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La Mancha
Rather than get to Toledo as fast as we could, wandering some of La Mancha’s country roads seemed more fitting. We left Mérida late morning, swinging through the roundabouts as we exited town. Heading uphill the cloudless, cobalt blue sky beckoned us on. “Cobalt blue” is dangerously close to a cliché. Especially if you don’t know what color cobalt is. And if you don’t, the sky that morning was a really deep blue. The kind that invariably made your mother say, ‘why don’t you go outside and play?’
After a short stretch of motorway, we scooted off for points east. The landscape was as flat as linoleum. Given over to farming centuries ago, there wasn’t a tree in sight. No windbreaks, nothing to interrupt the view for miles around. Except, that is, for a few hills that might generously be called mountains. Imagine a fifth-grade geography project rendered on a solid piece of cardboard. Then imagine a few papier maché impressions of hills scattered around, all painted a dull brown. A brown blended from poster yellow, red and black.
Alternatively, think South Dakota in April or October. An endless sky with a few clouds to the north glaring down on a dry, antediluvian plain. It’s an ancient vista, rounded, cultivated and tamed. Not new like the Caribbean. For some reason I found it comforting. Cozy in its vast, yet limited reach.
A brown sign, the tourist’s silent guide, pointed towards a castle. With no agenda we followed it. Just a few hundred meters off our unbeaten track things became downright rustic. The road narrowed to a single paved path and led us to a lifeless village. All the visibly arable land was either waiting for spring or lay fallow. The Guadiana river and its various bridges broke up the monotony. Arriving at the last sign, we turned and crossed a long medieval bridge into Medellín. An Arab castle on top of a lump of rock centered everything, while banners and posters assured us that in the right season reenactments and celebrations of all sorts are on offer. This was not the right season.
Pressing on, the wind picked up and heavy clouds bore down on us. The road became more interesting, twisting and turning along the river’s meandering way. Atop the hills we found expansive views in all directions. Snow lay in mounds along the roadside and brightened the ridgeline, now caught in an undulating maw of grey mist. At one point we drove along a needle-straight berm that cut through a dried-up lakebed. Surrounded by hills and in its own way beautifully raw, the lake would probably be mosquito hell once the weather warmed up. A fine drizzle forced me to turn on the windshield wipers. Our beautiful day had turned dull and wet.
Holy Toledo
An hour south of Madrid, Toledo is a tourist’s must-do excursion. Toledo is a bigger version of the typical Spanish town. Its old section sits high above the Tagus river as it slips through a ravine on the southern edge of the city. Buildings tumble together to the very edge of the cliffs and sheer walls drop straight down to the river’s edge. Toledo’s history follows the Roman – Arab – Christian arc, but with a sizeable Jewish quarter. A great cathedral along with a lively university dominate the city center.
Parking in the old section is impossible, but there is plenty of free parking just outside. Luis, our host, went above and beyond and met us at the car park. Dropping us at his AirBnB’d flat, we were happy to find plenty of heating and a grocery store nearby.
Toledo was another stop on Carol and Tai’s itinerary five years ago, so we struck out in the cold and damp for sites unseen (by me). Our timing for dinner was still off. We’re usually ready to eat by around 19:30, but restaurants rarely start serving before 20:30. Even then it takes a while for the ovens to warm up. Furthermore, Sundays and Mondays are often closing days to make up for working Friday and Saturday nights. We made do with some snacks and a game of cribbage back in our room.
After breakfast we walked through the city and out the main gate and headed downhill towards the east. At the river we turned right and found a path that led us to the old Roman bridge on the city’s southwest corner. Heading back towards the flat was a straight uphill climb. We thought briefly about trying out the zipline, but decided it was much too cold for such folly.
Manacles hanging off the Monastery of San Juan de los Reyes made us pause and catch our breath. The façade seemed an unlikely place for hanging heretics by their arms. Consulting our digital docents, the manacles originally held Christian captives during the 15th century sieges of Málaga and Almería (result: Reconquistas 2: Emirate of Granada: 0). On the Queen’s instructions, the manacles were sent to Toledo to be displayed as supplicatory offerings to God and remembrance of the war.
Having worked up an appetite with a six-mile walk, we pushed the boat out over a late lunch at the Taberna Embrujo. Carol ordered a salad the size of California as an appetizer. She followed that up with an impeccably prepared and delicious cod gratin. I ordered braised wild mushrooms followed by venison stew, which after a little further warming was excellent. The waiter recommended a very nice local wine. And, just because, we shared tiramisu and espresso for dessert. Our bill was less than the cost of cocktails in LaGuardia Airport. We felt satisfied and a little smug.
One Million Years B.C.
The next morning, we turned our little car west and headed towards Alicante. The landscape was all plains for the first couple of hours. Eventually, we left the motorway and headed down sideroads in search of Jorquera and our hotel.
I had Googled ‘Spain’s Grand Canyon’ and found a recent review of the Júcar region from the Guardian newspaper. The article mentioned Xuq, a boutique hotel with rooms hewn out of the cliffside. Xuq’s owners had bought a clutch of aging cliff houses and renovated them.
We headed back, way back, back into time. When the only people that existed were troglodytes. Cave men! Cave women! (see ref – ed.) Decorated in neo-troglodyte/hipster couture, each cave has LED lighting and snug kitchenettes. To the right of the narrow living room, up a few stairs, lay our bedroom. Its rocky ceiling stood less than five feet from the floor. Not for the first time in my life, I literally crawled into bed.
Outside on the little sun trap of a patio was a generous soaking tub, sadly full of cold water. As warm as it was, the minute the sun dipped below the canyon top the temperature plummeted. Fortunately, our wood stove came well stocked with logs and lighter fuel. We soon had a fire intense enough to meet with my brother’s approval.
Exploring the local area in search of food, we found the area surrounded by vineyards and boutique wineries. Mis-timing our arrival, the vineyards were closed for tasting. But a local grocery store stocked several different four-star wines. Each selling for less than 10 euro.
Alcalá de Júcar clings to a finger-like cliff high above the river. The main road comes down the hill from the north. From the south, there is a narrow path along the river just wide enough for two cars to pass. Barren trees and bright sun allowed us a good view of the canyon’s walls. The river seemed almost dry. Until, that is, we reached a handsome bridge spanning a series of weirs at the south end of the town. The weirs forged the valley’s laconic rivulets into a stream.
Abandoning the car, helpful directional arrows painted on the streets zig-zagged us uphill to the castle. Restored in the 1970s, the Arabic castle probably originated in the 11th century. Climbing the last fifty feet to the battlements rewards your efforts with wonderful views of the town. Behind you, the canyon winds away to the south. One of the stranger sights is the little bird’s nest-like bullring. Romans may have built the original amphitheater, but the town somehow keeps the curious mud and brick structure standing.
Over a delicious lunch at El Mirador restaurant, we had a terrific view looking down from the canyon’s edge. Alcalá de Júcar is a pretty place, and all the better for its lack of notoriety.
Just like that our little tour was over and we headed back along the motorways to Cartagena, about three hours south.
