass es genau das Richtige für das Essen bei der Ankunft zu Hause sein würde.

*

Später fuhren wir von Cantavieja und die Multi-kurvigen Straße fiel weg ins Tal hinunter zum Fluss hinter uns unsicher mit einem Hintergrund der hellblauen Himmel und die gelegentliche Weitergabe weiß von nirgendwo zusammen auf dem scheinbar Rand thront die Stadt hoch und trocken bleibt Watte Wolke.

„ Sie wissen , was Axsel?“ , Sagte ich. „Lebte ich die Küste unten am Meer für drei Jahre und war begeistert. Nachdem die aus Leicester im Herzen von England wurde, zu mir, etwas ganz Besonderes in der Lage sein , jeden Tag zu schauen und zu sehen , was in dem Meerblick verändert waren. Immer scheinbar unterschiedlicher einen Tag auf den nächsten. Meine Wohnung nach Süden ausgerichtet und manchmal würde ich wache früh und nur sitzen auf der Terrasse, sehen die Sonne aufgehen und beobachten das Meer. Ich konnte wirklich nicht vorstellen , jemals woanders zuleben.“

“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!”

*

Der Name Mirambel, nach dem, was ich gelesen hatte, scheint durch die Zusammenführung sowohl lateinische als auch katalanische entstanden zu sein; ‚Miror‘ Bedeuten ‚admire‘ in Latein und ‚Glocke‘ bedeutet ‚schön‘ auf Katalanisch; daher der Name 'Mirambel'. Nun, das ist das, was gesagt wurde, und ich bin mit Sicherheit nicht zu streiten. Wie auch immer der Name nicht, in meinem Kopf, hat einen angenehmen Klang zu ihm und Visionen von einem charmanten Ort zu Besuch heraufbeschwören kann.

Auf meiner Reise habe ich, dass unter den Menschen bemerkt, die tatsächlich wissen, Mirambel, dass, wenn der Name ihren Gesichtsausdruck ändert erwähnt wird. Zunächst wird ein weit entfernter Blick kommt in die Augen, als ob ich zu einem gewissen fast vergessene Liebesgeschichte bezeichnet hatte, die ihre Herzen berührt hatte. Dann plötzlich ihre Gesichter leuchten und ihre Antwort ist: „Ach, Ich-am-bel“ Ja, hat der Ort eine nachhaltige Wirkung auf all jene, die sie kennen.In der Tat Mirambel, könnte behaupten, auch ein ‚Diamant in der Krone des Maestrazgo‘ zu sein und ist ein ‚Muss‘ für die Besucher der Region, die sich gerne in absorbieren, was nur als Spaniens historischen Vergangenheit und Gegenwart Aktivitäten beschrieben.

Nur wenige Wochen vor diesem Besuch hatte ich Silvia Ferrer von der Touristeninformation geschrieben, Informationen anfordern und sie auf meinen Brief sofort reagiert hatte. Zu meiner großen Freude hatte sie eine Liste von drei Büchern enthält, die zum Dorf bezogen, seine Geschichte und Bewohnern zusammen mit einem feinen Karte des Gebiets um den Aufenthaltsort von einem Dutzend oder ‚Masias‘ zusammen mit sieben verschiedenen faszinierenden Routen für Walking-Enthusiasten zeigt viele von denen geführt, so dass die ganze Familie die Erfahrung genießen können. Apropos ‚Masias auch jetzt ist es schwer für mich, dass es in diesem einundzwanzigsten Jahrhundert zu glauben, sind immer noch diese Orte ohne Einrichtungen der Hauptleitung Strom oder Wasser.

Es versteht sich von selbst, dass es aus dem Weg zu Wohnungen auf einige dieser Feste in den letzten Tagen von 19 bis 96 mit der Ankunft der Elektrizität waren. Bis dahin war es kein Fernsehen gewesen und schon gar keine Einrichtungen für Computer oder solche Notwendigkeiten für die jungen Menschen von heute.

*

Nach Mirambel lange und bewegter Geschichte war es weniger als ein halbes Jahrhundert her, dass die Dorfältesten getroffen und beschlossen, dass länger, wenn vernachlässigt viel der ganze Platz umfallen würde, Stein für Stein, um die Ohren; Überleben verlangte sofortiges Handeln. Drastische Maßnahmen wurden so weit umgesetzt, dass Mirambel wurde praktisch fast Stein für Stein restauriert; zum Glück aber halten starr an der ursprünglichen Form.

So war das Ergebnis dieses ehrgeizigen Unternehmens, dass die Stadt Architekt für Restaurierungsarbeiten, Miguel Angel López, wurde im Jahr 1981 von den fünfhundert Bewerbern, die goldene Medaille in dem Europäischen ausgezeichneten Wettbewerb ‚Unser Europas‘. Dies wurde 1982 durch einen Besuch von Ihrer Majestät Doña Sofia von Spanien gefolgt, die diesem Genie des begehrten Preis vorgestellt. Seitdem hat Mirambel weiterhin in der Popularität wachsen, aber seltsamerweise nicht als touristisches Zentrum wie Morella entwickelt. Aber gesagt haben, dass Mirambel wäre dann nicht Mirambel sein. Wenn du weißt, was ich meine.

*

Das Dorf selbst schlummert friedlich in einem langen Tal verwirrte, dass irgendwie nicht seinen Sinn zu machen scheint die Lage, ob Getreideanbau oder Weideland sein, nur eine zufällige Variation von Äckern, Weiden und Bereiche der allgemeinen Vernachlässigung weiden lassen.Später entdeckte ich, dass dies etwa im Laufe der Jahre mit den Auswirkungen der Menschen kommen, hatten die Dörfer zu verlassen und suchen, was sie glaubten, ein besseres Leben in den Städten zu sein. Viele Städte und Dörfer wie Cantavieja und Mirambel eine abnehmende Bevölkerungsproblem und derzeit haben weniger als die Hälfte der Zahl der Einwohner, die zuvor nur 100 Jahre existierte. Dies ist natürlich, in der stillen Vordringen der Wüste wieder zu umarmen das Kulturland wie die Natur kehrt wieder Anspruch geführt hat, was ihr von Rechts wegen war, bevor jeder von uns hier waren.

Umgeben von Gipfeln, die Reichweite von bis zu drei oder mehr tausend Metern Höhe hat man den Eindruck von in einer Art riesigen Amphitheater zu sein. Um ehrlich zu sein, wie Sie das Dorf aus Richtung Cantavieja, entlang einer Straße gesegnet mit einer Oberfläche, die Blättern viel zu wünschen übrig nähern, ist der erste Eindruck, dass der Platz zu spielen verstecken versucht und sucht. Ein Moment Sie den Kirchturm erahnen und dann nächsten Moment die Straße fällt und Sie, die zwischen Alleen von hohem dickem Gras und Unkraut und kann gar nichts sehen. Schließlich, wenn Sie zu fangen Anblick des Orts verwalte gibt es nicht wirklich etwas, das sie sofort von jedem anderen ‚Pueblo‘ unterscheidet in dem Gebiet; weiß ummauerten Häuser, rote Ziegeldächer, die unvermeidliche Kirchturms all scheinbar in der Mitte eines Feldes gesetzt.

*

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.”

„ Der eine von José Miguel Marin,“ sagte ich. „100 Crónicas de Mirambel. Es geht um die Geschichte des Ortes, glaube ich.“

Er drehte sich um und verschwand in der Rückseite der Bar fast sofort mit einer Kopie zurück.

„ Hier, Caballero. Es tut mir Leid , dass Sie an einem Tag kam , als Silvia ist weg „, sagte er , es zu mir vorbei.

„ Kein Problem. Ich habe jetzt , was ich kam.“

Ich bezahlte den Betrag zitierte er und fragte dann. „Ich weiß, es ist außerhalb der Saison, aber wenn ist das Tourismusbüro geöffnet?“

„ Außerhalb der Saison ist es in der Regel an den Wochenenden geöffnet, aber in der Saison jeden Tag.“

Ich fand diese Informationen sehr aufschlußreich wie in den Städten wie Valencia die Touristeninformation immer an den Wochenenden geschlossen ist, wenn es mehr Besucher in die Stadt sind als während der Woche. Und hier waren wir in einem kleinen Dorf abseits der ausgetretenen Pfade, die erkannt hatte, dass es an den Wochenenden mehr Touristen um waren, so dass sie das System geändert und es funktionierte. Gut für sie.

Später, als ich ihn fragte, wie viel wir für die Kaffees verdankte er dies zurückgewiesen und gesagt, dass es ist in der Tat zu einem Vergnügen, uns zu dienen. Nichts als Queer as Folk ist da?

*

„ Wohin jetzt?“ , Fragte Axsel , wie wir von dem Dorf vertrieben und prallte wieder auf die Hauptstraße hinauf.

„ Olocau del Rey“ , sagte ich.

„ Olo was del was, Chris?“

„ Es macht nichts Axsel geradeaus fahren. Es gibt nur zwei Wege aus der Mirambel; diejenige , die wir kamen an und das, was wir auf verlassen.“

Also weiter ging es nach dem Verlauf des Cantavieja Flusses rechts von uns die jetzt schien etwas schmaler zu sein, aber immer noch ziemlich gesund hinsichtlich Wasser. Dennoch wurde es noch mit den verschiedenen Weiden, Birken und grüner Vegetation von Binsen und Schilf ansprechend die Bänke Würgen, aber gelegentlich kühlen, grüne Rasenflächen verlassen, wo das Sonnenlicht gefiltert durch und das hatte ich denken: „Was für ein schönen Ort für ein Picknick. “

Die Felder wurden mit den Schweinchen Farmen durchsetzt und schienen mehr organisiert im Vergleich zu denen, die wir vor dem Eintritt in Mirambel vergangen waren. Es war eine solche Farm, die über eine dubiose suchen Brücke mit einem Schild angegangen werden könnte, die den Namen trugen. 'Masia Torre de Abajo'. Das allgemeine Erscheinungsbild dieses besonderen Halts war attraktiv mit seinem ursprünglichen schlossähnlichen Turm noch an seinem Platz. Doch die Beurteilung durch Zustand des Mauerwerks wäre dies sicherlich auch eine Art von Renovierung in nicht allzu ferner Zukunft benötigen. Und man könnte in Betracht ziehen, dass ein starker Rückgang der Preise für Schweinefleisch möglicherweise katastrophal an die Besitzer beweisen konnte.

Kurze Zeit später kamen wir an einem Schild, die den Reisenden zu ‚La Cuba‘ gerichtet.

„ Nun , Sie wirklich finden Sie einige Plätze“ , kommentierte Axsel. „Ich frage mich , ob das ist ,wo‚El Comandante‘seine Winterresidenz hat.“

Dann bei der Ankunft in einer kleinen, aber gut asphaltierte, Kreuzung gibt es ein Zeichen, das Tronchon lesen. Ich bog nach links und es dauerte nicht lange nach, dass das Dorf in Sicht kam.Fehlende die eher irreführend Zeichen in der Mitte des Dorfes unter Hinweis darauf, fanden wir uns plötzlich an der Stelle vorbei und fahren durch eine außergewöhnliche Auswahl an Gebäude eher wie ein Bauhof; Bits von Gerüsten, Holzbohlen und behelfsmäßigen Hütten verstreut.

„ Dies könnte nur die Käserei sein“ , sagte Axsel aus einem unbekannten Grund und schwang das Auto in ein offenes Tor.

Das ganze Gebiet war eine komplette Katastrophe. Übersät mit Schrott, Holz und Holzplanken sahen es ein Chaos. Es gab auch Hühner ziellos herum, Vögel in Käfigen wandern von den Bäumen schwingen und auf dem Pols, Katzen scheinbar überall und das alles von einem heiseren Hintergrund begleitet von zwei bösen aussehenden Hunden bellen, zum Glück gut durch Ketten gebunden.Allerdings war der beste Teil zu kommen, wenn wir aus dem Auto ausstieg.

„ Guter Gott Axsel, dieser Geruch nicht nur aus Käse sein kann“ , sagte ich , als wir sofort in einem höchst unearthly Aroma umhüllt wurden.

„ Ich glaube nicht , dass du weiter als dort suchen müssen“ , sagte mein Freund Zeige über den Hof.

Und da vor uns von hinten festen Eisenstangen starrt waren zwei Sätze von böswilligen Augen-Set in zwei stachelige haarige Gesichter beide mit langen Schnauzen auf beiden Seiten, von denen ein Paar sehr hässlicher Hauer waren; zwei riesige Wildschweine. Sie schniefte und schnaubte und grunzte ihre Schnauzen zwischen den Stäben stoßend. Unabhängig davon, ob sie glaubten, dass wir Lieferanten von Lebensmitteln könnte vorbei oder tatsächlich die nächste Mahlzeit waren, wusste ich nicht. Aber ich würde sicherlich nicht nahe genug, um herauszufinden. Nicht, ich eile aus Sicherheitsgründen hinzufügen, aber aus Angst vor vergast zu werden.

Der Backup-pong aus einem Käfig ausging neben der offen war. Dort stehen uns beleidigten war recht großes RAM. Sporting eine feine Reihe von Hörnern und der traditionelle Bart kann ich fast sehen, ihn zu prüfen, ob oder nicht eine Gebühr geeignete Sofortmaßnahmen sein könnte. Hinter ihm mehrere kleine Ziegen, von denen waren schob sich an ihm vorbei und in unsere Richtung. Natürlich kam er für mich zuerst und begann spielerisch mich auf mein Bein Anstoßen. Ich stieß ihn weg und er steuerte auf Axsel, die nicht in der Stimmung war zu stumpf und die eine herzhafte Schlagkraft geliefert ihn zurück in Richtung Käfig schicken. Das ist offensichtlich die alte Billy davon abgehalten, die pausiert drehen und nachdem er sich ausdrückt, durch eine Fülle von Kot auf uns gerichtet liefern wanderte er in den Käfig zurück.

„ Hatten Sie jemals das Gefühl nicht gesucht werden?“ , Fragte ich Axsel.

„ Wollte oder nicht“ , antwortete er, „schauen wir uns für den Käse zu gehen.“

Am anderen Ende des Hofes fanden wir, was das Geschäft entpuppte. Die Tür war offen und wir wanderten in Einmal in unserem Geruchssinn selbst eingestellt und wir wurden mit einem neuen, sehr viel angenehmem Geruch gesegnet. dass der starken Käse, Schinken und Wurst geräuchert. Es war niemand in der Nähe, so dass wir über die Untersuchung der verschiedenen Produkte gesetzt, die Verbreitung über den Ort waren mit besonderem Augenmerk auf die Auswahl an Käsesorten, die zur Verkostung bereit aussah. Dann wird eine weibliche Stimme von der Tür sagte: „Buenos dias, Caballeros.“ Und das war unsere Einführung in Pilar, der offensichtlich verantwortlich war. Dunkles Haar, dunkle Augen, die eine prim weiße Schürze trägt und weißen Gummistiefeln sie war alles Geschäft wie. Die Herstellung eines eher unheimlichen schauenden Messer, das sie für uns über die Vorbereitung Proben von Tronchon Käse eingestellt, während Axsel und ich fuhr fort um Verwurzelung die Verkaufsregale. Dann, wenn alle eingestellt wurde Pilar hat uns eingeladen, die verschiedenen Käsesorten zu probieren. Mehrere verschiedenen Sorten wurden alle auf einem Holzbrett gelegt, dass, wie es von einem Olivenbaum geschnitzt wurde aussieht. Da einige Olivenbäume, insbesondere die Oliven ‚Pitongo‘ kann rund tausend Jahre leben, um es gut aus einer Zeit gekommen sein könnte, dass Cervantes der Nähe war.

Axsel war in seinem Element.

„ Hey Chris. Glauben Sie , dass es sich um so etwas wie der Käse von Cervantes erwähnt?“

Ich lächelte: „Ehrlich gesagt Axsel in dem Bereich, einen Blick und was ich von den Dörfern gesehen, wie wir durch die Einbeziehung dieses Käsebrett reichte es scheint nicht, als ob die Dinge viel im Laufe der Jahre verändert haben.“

So begeistert wir die verschiedenen Käsesorten zu kommentieren ihre Textur und Geschmack, während Pilar, ermutigt durch unsere positive Resonanz abgetastet, selbst gewidmet, um weitere Proben bereitstellt. Schließlich hat jeder von uns unseren Käse zusammen mit einigen anderen Leckereien in Form von geräucherten Würsten ausgewählt, Schinken, Honig und natürlich, einem lokalen Wein, der aus einer Bodega kam nicht weit von dort in Richtung Castellote.

„ Nehmen Sie eine Notiz von dem Weingut“ , sagte Axsel über meine Schulter. „Es könnte interessant sein.“

Dankbarkeitskreuzes Pilar für alle ihre Hilfe, die wir für die Tür bezahlt und gemacht. Einmal draußen unsere Taschen umklammert hielten wir den Atem an und eilte zum Auto. Die Hunde begannen wieder zu bellen und die Wildschweine sahen noch gemeine, während die Ziegen in ihre Quartier verschwunden waren.

*

Interessant ist, dass trotz des Lobes, dass Tronchon Käse in Cervantes Meisterwerk heute erhalten sie nicht die gleichen Handels Popularität wie die Manchego Käse. Obwohl gesagt hat, dass es mir angetan hat auftreten, dass die Dinge nur sehr besonders anders gewesen sein, das heißt, wenn Ereignisse an das Französisch Revolution im Vorfeld hatte eine andere Wendung genommen.

Es geschah so.

Fünfzig Jahre nach Cervantes Tod im Jahr 1616 gefunden Tronchon Käse Ruhm in dem Hof ​​des König Louis XVI durch Graf Aranda, der zu dieser Zeit war, spanischer Botschafter in Paris. Aranda präsentiert Proben an den König und Marie Antoinette, die nach den Historikern wurden außergewöhnlich gut erhalten. Ich persönlich fühle mich irgendwie, dass der Herzog hatte nie von einem Land wie Spanien kommt, dass jemand den Ausdruck ‚Taking Kohlen nach Newcastle‘ gehört, die rund hundert verschiedene Arten von Käse hatten und etwas ähnliches in ein Land einzuführen, dass Prahlereien etwa zehn Mal dieser Betrag müssen erhebliche Glauben an das Produkt oder fehlte in der Diplomatie gehabt haben.

Auf der anderen Seite konnte er wissen müssen, dass Marie Antoinette nur ihre Meinung geändert haben könnte und statt darauf hindeutet, dass, wenn die Armen kein Brot hatte sie mit den Worten nur noch kommen könnte, „essen Lassen Sie dann Tronchon Käse.“ Man denke nur für eine Minute, was passiert sein könnte. Es wäre sicherlich eine große Veränderung in der Maestrazgo Geschichte beteiligt. Es könnte jetzt Käsereien mit den Schweinchen Farmen im Wettbewerb überall sein, und wenn die Entwicklung von sechs legged Huhn für sich ein ..., gut funktioniert es nicht ertragen, darüber nachzudenken. Der Himmel wäre die Grenze gewesen.

*

„ Wohin jetzt, Chris?“

„ Nun , nachdem der Aperitif Ich denke , dass wir uns jetzt zu einem guten Mittagessen behandeln kann. Das ist , wenn wir uns auf den Weg ins Dorf finden können.“

Mit nur zwei irren Wendungen, wo es notwendig war für uns wieder zu verlassen, beginnt das Dorf, fanden wir schließlich unsere Art und Weise, unter Hinweis darauf, dass die meisten der Hauptstraße waren so, dass zwei Autos nicht aneinander vorbeifahren können. Kommend auf den meist uneben gepflasterte Platz vor der Kirche, die wir geparkt. Klettern aus dem Auto, das wir über uns stand starrend und es war das aus irgendeinem Grund dachte ich an einen Kinderreim.

Es war ein krummer Mann und er ging ein schiefes Meile

Er fand einen krummen sixpence auf einem schiefen Stil.

Er kaufte sich eine schiefe Katze, die eine Maus gefangen krumm

Und sie lebten alle zusammen in einem schiefen Häuschen.

Das ganze Dorf war krumm. Die krummen Gassen, die schiefen Häuser mit ihren schiefen Dächern und Balkonen; es schien unmöglich, etwas zu sehen, das nicht krumm wurde. Auch wenn wir unsere Suche nach dem Restaurant begann schien es, dass wir gehen nach oben oder nach unten geht, drehen scharfe Ecken oder schiefe Treppensteigen. Es war wundervoll.

Dann alle Dinge, die wir konfrontiert wurden tatsächlich durch, was schien, eine Wette-on zu seinen Gewinner für die krummen Mann Einsätze kommen sehr langsam die Straße hinauf in unsere Richtung. Eine dünne zerbrechliche rund schultrige Gestalt mit einem Tuch Mütze suchen gezogen und über die Augen. schwer auf seinen Gehstock stützte sich und mehr Aufmerksamkeit auf die Zahlung, wo seine Füße waren als dort, wo er eigentlich vor sich geht. Ich konnte es ihm nicht verdenken, wie die gepflasterten Straße gut katastrophal erweisen könnte für jemand unsicher auf den Beinen. Er sah genauso aus wie die Zeichen Zeichnungen, die ich von dem krummen Mann in dem Reim gesehen hatte. Ein kurzer Blick um meinerseits bestimmt, dass es keine Katzen krumm wurden, Stile oder sixpenny Münzen um.

„ Ich werde ihn fragen , “ sagte ich zu Axsel : „Er muss wissen , wo es ist.“

„ Dann besser wir mit gesenktem Kopf , ihn zu treffen“ , war die Antwort. „Durch das Aussehen der Dinge , die er vielleicht nicht so weit machen. Zumindest nicht vor dem Tee Zeit.“

„ Buenos dias, Señor“ , sagte ich, als wir zu ihm kamen.

Der Alte richtete sich so weit wie es physisch möglich war, drehte den Kopf zur Seite, um bei uns zu sehen.

Schröpfen seine Hand um sein Ohr, krächzte er, „Que?“

„ Deaf auch, einfach unser Glück“ , grummelte Axsel die offensichtlich müde, hungrig und in der Suche nach einem Drink war.

„ Ca-sa Ma-til-de!“ , Schrie ich fast zu seinem improvisierten Hörhilfe.

„ Ja, es ist schon immer so gewesen in Tronchon“ , stimmte er zu . „Sie wollten etwas dagegen zu einer Zeit tun, aber Sie wissen , was das Rathaus ist wie“

„ Das ist einfach nicht wahr, oder ?“ , Sagte Axsel hinter mir. „Was ist er auf etwa?“

„ Halt die Klappe, Axsel!“ Ich meine Zähne geschliffen.

„ Was ist mit deinem Freund?“ , Fragte der alte Mann den Kopf zu sehen Axsel verdrehen.

„ Nichts“ , zischte ich. „ Sie uns einfach sagen , wo die Casa Matilde ist.

„ Ah, das Casa Matilde“ , sagte der alte Mann. „Warum hast du nicht sagen , so in erster Linie? Die Casa Matilde ist unten diese Straße gibt.“

„ Aber wir haben schon hinunter diese Straße zweimal und es gibt absolut nichts , dass selbst sieht aus wie ein Restaurant“ , sagte Axsel verzweifelt.

Der krumme Mann sah Axsel und machte, als ob sein Gehstock zu erhöhen. Axsel trat einen Schritt nur für den Fall zurück. bei von wilden Hunde bellten werden und durch Mittel stinkende Wildschwein war eine Sache, funkelte werden, aber durch krumme Männer verprügelt zu werden, war mein Freund Paranoiker zu machen. Allerdings dachte der Mann besser davon und ging zum Studium der unebenen Pflaster zurück, möglicherweise entscheiden, dass dies nicht der richtige Ort für überschüssige Aktivität war. Also noch einmal nur, dass er in der gleichen Richtung nickt.

„ Sieht dich die Kisten mit Obst und Gemüse außerhalb dieses Hauses auf der linken Seite?“ ,Fragte er , ohne den Kopf zu drehen.

Wir nickten.

„ Nun , es ist das Haus neben diesen.“

So er dankt wir ließen ihn schnell seinen krummen Weg bahnen, während wir wieder auf dem Weg zum dritten Mal gewandert. Bei der Ankunft im Reihenhaus mit den Obst- und Gemüsekisten außerhalb wir gestoppt. Die Häuser auf beiden Seiten gab keinen Eindruck, dass es vielleicht in einem Restaurant sein. Beide hatten die üblichen Perlen Fliegengitter an Ort und Stelle mit den Türen öffnen, aber abgesehen davon, dass keine Anzeichen überhaupt. So nach einem Moment des Zögerns wählte ich das auf der linken Seite gebürstet den Vorhang zur Seite und ging in. Axsel gefolgt und fanden wir uns in einem kurzen dim Durchgangsweg laden mit Kisten, Krimskrams. Die Wand auf der rechten Seite hatte verschiedene Papiere und Bilder angebracht, die fast unmöglich waren in der Dunkelheit zu lesen.

„ Wer zu Hause?“ , Rief ich und fast sofort die Tür vor uns geöffnet und wir wurden durch eine kurze Runde Dame mit dem hellsten konfrontiert Lächeln , das ich seit langem gesehen hatte.

„ Matilde?“ , Wagte ich.

„ Si Señor“ , nickte sie.

„ Wir möchten , dass essen“ , sagte ich, das Gefühl ziemlich dumm zugleich Vorstellen , welche Art von Empfang würden wir erhalten haben , wenn wir an der Tür eines Privathauses in England und angekündigt geklopft hatten , dass wir hungrig waren.

„ Por supuesto Señores. Natürlich tust du. Komm herein."

Schritt zurück, um uns passieren sie noch breiteren Lächeln wurde. Sie kam nicht auf meine Schulter und sieht sie an mich berechnet, dass, wenn sie ihre Arme ausgestreckt gerade auf beiden Seiten der Abstand zwischen ihren Fingerspitzen zu ihrer Höhe gleich sein würde.

„ Wo möchten Sie sitzen?“ Hier zeigte sie auf einer Treppe , die in den Keller zu verschwinden schien. „Es gibt einen kleinen Speisesaal dort unten.“ Als nächste sie sich darauf richtig. „Dann gibt es mein eigenes Wohnzimmer durch gibt , die bequem ist und dann habe ich ein anderes Zimmer in der Nähe der Küche gerade hier durch.“

Wir warf einen Blick durch diese nächste Tür und sah einen Tisch, der um acht und nahm den größten Teil der Raumfläche Platz würde.

“ Das sieht gut aus ,“ wir beide ohne Zögern zugestimmt.

„ Dann machen Sie es sich bequem. Du musst erschöpft sein nach deiner Reise. Etwas zu trinken vielleicht?“

„ Ich denke , ein paar kalten Bier serviert schön wäre,“ put in Axsel bereits in einem besseren Rahmen des Geistes.

Ein weiteres breites Lächeln und Matilde hastete in die nahe gelegene Küche aus, während wir uns zu Hause an einem Ende des herrlichen langen Holztisch gemacht, dass aussah, als ob es vielleicht von etwas überschüssigem Holz gemacht worden war, die aus den Bau der Arche kam ..

An einer Wand gab es eine große vom Boden bis zur Decke Schrank; einer von denen, mit einer Fülle von Regalen für fast alles und alles. Das hatte mich nur fragen, wie diese kleine Dame geschafft, alles auf dem obersten Regal zu erreichen. Ohne irgendeine Art von Schritten wäre es unmöglich. Zu der Zeit war der Ort, der durchschnittliche Spanier wenig mehr gewesen wäre, dass ein Meter sechzig Höhe gebaut.

Ich erinnere mich gesagt, dass es erscheinen mag, dass die Architekten und Bauherren schien diese Häuser gebaut haben nach ihren persönlichen Launen; ein Schlafzimmer hier, ein Speiseraum gibt und die ungeraden Schrank oder zwei, wenn die Phantasie sie nahm. Allerdings war dies nicht unbedingt wahr. Es war ein wesentlicher Grund für ihre Planung; dass die praktischen Überleben.Alles wurde für den Zweck entwickelt, um die Kulturen der Erhaltung im Laufe der Jahreszeiten fortgeschritten, so dass Essen das ganze Jahr über zur Verfügung stand. Kürbisse, Kartoffeln und Äpfel zusammen mit Mais und Bündel von Rosmarin, Thymian, Salbei und viele andere Artikel genossen die Balkone an der Spitze des Hauses, wo sie einen konstanten Luftstrom empfangen.

Dieses besondere Haus hatte eine Atmosphäre, die ein Gefühl in beiden Axsel und selbst erzeugt wird, dass wir in der Zeit zurück mindestens 100 Jahre getreten waren. Es war für wohlige Wärme über den Platz und es bedurfte wenig Phantasie ganze Familien zu visualisieren mit allen Mitgliedern von Großeltern zu Enkelkinder dort leben. alle Ecken, Ritzen und hidey Löcher: Es gibt sogar zu meiner Vorstellung von "Crooked House Anforderungen gemessen werden. Ohne Zweifel ist ich sicher, dass Vorbesitzer erfahrene schwierige Zeiten hatte, vor allem in dieser wilden Region und vor allem während des Bürgerkrieges. Doch im Gegensatz zu einigen alten Wohnungen, die ein Gefühl von Traurigkeit und allgemeiner Katastrophe vermitteln, war die Casa Matilde ganz im Gegenteil. Es war eine Freude, dort zu sein.

*

Matilde kehrte mit zwei Flaschen eiskalten Bier, eine Papiertischdecke und einer Handvoll Messer und Gabeln. Sie begann den Tisch zur gleichen Zeit organisieren uns fragen, was wir essen möchten.

Axsel nahm einen deftigen Schluck Bier und sagte: „Es spielt keine Rolle nur bringen, was Sie wollen.“ Ich in voller Übereinstimmung nickte.

Und so begann es.

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.

Auf der Rückfahrt nach Cantavieja, dass wir am späten Nachmittag an einem der ‚Miradores‘ oder sight seeing Punkte, die Blicke auf dem langen Tal in Richtung Mirambel gestoppt. Um uns herum war ein reicher wilder Teppich aus Bergen und Tälern in diesem schwachen goldenen Glanz der Dämmerung getaucht, dass der vorangeht der Finsternis kommen und scheinbar dreht sie alles in eine unwirkliche Dimension, das Gefühl zu erwecken, dass wir nicht wirklich ein Teil der Einstellung waren, nur Voyeure aus einer anderen Welt. Ich stand da fühlte ich einen fast unmerklichen Lufthauch Bürste leicht über mein Gesicht und hatte das unbehagliche Gefühl, dass wir nicht allein waren. Etwa dreihundert Meter unter dem im Tal konnte ich nur den schlanken Silberfaden des Stroms ausmachen und fast die Ruhe Rascheln der Stimmen hören Geheimnisse miteinander als eine leichte Brise Flüstern spannen in und aus den Birken und Stier rauscht entlang die Banken. Ich blickte auf und der jetzt dunkler werdenden Himmel wurde leider von Adlern beraubte. Dann in diesem Moment hoch oben an der Seite des Berges gegenüber in einer der isolierten ‚Masias‘ ein winziger Fleck von hellem Licht flackerte auf und ab mehrmals, bevor er sich ein stetiger beruhigend Leuchtfeuer werden nach unten. Fast sofort andere folgten Suite und ich dachte an anderer ‚Masias‘, die waren noch nicht mit Netzstrom gesegnet. Sie würden ihre Öllampen und Kerzen werden Beleuchtung und hoffentlich einen warmen Herd zu genießen. Hinter jedem dieser Lichtpunkte gab es eine Familie, der menschlichen Tätigkeit, jeder eine kleine Welt in ihrer Gesamtheit. Es war nicht schwer für mich, die Erleichterung vorstellen, auf diesen kahlen Bergen fühlte Fuß müde Reisende aus nach Einbruch der Dunkelheit zu sehen, endlich, einige Leuchtfeuer der ganz gleich in Form eines Lichts Zuflucht begrüßen, wie klein es um ihre Augen erschienen. Es war, als dass ich irgendwo in Erinnerung zu lesen, in dem, was ein anderes Leben lang schien, dass jemand einmal gesagt, dass es nicht genügend Dunkelheit in der ganzen Welt war, die das Licht von selbst eine kleinen Kerze löscht konnte. Jetzt gibt es zum Nachdenken. in dem, was schien einmal ein anderes Leben lang, dass jemand sagte, dass es nicht genug, um die Dunkelheit in der ganzen Welt war, die das Licht von selbst eine kleinen Kerze löscht konnte. Jetzt gibt es zum Nachdenken.in dem, was schien einmal ein anderes Leben lang, dass jemand sagte, dass es nicht genug, um die Dunkelheit in der ganzen Welt war, die das Licht von selbst eine kleinen Kerze löscht konnte. Jetzt gibt es zum Nachdenken.

Später, während unter den Vortagen des ‚Atico‘ bequem in meinem Bett liegt, wusste ich, dass das, was diese bezaubernde Region in Zukunft ereilte es immer irgendwo wäre für mich nach Haus zu kommen. Dann Momente, bevor ich zu einem tiefen Schlaf übergeben, die mit einem Tag kommt gut angelegtes, fühlte ich mich in einem herrlich warmen Mantel der Selbstgefälligkeit hüllt und wusste, dass in aller Ehrlichkeit konnte ich sagen, dass hier war ich glücklich. Es war auch in den wenigen kurzen Sekunden, die ich mir versprochen, dass ich dieses kostbare Geheimnis für mich behalten würde und kein Wort zu jemandem anderem über sie atmen. Diese, am Ende geht nur nur um zu beweisen, wie falsch ich manchmal sein könnte.

ANMERKUNGEN ZU DEN ‚MAESTRAZGO‘

Für die Reisenden am Maestrazgo Region entweder mit dem Auto, dem Fahrrad, zu Fuß oder auf andere Weise zu gelangen, ist an sich schon eine faszinierende Erfahrung. Hier existiert eine wenig bekannte Welt, von denen nur wenige Menschen bewusst sind, die nur darauf warten, entdeckt zu werden.

Das Hotel liegt im östlichen Teil der Provinz Teruel, es besteht aus fünfzehn Gemeinden mit einer Gesamtfläche von 1.204 km2 oder etwas weniger als 500 sq. Meilen. Zu einer Zeit in der Vergangenheit war es wohlhabende und aktiv in der Leichtindustrie wie Papierherstellung, Textilproduktion, sowie landwirtschaftliche Arbeit. Jetzt hat der Bereich nur etwa 3.700 Einwohner und gilt als die am dünnsten besiedelten Region in Westeuropa sein.

Die Maestrazgo mit seiner beeindruckenden Gebirgskette, deren schroffen Gipfel bis 6.000 Meter Höhe von bis zu erreichen, ist zwischen Aragon, Valencia und Katalonien werden. Im Nordwesten von Valencia liegt die eigentliche Hauptstadt Arragones eine Stadt Teruel, eine Stadt reich an Architektur zusammen mit vielen der kulturellen Erbes und Bekanntheit in dem spanischen Bürgerkrieg (1936-1938). Dies ist die nächste Stadt, jede Größe, von dem auf der Maestrazgo Region zu beginnen.

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.

Die Maestrazgo verfügt über eine ungeordnete Geschichte und war an der Spitze der großen Kriege beteiligt Spanien. Doch was geformt schließlich die Maestrazgo, wie wir heute wissen, war es die Carlista Erbfolgekriege. Diese Veränderungen kamen im Jahr 1833 auf den Tod von Ferdinand IV etwa ohne irgendwelche seine vier Frauen ihm einen Sohn tragen. Seine Tochter, die später Isabel II zu werden, wurde als seinen Nachfolger benannt mit dem verstorbenen König Frau als Regentin wirkt. Der Königs Bruder, Carlos, nach Anhängern des salischen Gesetzes, dass Frauen nicht Regel erlaubt, einen Widerstand der Leitung von Baron Herves gebildet, die eine Gruppe von Musketieren mobilisiert und die spanische Behörde in den Räten des Bereichs des Maestrazgo gesteuert.

Die Gemeinden der Region widerstanden die ersten Salven der Carlistas aber schließlich nachgegeben, weil der unwirksamen Schutz sie von den liberalen Behörden angeboten. Cantavieja die strategische Position zu der Carlista General Ramón Cabrera führte die Stadt als Hauptstadt der Umgebung zu stärken, die er kontrolliert. Allmählich wird der Rest der Städte waren befestigt und eine sehr wichtige defensive Rolle, bis die liberalen Offensive von 1840 zurück Kontrolle über das Gebiet zu den Liberalen gespielt. Drei Jahrzehnte später Carlist Fahnen fliegen immer wieder die gleichen Orte und Cantavieja wurde wieder die Hauptstadt des Carlist Aufstands. Es war später, dass die Stadt von Valencia im Jahr 1875 nachgegeben.

DIE ARCHITEKTUR

Gotisch. Das Mittelalter links interessante Beispiele Levantinischen Gothic 'Architektur. Für Enthusiasten jedoch ist ein Besuch in der Stadt La Iglesuela del Cid notwendig. Es ist hier, dass Beispiele für solche Architektur existiert, so dass die Besucher für sich selbst die feinen Gebäude sehen, die den Reichtum bestätigen, die in den vergangenen Tagen gab. Sowohl Cantavieja und Castel haben auch schöne Exemplare der gotischen Architektur mit den ehemaligen Prahlerei wunderbaren Beispielen für überdachte Veranden in der Nähe der Kirche und das Rathaus.

Renaissance. Die Paläste des sechzehnten und frühen Jahrzehnten des siebzehnten Jahrhunderts sind Beispiel für das goldene Zeitalter in der zivilen Architektur des Maestrazgo. Es gibt viele Beispiele von Schlössern und Herrenhäuser der Renaissance-Stil Struktur und Einflüsse des neapolitanischen Arragones. Aus dem sechzehnten Jahrhundert der beliebten Designs der Arragones Paläste mit ihren Galerien und dekorativen Traufe begannen in der gesamten Region des Maestrazgo nach dem Stil der italienischen Renaissance zu verbreiten. Normalerweise sind sie dreistöckige Gebäude ohne Hof oder Corral, so an der Hauptfassade konzentriert. Fast alle haben breite Türen mit Pflastersteinen am Eingang zusammen mit Steinbögen, auf denen die Holzkonstruktionen ruhen.

Die meisten haben große und aufwendige Treppen und manchmal eine Kapelle im Gebäude sind, wie die prunkvollen Häuser von Julianes und Castellot in Mirambel. Wahrscheinlich vom Standpunkt der historischen architektonischen Highlights können feine Beispiele in Mirambel (Palast der Aliaga, der Castellot, Barceló und Julianes), in Iglesuela del Cid (Palast der Aliaga und Guijarro) zusammen mit Tronchón (Palast der gefunden werden Marquis de Valdeolivo).

Barocke Sakralarchitektur des XVII und XVIII gut vertreten ist, ein hohes künstlerisches Niveau erreicht. Dies wird durch den Pfarrkirchen gezeigt, in der Regel von großen und schlanken Proportionen. Beispiele hierfür sind in den Kirchen von Fortanete, Mirambel, La Cuba, La Cañada de Benatanduz und Allepuz zu gründen. Doch die Kirche von Cantavieja eine größere Monumentalität durch seine kathedralenartigen Proportionen. Die Glockentürme angebracht unweigerlich an die Kirchen sind Teil der städtischen Landschaft. Es gibt auch eine breite Palette von Kapellen, meist barocken, im Alten Beispiel für beliebte religiöse Gefühle der Menschen. Zwar gibt es verschiedene Arten von Kapellen sind die formal sind diejenigen, die Verehrung der Jungfrau von Loreto gewidmet, in Cantavieja, Villarroya und Fortanete.

Die Masadas, was bedeutet, Befestigungen oder Paläste sind ländliche Gebäude Vertreter der Maestrazgo. Symbolisieren traditionelle Lebensformen sind diese an den harten Lebensbedingungen angepasst Betriebe durch die Umgebung auferlegt zusammen mit den unterschiedlichen politischen Veränderungen im Laufe der Zeit. Das Haus oder Masada in den meisten Fällen ist eine rustikale Domäne von variabler Länge, in dem Haupthaus mit getrennten Räumen für seine Produktionsfunktion und der Abstand zu dem Gehäuse zentriert ist. Enthalten sind in der Regel Scheunen, Nebengebäude, Gehegen, Stallungen oder Yards. Das älteste Masadas Datum aus dem Mittelalter. Der Orden des Tempels zu dieser Zeit gab die Erlaubnis zu leben, was als ‚Masias‘ bekannt war, oder ‚befestigte Gebäude.‘ Diese sind zahlreich in diesem Grenzgebiet. Sie sind an strategischen Standorten befinden ein riesiges Gebiet zu kontrollieren und miteinander zu kommunizieren. Aber die meisten waren zwischen dem XIX und XX Jahrhundert erbaut. Zu dieser Zeit gab es einen starken Bevölkerungsdruck und viele Länder waren geteilt, so dass einige großen Landhäuser in ‚Masicos‘ geteilt wurden oder kleinere Häuser, die Pferche hatten, Scheunen, Weiden, Wald und Ackerland.

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

Einwohnerzahl: 787. Höhe: 774 m. Wie wir angegeben Pascual Madoz (1847), Castellote liegt am Fuß eines Hügels von hohen Felsen, das von Westen nach Osten, in unwegsamem Gelände erstreckt.In der Nähe befinden sich die Ruinen einer alten Burg, vermutlich von den Templern gebaut werden, die in dem letzten dynastischen Krieg zerstört wurden. In der Nähe der Burg liegt die Überreste des Aquädukts typisch für die Region. Das Dorf selbst sitzt in der Mitte und Südhang des Templers Burgruinen senken. Hier ist auch die XIV Jahrhundert gotische Kirche von San Miguel und sicherlich einen Besuch wert ist das malerische Ermita de Llovedor, XVIII-XIX Jahrhundert.

La Cuba

Bevölkerung: 56 Höhe: 882 m. Bereich 6,5 km2. La Cuba ist auf der Seite eines hohen Berges im Westen basiert. Das Rathaus hat mehrere Steinbögen und dekoriert Fensterbänke, mit Blick nach Osten. Die Kirche von San Miguel wurde in 1753. Der Barockbau errichtet es über dem Dorf steht.Außerhalb des Dorfes ist auch die Kapelle von San Cristobal.

Fortanete

Bevölkerung: 208 Höhe: 1353 m. Das Dorf liegt am Fuße eines Hügels in einem weiten Tälern und Wiesen. Der ehemalige Johanniter Fortanete Enklave wird von den hohen Gräsern im Zentrum des Beckens von der Rambla de Mal Burgo, Leiter des Flusses Pitarque, Gebiet das Landschaftsbild prägen und vor allem durch die umfangreichen und gut für Waldkiefern gepflegt. Der Fluss ist jetzt trocken, aber die Anwesenheit von Ulmen und Weiden lassen keinen Zweifel daran, dass es nur unter der Oberfläche liegt.

In der XVI und XVIII Jahrhundert floriert die Wolle Exporte. Dann in den 1950er Jahren zu den 1980er Jahren gab es einen Bevölkerungsrückgang als Menschen in den Städten ziehen.

Es gibt viele architektonisch interessante Gebäude, darunter das Rathaus, die großen bemalten Schilde zeigt. Schließen sind von anderen Gebäuden: die Herzöge von Medinacelli (1587), der Marquis von Villa (XVI), die Dukes (XVI) und der Gauden (XVII) usw. Dann innerhalb der Gemeinde dort die Burg des Cid (XI-XII ist ) zusammen mit mehreren Kapellen.

Iglesuela del Cid

Einwohnerzahl: 501. Höhe: 1227m. Einer der am dichtesten bevölkerten Städte der Maestrazgo welche Angebote ein wahres Fest der architektonischen Variation aus den vielen gut erhaltenen, rund, Trockensteinhütten und Mauern außerhalb der Stadt zu einer Mischung aus edlen Häusern, Kirchen und wie in diesem bezaubernden Lage. Iglesuela del Cid ist berühmt für seine Textilindustrie.

Mirambel

Bevölkerung: 137 Höhe 993 m. Ohne Zweifel eine der gems der Maestrazgo. Die ummauerte mittelalterliche Stadt des ‚Unser Europa‘ Preis vor einigen Jahren für die Wiederherstellung beteiligt ausgezeichnet wurde. Es gibt mehrere ‚Portales‘ oder Gateways für Mirambel Eingabe aber die am besten erhaltenen ist das ‚Portal de las Monjas‘ oder das Gateway Nonne mit seinem Gips Gitterwerk Dekoration. Das eigentliche Rathaus ist ein monumentales, dreistöckige Gebäude mit seinem typischen Kolonnade Markt. Das Gebäude beherbergt das gotische Gefängnis und eine schöne gesetzgebende Kammer. Daneben befindet sich die barocke Pfarrkirche. Höhepunkte sind das gotische Augustinerkloster, das San Roque Kapelle, die ein XVIII Jahrhundert Altarbild zusammen mit einem Taufbecken aus dem XVII Jahrhundert hat.

Die engen Gassen und auf den Plätzen von Mirambel sind wirklich architektonisch harmonisch und der Besucher kommt über kleine Schlösser und Herrenhäuser, wie sie in der Plaza Aliaga auf drei Etagen gebaut

Miravete de la Sierra

Bevölkerung: 12 Höhe 1.218 m. Ohne Zweifel könnte dieses Dorf auch als Inbegriff bezeichnet werden , was die durchschnittliche Person als ein idealen Ort in Betracht ziehen würde , wo es keine Autos, keine Ampeln, keine Menschenmassen und nur ein Gefühl von Frieden. Miravete de la Sierra ist bekannt als 'El pueblo en el que nunca pasa nada' oder 'Das Dorf , in dem nichts passiert'. Es wird gesagt , dass einer der Bewohner nicht einmal eine Uhr erfordert , wie sie die genaue Zeit weiß ,wann ein Nachbar zum Bäcker durch auf dem Weg passiert Brot zu kaufen. Mit engen Gassen, kleine , ruhige Ecken, interessante Architektur und über freundlichen Menschen, dann ist dies der richtige Ort für Ruhe und Frieden.

Pitarque

Bevölkerung: 94 Höhe 1.000 m. Charmantes Dorf am Fuße des Berges Peñarrubia gelegen. Das Dorf ist traditionell für die Landwirtschaft gewidmet, obwohl es heute viele Touristen begrüßt, die die Quelle des Flusses Pitarque und sehen Sie die wunderbare Variation der natürlichen Tierwelt besuchen.

Villaluengo

Bevölkerung: 194. Höhe 1.119 m. Das Dorf verfügt über acht Jahrhunderte Geschichte Anfang im Jahr 1317. Im Jahr 1877 Villaluengo eine Bevölkerung von 1.599 hatte und von 1950 hatte diese schrumpft auf 893. Heute gibt es weniger als 200 Einwohner.

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.

Wie für den Reisenden ist es eine Wahl von vier feinen und recht kleine Hotels preislich von denen alle gern gesehen, wer es in der Nacht oder speisen passieren entscheidet. Alles in allem ein kleines Dorf mit einem großen Herzen.

CHRIS WRIGHT

Geboren in Leicester, vor dem Zweiten Weltkrieg Chris war der einzige Sohn des typisch englischen ‚Bobby‘. Vor dem obligatorischen Wehrdienst gerufen hatte er verschiedene niedere Jobs und spielte Boogie Woogie für die amerikanischen, kanadischen und britische Soldaten in den weniger wünschenswert Pub der Stadt. Als nächstes absolvierte er in der RAF nationalen Dienst drei Jahre nach dem er der Exeter City Polizei in Devon verbunden. Gute Karriereabsichten wurden schnell zu Ende gebracht werden, wenn eine Nacht, während im Dienst, er erhielt einen Anruf befiehlt ihn, das nächste Auto zu stoppen, indem zu passieren, wie es war ein Smash und Grab in einem örtlichen Juwelier gewesen. Ein gut ausgerichtet truncheon an der Windschutzscheibe des Autos abgeschlossen effektiv den Auftrag und erst nachdem das Fahrzeug selbst in denen vor einem lokalen Zeitungskiosken begraben hatte, dass Chris entdeckt, dass es ein Polizeiauto ist; die Diebe zuvor von Minuten vergangen zu haben. Nach einigen Jahren in der Welt des Trainee-Managements mit einem großen Filialisten wurde er dann auf der Vertretung der Arbeit in der pharmazeutischen Industrie angezogen mit Sitz in Surrey und dann dem Midlands. Der Wunsch, eine gewisse Form der Selbstständigkeit zu versuchen, er dann zusammen mit seiner Frau nahm an einem Pub in Northampton begleitet von einem depressiv bassetjagdhund, einem neurotischen Esel, oversexed Hahn und einem Delinquenten Ziege, die alle auf die Zerstörung Absicht schien sein Lebensunterhalt. Es war das Angebot einer Partnerschaft in Spanien, die ihn in diesem Land angezogen. Mit verbrachte verschiedene Ferien dort schien er immer aus dem Weg zu Orten und Dörfer gezogen werden, mit den Menschen vor Ort mischen, genießen ihre Fiestas, Zoll und Essen.Später war er den wenig bekannten Bereich des Maestrazgo zu entdecken, auch als Labirynth of Silence bekannt, mit seinen schroffen Bergen, malerischen Dörfern und alten Geschichte nach England verbunden, wo die Zeit still gestanden hat buchstäblich. Es ist dort, Chris meiste Zeit verbringt, wenn er nicht in seinem Valencia zu Hause ist.