Central Andalusia is a relatively barren, hilly country. Once
Cordoba fell to the Catholics, this was the frontier zone between Christianity
and the last stronghold of Islam in Western Europe, Granada. As a product of
those times, towns and villages were largely built on hill tops and fortified
against the opposing side. This has left a beautiful spectacle for those
driving through, as the roads skirt below white-washed towns with the
obligatory crumbling fort.
Being a bit of a romantic, I had booked to stay in a
guesthouse high above the city centre at the meeting point of the historic Albaicín
district and Sacromonte, home to centuries old picturesque gypsy cave
settlements. This area has no parking and I will spare you the details of shifting
two kids under 20 months old with all their cots and baby paraphernalia from an
out of town multi storey car park, across the whole city, through the narrow
streets of the old town, part the way up a mountain and up to a villa that can
only be reached via a crumbling winding stair. Impractical, but worth it, the
place was amazing.
Solar Montes Clares is a small, Moroccan styled guesthouse.
Everything is inch perfect and relaxed thanks to the endeavours of Antonio, who
runs the place. Best of all are the views. The second I stepped out onto our
balcony I knew all the kerfuffle of getting here was worth it. Slap bang in
front of us was the Alhambra itself, lit up as night fell. Down below the
cliffs which support it, the Albaicín sprawled up from the small river and over
the hill to our right. Below the new city stretched out to the plain, via the
spires of churches and, of course, the cathedral. Each night I sat out on our
balcony reading to this view, accompanied by the complementary vino tinto.
We spent a couple of days dragging the double pram up and
down the encaptivating streets of the Albaicín, peeping into grand churches
that were once mosques, taking time out in small plazas and dropping down into
town to find more great food. The small road which runs between the Albaicín and
the river below the Alhambra was particularly vibrant. Granada is famous for its
eclectic community and this route was lined with artists, artisans and musicians.
Best of all was a large group playing gypsy inspired tunes which infused our eldest and a hundred other people with the jiggles. The place has a real buzz.
At the end of this road, the city flattens out into a series
of wide open squares and a real mixture of building styles. 70’s monstrosities
face off medieval churches. Find the right spot and there is little better than sitting back in a cosy square
with beer, tapas and the passing warmth of February sunshine.
On our penultimate night we marched up to the sunset
panorama in the Albaicín, a perfect place to whet the appetite for the trip up
to the Alhambra the next morning. Situated at a high point before the land
drops into the gulley at the bottom of the Alhambra hill, this vantage point
provides an awesome view. The Sierra Nevada mountains dominate the backdrop. As
they fall rapidly and give way to the flatlands and the city they thrust out
one final arm of elevation. A high ridge jutting out into the populous, with
steep cliffs on three sides. The palaces and castles of the Alhambra cling to
the top of this ridge, peering down at those below. Quite a sight as the sun
dives off the Western horizon in streams of red and orange.
THE ALHAMBRA
I have never met someone who has been to the Alhambra and
not waxed lyrical about its magnificence and beauty. That is probably why you
need to book your ticket way in advance. Fortunately we had had that insight.
Early the next morning, we trekked up the back steps to the plateau at the top
of the ridge with our small one in the Bjorn and our eldest on the shoulders.
When first hearing
about the place I had imagined it would be relatively uniform in terms of style
and date, like the Taj Mahal or Angkor Wat. From the very start of our visit it
was evident that it is instead a hotchpotch of variety, made up of religious
buildings, fortifications and, of course, palaces from a wide range of eras.
This makes sense when you think of the important natural
position of strength that the ridge holds. Like the Acropolis in Athens, it has
proved irresistable as a seat for power for millennia. You therefore have
Visigothic archeological digs, next to Moorish baths, which are in turn just around
the corner from the gordy renaissance palace of Charles V (Charles II from
Spain’s perspective - the most powerful of sixteenth century Europeans).
The Moorish fort is large and stark, with high crenelated
walls rising above the steep sides of the hill. At the further end of the hill
from the mountains, the fortifications jut out into the city imposingly staring
down at the minions. We had loads of fun climbing along the walls and staring
out at the rarefied views from the parapets.
Peering into the Christian extension to the palace, we
quickly moved on to what proved to be the undoubted pinnacle of our whole trip
in Andalusia, the Nasrid Palaces. From the first antechamber, I was taken
aback. Every surface was covered with carvings of exquisite intricacy and
delicacy. Prohibited from recreating Allah’s creation in their work, the craftsman
took the symmetrical, almost hypnotic form of Islamic art to a heightened
level. Out of ideological constraints, human creativity reached new levels.
Passing through one courtyard after another, as no doubt
intended by the creators, the splendour only increased, culminating at the Court
of Lions, perhaps the most superlative piece of fine architecture I have
witnessed. Designed and sculpted to mirror paradise, it comes strikingly close.
A place that has to be seen to be believed. Go there!
Before leaving the Alhambra we had just enough time to
wander up to the summer palace and gardens that adorn the hill above the main
site. This is well worth a visit, providing fantastic views to the palace, city
and plain beyond. To my mind at least, the stump of a centuries old cedar tree
which once shaded the Muslim inhabitants of the Alhambra was a moving link to
the past.
THE RECONQUSITA
It was fitting that our tour of Andalusia should end with
a visit to the cavernous cathedral of Granada and, more specifically the
Capilla Real which is adjoined to it. Here, tellingly, lie the Catholic Kings.
In 1492 Granada fell and with it the 700 hundred year reign of the Moors in the
Iberian peninsula. Ferdinand and Isabella had completed the crusade of the
Reconquista, which forms the foundation stone of the Spanish nation to this
day. In the fateful year of 1492, the world shifted. In
the very same year as the fall of Granada, Columbus discovered the New World under the patronage of those very same royals, Ferdinand and Isabella. Staring at the tombs of husband and wife,
you are in the decayed presence of prime movers. World changers.
With Christian conquest came a decline in science, art,
architecture and tolerance. The Jews joined the Moors in forced exile. The
inquisition followed. No longer would religions co-exist in relative peace and
productivity. Soaking in the treasures and culture of Islamic Spain you can’t
but feel that this was, at least in the medium term, a backward step. Thankfully, history leaves it mark, and the rich vein of influence left by people’s as diverse
as Romans, Visigoths, Moors and Catholics has made this region into the simply
fascinating place that it is today.
AN ALMOST COMIC DEPARTURE
It would be amiss to not share a short summary of our return
to the UK and lacking context not to reiterate that we were travelling with our small boys who are but 20 months and 7 months respectively. As we were packing for departure, BA informed
us by text that, due to an Iberia strike, our flight back to London from Malaga
would be diverted to Gibraltar. Another country, but only a couple of hours
away, no worries. Leaving Granada, the heavens had other ideas. After a couple
of weeks of sunshine, a winter storm made its way in from the Atlantic and culminated
in a non-stop torrential downpour. Pressing on we made it to the Spanish border
with Gibraltar, dropped off the car and carried the family over the border
(carry cots, car sears, suitcases, pram and, of course, kids). The rain
was unrelenting and we were soaked as we passed through passport control with
the weather battered Rock looming ahead.
We had made it. We ran into the terminal and went up to the
desk. “I am sorry to inform you, but due to heavy winds, your plane cannot take
off from Gibraltar”. Apparently Gibraltar has a very short runway and is hence prone to such
things. The latest news was that we would be shipped onto buses and driven a
few hundred KMs to Jerez, where they hoped to find a plane and break the
Iberia strike. Better yet, we were required to still check in at Gibraltar, go through
customs, wait, wait some more, then pick up all the luggage again and traipse
back across the border by foot into Spain. The storm did us no favours and battered us some more. To
their eternal credit, well past their bed time and wired, of the hundred or so
passengers, our little ones were probably the most jovial when we made it on to
the bus to Jerez.
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