The Vision of Heaven in Salamanca’s Old Cathedral

Christ in Majesty surrounded by angels and saints, with the sun and moon as witnesses. Fresco from the Chapel of St. Martin, Old Cathedral of Salamanca (c. 1300), painted by Antón Sánchez de Segovia.

Step into the Chapel of St. Martin in Salamanca’s Old Cathedral and you are immediately surrounded by one of the most breathtaking fresco cycles in medieval Spain. Painted around the year 1300, these walls are alive with fiery color, gold halos, and a vision of eternity that once spoke directly to the faithful of the city.

At the center of the great composition is Christ in Majesty, seated within a glowing mandorla — the almond-shaped frame of divine light. His hand is raised in blessing, his other resting on the Book of Life. Around him swirl ranks of angels, their faces turned toward the Judge of all creation. Even the cosmos bears witness: the sun and the moon appear with human faces, as if stunned by the unfolding vision.

On either side, processions of saints advance toward the throne, holding crosses and palm branches, their names once carefully inscribed above them. They are not remote figures but companions, examples of courage and faith who join the celestial chorus. Above, more angels surge like flames in worship, a reminder that the entire heavenly court is gathered here.

This fresco is more than decoration; it is theology in color. In an age when few could read, images like this made the mysteries of salvation visible. Standing before it, a medieval worshipper would feel both awe and urgency — the promise of paradise and the warning of judgment. Even today, its intensity is impossible to ignore.

The Chapel of St. Martin, built as the burial place of Bishop Martín Alfonso, became a stage for this dazzling vision. The painter Antón Sánchez de Segovia, working at the transition between Romanesque solemnity and Gothic elegance, gave Salamanca one of its most enduring treasures. The figures remain stylized yet animated, the flames vibrate with energy, and Christ radiates a serene authority that bridges heaven and earth.

To gaze at this fresco is to stand where countless believers once stood, confronted with the ultimate questions of time and eternity. It is art not just to be admired, but to be experienced.

Further Reading

• Peter Klein, Romanesque and Gothic Wall Paintings in Spain

• Gerhard Schmidt, The Last Judgment in Medieval Art

When Vikings Came to Galicia (Spain)

Pages from Historia do movemento obreiro galego (in Galician) by Reimundo Patiño depicting the Viking attack on Burela and the miraculous prayers of Abbot Rosendo. (Seen in the museum next to San Martín de Mondoñedo, along the Camino Natural de San Rosendo.)

In the quiet hills of northern Galicia, far from today’s roaring highways, legends still echo of fire and salt water. Around the 10th century, Viking fleets probed the Galician coast, their dragon-headed ships a terror to fishing villages and monasteries alike. One of the most dramatic tales unfolds at Burela, where the monks watched in fear as the invaders closed in.

Here the figure of San Rosendo, abbot and later bishop, takes center stage. The story tells how, while others despaired, Rosendo fell to his knees in prayer. Each prayer, says the legend, sent another Viking ship to the bottom of the sea. For the people of Galicia, this was not just a miracle but a sign that faith and courage could turn the tide against overwhelming force.

We encountered this legend in a striking form: as pages from a comic book by Galician artist Reimundo Patiño. Patiño’s black-and-white panels roar with energy. His Vikings crash ashore like a nightmare, the monks cry out in terror, and Rosendo raises his arms as ships sink with a thunderous “BROUM.” It is history reimagined through popular art: a medieval miracle retold with the raw power of 20th-century graphic expression.

In Burela and its surroundings, the past is never just quiet stone—it is still alive, sometimes in the boldest of images.

Further Reading

• Ann Christys, Vikings in the South: Voyages to Iberia and the Mediterranean (Bloomsbury, 2015) – overview of Viking raids beyond northern Europe, including Galicia.

• Xosé Ramón Barreiro Fernández, Las incursiones normandas en Galicia (Santiago de Compostela, 1974) – classic study on Viking attacks along the Galician coast.

• Inés Monteira Arias, Os viquingos en Galicia (Edicións Xerais, 2007) – an accessible Galician-language introduction to the subject.

• Simon Coupland, “The Vikings in Francia and Iberia” in The Viking World (Routledge, 2008) – places the Galician experience in a broader European context.

The Cathedral of Oviedo (Spain)

The Cathedral of Oviedo (Spain).

Rising above the narrow streets of Oviedo, the Catedral de San Salvador looks less like a fortress and more like a jewel box of stone. Its flamboyant Gothic spire, soaring high above the Asturian capital, is the kind of landmark medieval pilgrims once spotted from miles away, their hearts quickening at the sight.

The cathedral’s story begins much earlier than its Gothic face suggests. Beneath the arches and chapels lies the legacy of King Alfonso II, who in the 9th century made Oviedo the royal seat of Asturias and built the first church here. His sanctuary became the repository of priceless relics—the Holy Shroud, the Cross of the Angels, the Cross of Victory—that gave the cathedral a reputation rivaling even Santiago de Compostela. For medieval pilgrims, the saying was clear: “He who goes to Santiago without visiting San Salvador, visits the servant but misses the Lord.”

Walking inside today, you still feel the weight of that devotion. The Cámara Santa, a UNESCO World Heritage site, glows with golden reliquaries. The cloisters open onto quiet stone corridors where bishops and kings once plotted history. And high above, the stained glass paints the floor with shards of color as if time itself had slowed.

The Cathedral of Oviedo is not just a monument; it is a reminder that faith, art, and politics once intertwined so tightly that they left behind a treasure for centuries to marvel at.

Further Reading

• Peter Linehan, History and the Historians of Medieval Spain (Oxford University Press, 1993)

• James D’Emilio, The Royal Patronage of Oviedo Cathedral in the Early Middle Ages (Speculum, 1995)

The interior of the Cathedral of Oviedo (Spain).

Pelagius of Asturias and the Battle of Covadonga

Pelayo, Covadonga (Spain).

In the rugged mountains of northern Spain, history and legend blur. Around the year 718—or perhaps 722—a local nobleman named Pelagius (or Pelayo) led a small band of followers into defiance against the new Muslim rulers of Iberia. The clash that followed, known as the Battle of Covadonga, has been told as a miracle of divine favor, the moment when Christian Spain was reborn.

But peel back the layers of myth, and a different picture appears. Asturias and Cantabria had long been peripheral, half-forgotten corners of empires. Roman and Visigothic kings had only a loose grip here; local elites ruled their valleys much as they pleased. When the Muslims swept north after 711, many of these elites struck pragmatic deals. Tribute was paid, land was kept. Yet Pelagius refused.

Was he a Visigothic aristocrat in exile, or a homegrown Asturian landowner defending his family’s rights? Sources disagree. Arab chroniclers dismiss him as the leader of a few dozen mountain rebels, hardly worth a campaign. Asturian monks, writing a century later, cast him as a new Judas Maccabeus, chosen by God to save His people. They claimed he defeated 187,000 soldiers with divine help—a biblical epic more than a battlefield report.

The truth is likely somewhere in between: a small mountain skirmish where knowledge of the terrain outweighed numbers. Yet from this modest spark a principality was born. Protected by poverty, geography, and indifference from Córdoba, Asturias endured. Pelagius never styled himself king—his title was princeps, “first among equals”—but his dynasty laid foundations that others would later call the start of the Reconquista.

Covadonga became less about what happened on the ground and more about what it meant. For Alfonso III in the 9th century, it was proof of divine favor and dynastic legitimacy. For later Spanish nationalists, it was the first trumpet call of liberation. For us, it is a reminder of how small acts of defiance, amplified by story, can shape the memory of nations.

Further Reading

• Roger Collins, The Arab Conquest of Spain, 710–797 (Blackwell, 1989)

• Kenneth Baxter Wolf, Conquerors and Chroniclers of Early Medieval Spain (Liverpool University Press, 1999)

• Richard Fletcher, Moorish Spain (University of California Press, 1992)

• Joseph F. O’Callaghan, A History of Medieval Spain (Cornell University Press, 1975)

• David A. Wacks, Medieval Iberian Epic: A Reading of the Poem of Fernán González (Bucknell University Press, 2007)

Convivencia

Image from Cantigas de Santa Maria of European and Islamic musicians in 13th century playing stringed instruments. Canticle n°120. 13th century. Madrid, San Lorenzo de El Escorial library.

In the heart of shared existence, where souls entwine,
A tapestry of life, woven in a rhythm divine.
Convivencia, the dance of diversity's embrace,
A symphony of cultures, a harmonious grace.

Underneath the azure sky, a unity unfolds,
Colors blend like stories, in scripts yet untold.
Hand in hand, we stride through the market of time,
In the town square of convivencia, a paradigm.

Faces painted by the strokes of varied suns,
Languages intertwining, like melodies that run.
Bridges of understanding, spanning wide,
In the realm of togetherness, side by side.

Oh, convivencia, where differences reside,
Yet in shared humanity, we find our guide.
A feast of perspectives, a banquet of delight,
In the mosaic of coexistence, we take flight.

Through the labyrinth of traditions, we roam,
Weaving tales of acceptance, turning each page to foam.
No barricades of bias, no walls of disdain,
In the garden of convivencia, all flowers gain.

From the fragrant spice bazaars to the mosque's call,
In the cathedral's echo, and the temple's thrall.
We gather as one, in the courtyard of the heart,
Bound by the threads of convivencia, a work of art.

Let tolerance be the ink that scripts our fate,
As we dance on the tightrope of love, not hate.
In the grand celebration of shared existence,
Convivencia, our anthem, our resplendent insistence.

The Goodyear Altarpiece – An English Gift to Santiago de Compostela

Two panels from the Goodyear Altarpiece (c. 1456, Nottingham workshops; now in the museum of the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral).
Left: The Calling of Saint James and John, shown in their fishing boat on the Sea of Galilee as Christ summons them to follow him. Right: The Martyrdom of Saint James, depicted kneeling before his executioner, while disciples plead for his body before King Herod. Both alabaster reliefs retain their original polychromy in vivid reds, blues, and golds.

On May 25, 1456, the records of Santiago de Compostela Cathedral note the appearance of an English pilgrim-priest: John Goodyear, rector of Chale on the Isle of Wight. At the high altar he offered a retable of wood, its alabaster figures painted in gold and blue, narrating the life of Saint James. The gift came not only as a personal act of devotion but as part of a much wider story: the surge of European pilgrimage in the fifteenth century, when Compostela was drawing tens of thousands of pilgrims from across the continent.

Goodyear’s offering was both precious and practical. Alabaster altarpieces from the Nottingham workshops were highly sought after across Europe. Lighter and easier to carve than marble, they could be shipped from English ports to Galicia or Portugal, where pilgrim traffic was at its height. For churches with modest means, or for private chapels, they provided affordable yet richly decorated devotional art.

The priest, however, knew the risks of such treasures disappearing. He made his donation conditional: the altarpiece could not be sold, pawned, or removed to another shrine, and it must always remain “within the body of the church.” The cathedral canons accepted these terms, and the work entered the treasury, later passing to the relics chapel and eventually to the museum.

Almost six centuries on, the Goodyear Altarpiece still survives. Its five panels—depicting the calling, mission, preaching, martyrdom, and translation of Saint James—embody both the artistry of medieval England and the deep ties that pilgrimage created across Christendom.

Burgos' Dancing Giants: The Gigantillos

The Gigantillos of Burgos.

Close to Plaza de España you’ll meet them mid-step: a bronze couple frozen in a festival beat. The man—wide-brimmed hat, long brown cape, staff of office—leans forward as if to lead. The woman—headscarf, earrings, skirt swirling—answers with a half-bow that might become a spin. This is Los Gigantillos, the city’s beloved “little giants,” cast in bronze by Teodoro Antonio Ruiz and set beside the Church of San Lesmes in 2010.

They don’t just decorate a sidewalk; they guard a story. The Gigantillos are the human-scale cousins of Spain’s towering festival giants. In Burgos they come alive to the sharp call of the dulzaina and the heartbeat of the drum, dancing through Corpus Christi, Curpillos, San Lesmes, and the feast of Saints Peter and Paul. Where they pass, children copy their steps, grandparents clap in time, and the street remembers its own choreography.

The tradition is older than the pavement beneath your feet. Versions of these figures paraded here as early as the sixteenth century; in 1899 the modern pair took shape. A disastrous fire in 1973 forced the city to start again—proof that folklore isn’t fragile when a community chooses to carry it. The bronze couple arrived in our century to mark the centenary of the local savings bank, anchoring the living dance in metal so you can meet them even out of season.

Look closely and you’ll see the city inscribed in details: the mayoral staff in his hand, a civic symbol disguised as stage prop; the cape catching imaginary wind; the tilt of her shoulders that suggests music you can’t quite hear. Take a photo if you like, but better—stand a minute. Imagine the dulzaina cutting the morning air, the drum finding your ribs, and the Gigantillos stepping forward, as they always have, to lead Burgos into its next celebration.

Mores and Christians Festival in Bocairent (Spain)

Early in February, Bocairent bursts at the seams in honour of its patron saint, San Blas (Sant Blai). For six vivid days, fireworks crackle, pasodobles and comparsa music swell, parades roll, processions wind, and gunpowder booms through the streets. Everyone with a tie to Bocairent comes home—students, emigrants, cousins, the old guilds and new cofradías—crowding balconies, drumming in doorways, marching beside standards stitched by their mothers. At the castle, captains parley and boast before the mock assault, the old rivalry reborn in pageantry. By night, lanterns and drums fold the town into a pulsing heart; by day, Sant Blai crosses streets. Half theatre, half memory—history retold on foot to the rhythm of trumpets and gunfire—leaving your ears ringing.

More on Bocairent

The great Iberian Ibex

The mounted head of an Iberian Ibex at the ‘Centro de Visitantes Torre del Vinagre’ (Parque Natural de las Sierras de Cazorla, Segura y Las Villas, Spain).

Upon the cliffs, the ibex stands,
With hooves that dance on rugged lands.
Its horns, a crown, both strong and high,
Pierce the edge of earth and sky.

Through windswept peaks, in morning light,
It leaps with grace, a fearless flight.
Majestic, wild, and bold it roams,
The mountain’s king, the heights its home.

Saint Lucia of Syracuse

The statue of Saint Lucia of Syracuse, Catedral Vieja de Salamanca (Spain)

Saint Lucia, born in Syracuse, Sicily, during the 3rd century, led a life devoted to Christianity. Legend has it that she promised her life to God, vowing chastity and service. Despite persecution by Diocletian, she remained steadfast, even surviving attempts to martyr her. One tale recounts her clandestine visits to Christians in prison, bringing them food and light. She wore a wreath of candles to illuminate her path, symbolizing hope in dark times.

The plate with two eyes, a curious detail, is often attributed to her own actions. In one of the stories, Lucia plucked out her eyes to deter a persistent suitor who admired them. Miraculously, her sight was restored by divine intervention, leaving her with a plate depicting her eyes as a reminder of her unwavering faith and miraculous healing.

Today, Saint Lucia is celebrated on December 13th, embodying the virtues of courage, compassion, and the triumph of light over darkness.

The Tombstone of Sentia Amarantis (Mérida, Spain)

Funerary stele of Sentia Amarantis, a freedwoman shown drawing wine from a barrel—likely her daily work. Dedicated by her husband, Sentius Victor, after 17 years of marriage. 2nd–3rd century CE, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Mérida. Catalogue no. MNAR 676.

In the Roman city of Emerita Augusta—modern-day Mérida, Spain—archaeologists uncovered a remarkable tombstone. At first glance, it’s a simple funerary relief. But on closer inspection, it tells a vivid, personal story: not just of death, but of life.

Carved into the stone is the figure of a woman. Her body twists slightly as she reaches for a jug with one hand, while with the other she opens the spigot of a small barrel resting on a stand. She wears a tunic pulled tight at the waist and her hair is neatly tied up. This is Sentia Amarantis, a freedwoman whose daily work—perhaps running a modest tavern—is proudly shown beside her name.

The inscription, in slightly cursive Latin, tells us:
“To the spirits of the dead. For Sentia Amarantis, aged 45. Her husband, Sentius Victor, made this for his most beloved wife. They were married for 17 years.”

The upper part of the tombstone is shaped like a small marble temple, with curved ornaments and a semicircular pediment—clearly inspired by elite monuments, but rendered in a more modest, popular style. Scholars believe this adaptation reflects both the aspirations and the economic limitations of the couple—likely former slaves.

This gravestone doesn’t show a goddess or a myth. It shows a working woman, mid-action, remembered not through abstract virtues but through the gestures of her trade. The small barrel and jug, so carefully carved, speak of labor, routine, and care.

It is a quiet but powerful monument to everyday love, work, and dignity in the Roman world.

The Gravestone of Lutatia Lupata

Gravestone of Lutatia Lupata, a 16-year-old girl shown playing a stringed instrument. Erected by her nurse, Lutatia Severa, in a gesture of deep affection. Late 2nd century CE, Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Mérida. Catalogue no. MNAR 6033.

Deep in the Roman city of Emerita Augusta (modern-day Mérida, Spain), archaeologists uncovered a small but touching monument: the gravestone of a girl named Lutatia Lupata, who died at just 16 years old. Her tombstone, carved around the late 2nd century CE, shows her not in mourning or death—but in music.

In a shallow niche framed by a miniature temple (edicula), Lutatia is depicted standing frontally, dressed in a tunic, her hands gently playing a stringed instrument—possibly a pandurium, a kind of Roman lute. It’s a rare and vivid portrait of youthful grace and everyday joy.

The inscription below reads:
"To the spirits of the dead. Lutatia Lupata, aged 16. This was made by her nurse, Lutatia Severa, who raised her. May the earth rest lightly upon you."

This wasn’t a monument commissioned by parents or a wealthy family—it was made by her nurse, who likely raised her from infancy. The word alumna tells us Lutatia may not have been a daughter by blood, but she was certainly a daughter by love.

Her grave marker—simple, intimate, and quietly joyful—reminds us that grief in the Roman world, like today, was deeply personal. Lutatia’s music may be long silenced, but her memory still plays on, carved in stone.

Lampa, the Mystery Girl of Roman Mérida (Spain)

Marble relief of a naked female figure with the inscription “LAMPA” above her head. Found in Augusta Emerita (modern Mérida), 2nd–3rd century CE. Museo Nacional de Arte Romano, Mérida.

In a quiet gallery of the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano in Mérida, a small marble plaque draws the eye. A young naked female is carved into its surface, her posture elegant and reserved—one hand resting over her chest, the other hanging by her side. Modest in size and style, the relief seems classical, serene. But look closer, and the story deepens.

Above her head, in Greek letters, is a single word: LAMPA. Next to it, also in Greek, her age: thirteen.

From the start, scholars noted that the use of Greek—and the very young age—might suggest that this figure was not a goddess or an elite Roman matron, but a foreign girl. Some early interpretations proposed she was commemorated in death. But newer readings have shifted the focus.

The plaque was found in the necropolis of Augusta Emerita, reused in a later burial. Yet its original purpose may have been something else entirely. Her hairstyle matches that of Faustina the Elder, dating the image to the mid-2nd century CE. Her pose—nude, decorative, and non-mythological—aligns with known depictions of women linked to the world of Roman brothels, or lupanars.

The theory now gaining ground is that this relief once adorned the façade of a brothel, and that Lampa, whether her real name or not, represents one of the many young, likely enslaved, girls who worked within. The Greek language reinforces this possibility, as Greek was often used for names of non-citizens and enslaved people in Roman Hispania.

Whether Lampa was a specific girl or a symbolic name advertising youth and availability, the effect is haunting. She may have been only thirteen—an age etched into stone, but robbed of voice, context, and choice.

Today, she stands silent in marble. Not a goddess. Not a noblewoman. But a girl, remembered not through love or honor, but through commerce and objectification. A body preserved. A childhood lost.

Saints Cosmas and Damian

Saints Cosmas and Damian, Church of Saint Peter in Teruel (Spain).

Saints Cosmas and Damian were twin brothers who lived in the 3rd century AD and are revered as martyrs. Born in Cilicia, a region on the southeastern coast of Asia Minor, they worked as physicians in the port city of Aegea (now Ayas, Turkey). Known for providing free medical services, they were called Anargyroi (Greek for “the silverless”) due to their refusal to accept payment. Their charity is believed to have led to many conversions to Christianity. The brothers are credited with several miracles, including a legendary leg transplant in which they replaced a man’s lost leg with that of a deceased Moor.

Under Emperor Diocletian's persecution of Christians, they were arrested, tortured, and eventually beheaded for their faith. Veneration of Cosmas and Damian began soon after their deaths, with churches dedicated to them appearing in Jerusalem, Egypt, and Mesopotamia. In 527, Pope Felix III converted the Temple of Romulus in Rome into a basilica in their honor. Their skulls are kept in the Clarisses convent in Madrid, though other relics exist in cities like Munich, Vienna, and Venice.

Cosmas and Damian are patron saints of doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and the sick, as well as barbers and confectioners. Their feast day is celebrated on September 26. They are also invoked for protection against seasickness, inflammation, and plague. In Dutch history, two major floods, known as the Cosmas and Damian Floods, occurred on their feast day in 1477 and 1509, causing significant damage to Zeeland and Flanders.

Gold, Gods, and the Sea: The Story of the Phoenicians in Spain

Phoenician-style gold necklace from Tomb 18, Les Casetes necropolis, Villajoyosa (Alicante), Spain. — This ceremonial necklace, dating to the late 7th–6th century BCE, is composed of 38 elements including gold discs, cylindrical beads, glass inlays, and granulated spacers. (Image: adapted version of an image by the Vilamuseu, Villajoyosa.)

Long before the Romans marched into Iberia, and even before the Greeks set sail for the western Mediterranean, there came a people from across the sea. They were not conquerors, but sailors. Not empire-builders, but merchants and craftsmen. These were the Phoenicians — ancient seafarers from the eastern Mediterranean — who arrived on the shores of Spain over 2,800 years ago, and left behind treasures, stories, and mysteries that still stir the imagination today.

Who Were the Phoenicians?

The Phoenicians came from a narrow strip of coastline in what is now Lebanon and coastal Syria. Their cities — Tyre, Sidon, Byblos — were small but fiercely independent, and known across the Mediterranean for their maritime skills, purple dye, and fine goods. The Greeks called them phoinikes, or "purple people", for the deep purple dye they produced from murex sea snails — a luxury color fit for kings.

But the Phoenicians were much more than traders. They were cultural transmitters. From the 9th century BCE onward, they sailed westward, not to conquer, but to connect. They brought with them ideas, scripts, technologies, and beliefs — and they left behind colonies, trading posts, and cemeteries that now tell us their story.

Phoenicians in Iberia

By the 8th century BCE, Phoenician ships were reaching the southern and eastern coasts of the Iberian Peninsula. They founded settlements like Gadir (modern Cádiz) — one of the oldest cities in Western Europe — and Malaka (Málaga). From there, they moved up the coast, establishing outposts, trading with local Iberian tribes, and spreading their influence as far north as Villajoyosa on the coast of present-day Alicante.

What did they trade? Metals, above all. Spain was rich in copper, silver, and tin — highly sought after in the ancient world. In return, the Phoenicians brought luxury goods: fine textiles, ivory combs, glass beads, perfumes, and gold jewelry. But they also brought religious symbols, writing systems, and artistic techniques that profoundly shaped local cultures.

A Cemetery by the Sea: Les Casetes

One of the most revealing places where this Phoenician-Iberian connection comes to life is the necropolis of Les Casetes, just inland from the coast of Villajoyosa. Used between the late 7th and 6th centuries BCE, this burial ground contained over a hundred tombs, many of them belonging to members of a wealthy local elite — Iberians who had adopted Phoenician customs and prestige goods.

Some graves held weapons, others fine ceramics, and a few contained jewelry of remarkable craftsmanship. These weren’t mere decorations — they were status symbols, ritual offerings, and expressions of power and belief.

The Necklace of 38 Pieces

One of the most dazzling discoveries from Les Casetes came from Tomb 18: an elaborate gold necklace made up of nearly 38 individual elements. This magnificent piece features a combination of gold discs, cylindrical beads, glass elements, and intricate spacers, arranged in a symmetrical, ceremonial layout.

Each component was crafted with precision. Some were engraved with geometric patterns, others adorned with granulation — tiny gold spheres applied to the surface in decorative clusters. The inclusion of both gold and blue glass hints at trade networks stretching across the Mediterranean, and at symbolic meanings that blended Phoenician, Egyptian, and Iberian traditions.

The necklace was likely worn by a high-ranking individual, possibly a woman of great status. It speaks not just to wealth, but to belief — in protection, in legacy, in connection with the divine. It also illustrates the technical mastery of goldsmiths working in Iberia at the time, whether local artisans influenced by Phoenician style or visiting craftsmen from the East.

A Legacy Carried in Gold

The Phoenicians left no empires behind, no monumental cities in Spain. What they left was something more subtle — and perhaps more lasting. They were among the first to connect East and West, to blend belief systems and artistic styles, and to set the foundations of Mediterranean trade and cultural exchange.

In places like Les Casetes, their story is still being written, one excavation at a time. And in objects like the necklace from Tomb 18, their vision of a connected, meaningful world — adorned, luminous, and layered with memory — still speaks across the centuries.

Odysseus on a Lamp: Myth and Daily Life in Roman Mérida (Spain)

Terracotta oil lamp from the 1st century CE, depicting Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship. Found in Mérida, Spain, and now housed in the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano.

At first glance, it’s just a small terracotta oil lamp, tucked away in a museum in Mérida, Spain. But look closer, and you’ll find an epic scene from Homer’s Odyssey—carved into clay, for everyday use.

The image shows Odysseus tied to the mast of his ship. He wears a short tunic and a pileus, the soft cap that marks him in ancient art. Around him, the heads of his crew peek over the side of the ship. The sail is raised, but it’s the rowers who power the boat—just like in Homer’s tale, where Odysseus orders the sail taken down so he can listen safely to the Sirens’ deadly song.

Strangely, the Sirens themselves are missing.

Most likely, this was a practical decision: the lamp’s small surface left no room for them. But it also shifts the focus. What matters here is not the danger, but the restraint. By the 1st century CE, this story had become a moral symbol: the hero as the rational man, resisting temptation, bound by reason.

In Roman homes, lamps like this lit the night. Their warm glow told stories, not just to entertain, but to teach. And so Odysseus—on a simple lamp—reminded his owner of the strength it takes to resist what calls to us most sweetly.

Dust, Devotion, and Silence — Visiting El Rocío Off-Season (Spain)

The whitewashed facade of the Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Rocío, under a sky of soft clouds.

In the heart of the marshes of Doñana, far from the crowds and the chaos of summer beaches, stands a dazzling white church with a name spoken in reverence throughout Andalusia: the Santuario de Nuestra Señora del Rocío.

Visited outside the pilgrimage season, the sandy streets of the village are empty, the wooden porches silent, and the church stands quietly beneath a sky of thin clouds—neither grey nor bright, but softly veiled. And yet, the stillness doesn’t feel empty. It feels full—of stories, of footsteps, of songs sung by pilgrims who aren’t there, but whose presence seems permanently soaked into the place.

At the heart of this sanctuary is La Virgen del Rocío, one of Spain’s most beloved Maria figures. Dressed in a rich embroidered robe, crowned and surrounded by golden rays, she sits in the central niche of the high altar, gazing forward with the calm authority of a queen and the tenderness of a mother.

Once a year, during La Romería del Rocío, this village transforms. More than a million pilgrims make their way here from across Spain, traveling on foot, on horseback, in wagons or jeeps, singing traditional sevillanas, sleeping under the stars. They come to honor “La Blanca Paloma” (The White Dove), as the Virgin is affectionately known. When she is carried in procession through the night—crowds weeping, singing, shouting—it becomes one of the most intense religious spectacles in all of Europe.

But outside those few days of the year, the sanctuary holds its breath.

Without the dust and the dance, without the drumbeats and the devotion of thousands, what remains is the gold behind the tradition. The stillness of belief. The quiet force of a place that knows how to wait.

La Blanca Paloma—the richly adorned Virgin of El Rocío—enthroned in golden splendor above the high altar.

The Embrace of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim at the Golden Gate

Painted iron relief of the Meeting of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim at the Golden Gate, mounted above a chapel gate in the Basilica de Santa María de los Reales Alcázares, Úbeda, Spain.

At first glance, it looks like a joyful reunion. A woman and a man, both haloed and aged, meet at a gate and clasp each other in a heartfelt embrace. Around them, astonished onlookers — women, shepherds, even angels — witness this tender moment. But what we see in this painted iron relief, mounted above a chapel entrance in the Basilica de Santa María de los Reales Alcázares in Úbeda, Spain, is much more than a greeting. It’s a moment of sacred significance: the meeting of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim at the Golden Gate.

This scene draws its roots not from the canonical gospels, but from an early Christian apocryphal text — the Proto-Evangelium of James (also known as the Proto-Gospel of James), written in the second century CE. In this text, Anne and Joachim are the elderly, childless couple who become the parents of Mary, the future mother of Jesus. After being separated and praying in solitude, each is visited by an angel with miraculous news: Anne will bear a child. They rush to meet each other in Jerusalem, and embrace at the Golden Gate.

The scene captured in the ironwork shows this event in vivid, almost theatrical detail. Anne, cloaked and veiled, reaches toward Joachim, who is depicted with a long beard and a broad gesture of affection. The shepherd with the ram over his shoulders, and the angelic figures floating above, remind us that this is not just a family moment — it is the beginning of a divine plan. Mary is not yet born, but already her story is in motion.

In this small piece of devotional art — forged and painted, then placed above a gate where worshippers pass — we see a powerful symbol of new beginnings. Hope when all hope seemed lost. Life arriving quietly, unexpectedly, through faith.

Our Lady of the Pillar – A Sky of Stone in Zaragoza (Spain)

The Cathedral-Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar in Zaragoza, seen from across the Ebro River.

Towering over the Ebro River with its tiled domes and graceful spires, the Cathedral-Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar is the spiritual and architectural heart of Zaragoza. It’s not just a place of worship—it’s a living legend built in stone.

At its core is a miracle: according to tradition, the Virgin Mary appeared to the Apostle James here around 40 CE, while she was still alive, and left behind a jasper pillar as a sign of comfort. That stone remains the center of devotion today, enshrined beneath a small statue of Mary dressed in royal robes—changed daily like garments for a queen.

The basilica that rose around this sacred relic is a masterpiece of Baroque design. Inside, domes stretch skyward, painted with celestial frescoes by artists like Francisco de Goya. Despite the grandeur, there is intimacy: pilgrims kiss the pillar through a polished opening in the chapel wall, and locals still come here to light candles, to pray, or simply to pause.

El Pilar also bears scars—three bombs fell on the building during the Spanish Civil War. None exploded. The holes remain visible, a quiet testimony to survival and faith.

Each October, the square outside bursts into life during the Fiestas del Pilar, when thousands of people bring flowers, music, and devotion. But even on an ordinary day, the basilica hums with history and hope.

This is not a church frozen in time. El Pilar breathes. And when you stand beneath its domes or brush your fingers against the worn stone of the pillar, you feel something ancient and immediate—something that still matters.

Bocadillo de jamón

A shop window with bocadillos in Pamplona (Spain).

The bocadillo de jamón is a classic Spanish sandwich, celebrated for its simplicity and rich flavor. Made with slices of jamón ibérico, Spain's prized cured ham, and served inside a fresh, crusty baguette-like bread, this sandwich is a perfect example of how high-quality ingredients can create something truly delicious. Often paired with a drizzle of olive oil, the bocadillo de jamón is a favorite across Spain, enjoyed as a snack, a light meal, or even a quick bite during social gatherings. Its combination of flavors highlights the essence of Spanish cuisine: simple, yet exceptional.