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.

Pamplona (Spain)

Pamplona, Spain.

In Pamplona’s streets, the leaves all swirl,
The air smells like rain, chestnuts, and churro whirl.
Umbrellas pop open in a polka-dot dance,
While locals dodge puddles with seasoned romance.

Boots click on cobbles, scarves wrap nice and snug,
With a shout of “¡Hola!” and a neighborly shrug.
In Pamplona, autumn strolls feel quite grand,
Where weather and charm go hand in hand!

Saints, Scales, and Salvation: The Master of Soriguerola

The Psychostasis and the Apostles Peter and Paul, late 13th century. Panels attributed to the Master of Soriguerola. Tempera on wood, originally part of an altar ensemble from the Vall de Ribes, Catalonia. On the left, Archangel Michael weighs a soul while a demon attempts to tip the scales toward damnation. On the right, Saints Peter and Paul stand in dialogue, representing apostolic authority and intercession. Housed in the MEV – Museu Episcopal de Vic, Spain.

In the quiet valley of Ribes, nestled in the Catalan Pyrenees, two painted wooden panels once flanked an altar—powerful fragments of medieval imagination and faith. Today, they hang in the MEV – Museu Episcopal de Vic, a museum dedicated to medieval art in the heart of Catalonia.

These panels are attributed to a mysterious but distinctive painter known only as the Master of Soriguerola, active in the late 13th century. Working at the crossroads of Romanesque tradition and Gothic expression, his style is unmistakable: vibrant red, yellow, and green backgrounds, boldly outlined figures, and a gift for compressing complex religious ideas into clear, almost theatrical scenes.

The first panel shows Archangel Michael weighing souls—a theme known as the psychostasis. A naked soul balances on the scales of judgment. One side sinks gently toward salvation, but a hook-wielding demon clings to the other, trying to tip the balance toward damnation. It's one of the most compelling and popular images in medieval Catalan art: spiritual justice captured in a single, tense moment.

The companion panel shifts from judgment to intercession. Saint Peter, holding the keys to Paradise, and Saint Paul, the apostle to the nations, stand in quiet conversation. Between them, a small, pleading soul looks upward. There is no chaos here—just a delicate moment of mercy, rendered with both humility and authority.

Together, these panels explore the fate of the soul after death—first weighed by divine justice, then offered the hope of salvation through apostolic intercession. And they do so with a visual clarity and emotional impact that mark the Master of Soriguerola as one of the most compelling voices in Catalan art of the time.

Though we don’t know his real name, we still recognize his hand. And through it, we glimpse a medieval world grappling with eternal questions, expressed in color, line, and faith.

Saint Nicholas Church in Valencia (Spain)

Interior of the Church of Saint Nicholas of Bari and Saint Peter Martyr, Valencia, Spain.
Originally built in the 13th century in Gothic style, the church was transformed in the late 17th century with richly painted Baroque frescoes. The ceiling scenes, completed by Antonio Palomino and Dionís Vidal (1690–1693), illustrate the lives of the church’s two patron saints.

In the maze of narrow streets in Valencia’s historic center, not far from the bustle of the central market and the Cathedral, there’s a doorway that many pass by without a second glance. But behind it lies one of the most breathtaking interiors in Spain: the Church of Saint Nicholas of Bari and Saint Peter Martyr — often called the “Sistine Chapel of Valencia.”

The church’s origins date back to the 13th century, shortly after King James I of Aragon reconquered the city from Muslim rule in 1238. Built on the site of an earlier mosque, it became one of the first twelve Christian parishes in the city. Its original structure was Gothic, with a single nave, ribbed vaults, and side chapels — elements still visible today if you look past the visual feast of Baroque ornamentation.

The transformation that gave Saint Nicholas its current splendor came in the late 17th century, when the church was richly redecorated in the Baroque style. This was part of a larger movement in Catholic Europe to inspire awe and devotion through grand, emotional art. In Valencia, the project was led by the Dominican order, who commissioned the best local artists to turn the church into a dazzling space of storytelling and worship.

And they delivered. The ceilings and upper walls are completely covered with frescoes painted between 1690 and 1693 by Antonio Palomino, court painter to Charles II of Spain, and executed by his student Dionís Vidal. The frescoes narrate the lives of Saint Nicholas of Bari (known for his generosity and miracles) and Saint Peter Martyr (a Dominican friar martyred for his faith). The artwork wraps the viewer in a swirling panorama of angels, clouds, martyrdom scenes, and divine visions — all unfolding above your head in glowing color and dynamic movement.

Light streams in through the stained-glass windows, catching the gilded carvings of the high altar and chapels. The organ pipes shimmer under painted arches, and every detail — from stucco cherubs to marble inlays — contributes to a sense of otherworldly beauty. But this isn’t just art for art’s sake. It was meant to move people, to lift them toward the heavens, to remind them of the power and glory of faith.

Today, Saint Nicholas Church is not only a functioning parish but also a cultural gem. It has undergone meticulous restoration in recent years, revealing the full brilliance of the frescoes and reviving its place in the life of the city. Whether you're drawn by faith, history, or beauty, this church offers one of the most stunning and surprising experiences in Valencia.

The Hórreo: Spain’s Ancient Granary in the Sky

Traditional hórreo in northern Spain (Mondoñedo, Spain), used historically for storing grain and corn. Raised on stone pillars to allow air flow and prevent pests, with stone roof weights or finials for weather protection. Found throughout Galicia, Asturias, Cantabria, and León, hórreos are a symbol of northern Spain’s rural heritage.

Scattered across the green hills and quiet villages of northern Spain, especially in regions like Galicia, Asturias, and Cantabria, you’ll often see a curious sight: long, narrow buildings perched on stone stilts, as if delicately balanced between earth and sky. These are hórreos, one of the most distinctive and enduring features of rural life in this part of the Iberian Peninsula.

At first glance, they seem almost too elegant to be practical — a cross between a tiny chapel and a miniature fortress. But step closer, and you'll discover a marvel of folk engineering. The hórreo was designed to store and protect crops, mainly corn and grain, from the damp northern climate and the ever-hungry mice and rats. Raised off the ground on stone pillars, they allow air to circulate freely, drying the harvest naturally and keeping it safe for the long winters.

The design varies depending on where you are. In Galicia, they’re often built with granite ends and wooden slats. In Asturias, you might find square or rectangular versions with broad, overhanging roofs. In León, they sometimes take on more barn-like proportions. But all of them share the same clever principles: elevation, ventilation, and protection.

One feature you’ll notice on many hórreos is the series of flat stone discs or pointed finials that cap the pillars or sit atop the roof. These serve more than one purpose. Some — like the round stone discs just under the floor — are there to stop rodents from climbing up the supports. The pointed stones on the roof, known locally as remates or piedras de remate, help weigh down the tiles against wind, and sometimes carry symbolic meanings too — believed by some to offer spiritual protection or ward off misfortune.

Though modern farming has made them less necessary, hórreos remain a powerful cultural symbol. Many are now preserved by local communities or heritage laws, and some are even lovingly restored and repurposed — as garden sheds, chapels, or simply monuments to the past.

To see a hórreo is to witness a way of life shaped by the rhythms of the land — resourceful, respectful, and beautifully adapted to its environment. They are humble structures, yet they stand tall, whispering the quiet wisdom of centuries of rural life.

La Lonja de la Seda: Where Silk and Power Wove Together, Valencia (Spain)

The Contract Hall of La Lonja de la Seda (Valencia, Spain).

In the heart of old Valencia, just steps away from the bustling Central Market, stands a building that looks more like a fortress or a palace than a marketplace. With its intricate stonework, soaring columns, and crenellated towers, La Lonja de la Seda (The Silk Exchange) is not just one of the finest examples of late Gothic architecture in Europe — it’s a place where money, ambition, and elegance once danced together.

Built between 1482 and 1533, during the golden age of the Crown of Aragon, La Lonja was much more than a building where merchants traded silk. It was a symbol of Valencia’s power, wealth, and role as a Mediterranean trade hub. The city had grown rich through its ports and markets, and silk was the treasure that flowed through its veins. Traders came from across Europe, North Africa, and the Near East, drawn by the promise of fine Valencian silk — and the deals made under its vaulted ceilings could make or break fortunes.

Walk into the Contract Hall, and you’re immediately struck by its forest of twisted stone columns, like palm trees reaching into the sky. Light filters through stained-glass windows, casting colorful shadows on the floor. Here, in this almost cathedral-like space, deals were struck in whispers and shouts. Contracts were made, prices were fixed, debts were settled. There were no coins clinking — money often changed hands only on paper, and honor was currency too. The atmosphere was solemn, but vibrant — a sacred temple of commerce.

But La Lonja wasn’t just about wealth — it was about trust. That’s why, upstairs in the Consulado del Mar, maritime laws were debated and disputes settled. It served as a kind of commercial court, ensuring that business ran smoothly in a world where sea trade was risky and reputations mattered more than written contracts. And just across the courtyard stood a small chapel, where traders could ease their conscience after hard bargaining.

La Lonja de la Seda reflected its time — a late medieval city dreaming of Renaissance grandeur. Valencia was cosmopolitan, self-confident, and tied deeply to the rhythms of global trade. In an age when religion and money both held sway, La Lonja was a secular monument dressed in spiritual clothing: its architectural beauty evoking divine order, its purpose grounded firmly in the material world.

Today, it stands silent, no longer echoing with the murmurs of deals or the rustle of silk bolts. But if you listen closely, you might still hear the voices of Genoese bankers, Jewish merchants, Muslim silk weavers, and Christian judges — all part of the rich tapestry that made Valencia a city of silk and stories.

The Torres de Serranos (Valencia, Spain)

Torres de Serranos, Valencia, Spain. Constructed between 1392 and 1398 in Gothic style, this imposing twin-tower gate was once the main northern entrance to the walled city.

If stones could talk, the Torres de Serranos would roar with the voices of kings, prisoners, travelers, and centuries of celebration and sorrow. Rising like sentinels at the edge of Valencia’s old quarter, these twin towers once guarded the city’s main entrance — and today, they guard its memory.

Built at the end of the 14th century, between 1392 and 1398, the Serranos Towers were part of Valencia’s mighty medieval walls. Their purpose was both practical and symbolic. They served as a defensive stronghold, a customs checkpoint, and a statement of power: this was a wealthy city worth protecting. Named after the road that led to the mountainous region of Los Serranos, the gate was the northern portal to the Crown of Aragon’s Mediterranean jewel.

Walk through the wide central arch and you step into history. This was once the path of merchants carrying silk, spices, and news from the north. It was the gate through which royalty entered during grand processions. But not all who passed through came freely — during the Spanish Civil War, the towers were used as a makeshift prison. And for centuries before that, they held noble captives in their upper chambers.

The architecture is pure Valencian Gothic — robust and symmetrical, with heavy stonework, battlements, and a ceremonial flair. Above the entrance, delicate tracery and defensive machicolations remind you that this was both a fortress and a stage. Ceremonial receptions were often held here, with nobles watching the city from the terrace and crowds cheering below.

Though Valencia’s city walls were torn down in the 19th century to make way for modern growth, the Torres de Serranos remain standing — not as ruins, but as proud survivors. They are still used for celebrations, especially during the Fallas festival, when flames and fireworks light up the night sky behind their ancient silhouette.

Standing in front of these towers today, you can feel the weight of centuries pressing through the stone. And when you pass through their shadowed arch, you're not just entering the old city — you're stepping into Valencia’s living past.

Knights, Love, and Legends on the Ceiling of the Alhambra, Granada (Spain)

Ceiling painting from the Hall of the Kings, Alhambra (Granada, Spain), depicting a chivalric romance scene with Christian and Muslim knights, a noble lady, and mythic creatures. Late 14th–early 15th century Nasrid period.

Step into the Hall of the Kings in Granada’s Alhambra, and look up. On the curved ceiling, a vivid story unfolds — one of knights in shining armor, a noble lady, wild hunts, fierce tournaments, and a world where love and valor reign.

Painted directly onto leather stretched over wooden vaults, the scene is bursting with color and action. In the center, a lady sits near a fountain, perhaps playing a game of chess with a suitor. Around her, knights on horseback ride through lush gardens and thick forests filled with birds, lions, and bears. One moment shows a daring Muslim knight hunting a boar; another shows Christian warriors battling beasts. At the heart of it all is a dramatic joust between a Christian and a Muslim knight, charging at each other with lances in a contest of honor. The Muslim champion wins — a scene that may echo the ambitions of the palace’s Nasrid rulers.

This romantic, almost fairy-tale world reflects the spirit of chivalry that captivated both Islamic and Christian courts in medieval Spain. Knights here don’t just fight — they play, hunt, rescue, and love. The style is Gothic, likely painted by Christian artists, yet the themes blend seamlessly into the Islamic context of the Alhambra. It’s a rare, brilliant fusion of two worlds.

The Hall of the Kings was no ordinary room — it was a space for celebration and diplomacy. By surrounding themselves with scenes of bravery, love, and noble rivalry, the Nasrid rulers presented themselves as cultured, heroic, and worthy of admiration — not just in Granada, but across the whole of Europe.

Santa Catalina Castle – Tarifa’s Strange Watchtower – Tarifa (Spain)

Santa Catalina Castle, Tarifa (Spain).

Santa Catalina Castle is one of Tarifa’s most recognizable landmarks, proudly standing on a small hill overlooking both the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts. Though it looks like a centuries-old fortress, this eye-catching structure was actually built in 1931 as an observation post, styled to resemble a 16th-century castle.

Its design blends fantasy with function. The large, somewhat exaggerated observation tower—with its distinctive mudejar-style arches and corner balconies—gives the building a unique, almost surreal appearance. Over time, this unusual silhouette has become a beloved symbol of the town.

The castle’s location is no accident. From its hilltop perch, it commands sweeping views over Playa Chica, the causeway to Isla de las Palomas, and the vast stretch of Playa de los Lances. For centuries, this spot has been of strategic importance, linking Europe and Africa, the Mediterranean and the Atlantic.

While the site itself has an older history—including a 16th-century chapel, a quarantine station during a plague, and a Napoleonic-era fort—the current building was part of a 20th-century plan by the Spanish Navy. Originally intended to house an optical signaling system, it was completed but never equipped for that purpose. Later, it served as a military post and weather station before falling into disuse.

Today, although the interior is closed to the public, Santa Catalina Castle remains a striking presence. Locals and visitors alike are drawn to its timeless silhouette and the spectacular panoramic views just outside its gates.

Pouring Wine for the Dead – Merida (Spain)

The Praefericulum and Patera on sides of the funerary altar for Servilia Secunda, daughter of Gaius, from Tingitana.

In the quiet, sunlit galleries of the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano in Mérida, a simple block of marble tells a story of memory, identity, and farewell. It’s not large—barely 60 centimeters high—but it’s richly carved, crowned with rosettes, adorned with ritual vessels, and inscribed with words of loss and devotion. This is a Roman funerary altar (from the 1st or 2nd century), dedicated nearly two thousand years ago to a woman named Servilia Secunda. She came from Tingis, modern-day Tangier (Marocco), and died in Augusta Emerita, the capital of Roman Lusitania. Her final resting place speaks volumes not just about her, but about how Romans honored their dead.

On the left side of the altar, we see a libation jug (praefericulum): round-bodied, with a short neck and elegant handle. On the right side, a patera—a flat offering bowl—emerges in shallow relief, its handle ending in a ram’s head. Though the marble is weathered, the symbolism is clear: these were the sacred instruments of remembrance.

Rituals of Wine and Memory

In Roman tradition, the dead were not simply buried and forgotten. They were honored with acts of pietas—dutiful care—that continued long after death. On specific days, families would return to the grave with wine, oil, milk, honey, or even water. They would pour these liquids over the tomb or into special libation tubes, believing the offerings nourished the spirits of their loved ones.

The patera and jug depicted on funerary altars like this one from Mérida are not ornamental flourishes. They are icons of ritual. The patera, held in the right hand, was used to pour the libation; the jug replenished it. Together, they signaled to all who passed: this is a place of sacred remembrance. These symbols were often carved on the narrow sides of the altar, carefully oriented so the jug’s spout pointed toward the name of the deceased—visually connecting the act of offering to the person it honored.

In some cases, the handle of the patera was shaped like a ram’s head, as here. This may evoke the purification rituals that followed Roman funerals, where a ram or other animal was sacrificed to cleanse the mourners. The art thus compressed multiple layers of meaning into a single gesture: grief, memory, and spiritual hygiene.

The Woman from Tingis

The inscription on the front of the altar is formal, moving, and deeply Roman in tone:

D(is) M(anibus) s(acrum) / Servilia G(ai!) f(ilia) / Secunda Ting(itana) / ann(orum) LXVII / h(ic) s(ita) e(st) s(it) (t)ibi (terra) l(evis) / Helvia Rusticilla / d(e) (!) f(aciendum) c(uravit)

Meaning: "To the spirits of the dead. Servilia Secunda, daughter of Gaius, from Tingitana, aged 67, lies here. May the earth rest lightly upon you. Helvia Rusticilla took care to have this made."

Though only a few lines, this epitaph offers a wealth of information. We learn Servilia’s full Roman name, her origin from North Africa, her age, and the name of the woman—Helvia Rusticilla—who arranged for this monument. Perhaps she was a friend, relative, or freedwoman. The phrase sit tibi terra levis—“may the earth lie lightly upon you”—is a traditional Roman wish for peace in the afterlife.

A Shared Language of Grief

What’s remarkable is how standard, yet personal, this monument feels. The language, the symbols, the rosettes and garlands—all echo similar altars across the empire. Yet the mention of Tingis hints at migration, at personal history across provinces, at someone who had a life, a journey, and relationships in a distant place before coming to Emerita.

Mérida’s museum contains dozens of such altars, and nearly all feature the patera and jug. Sometimes they are paired with portraits or garlands; sometimes they stand alone. But they always point to the same idea: that the dead were still part of the social world. They could be visited, remembered, fed, and honored. The altar was not a gravestone in our modern sense—it was a sacred platform, ready for the next libation, the next whisper of memory.

Visiting Today

You can see the altar of Servilia Secunda in the Museo Nacional de Arte Romano in Mérida. It is catalogued as “MNAR 569” and sits among dozens of others from the Roman necropolises of Augusta Emerita. Standing before it, you might imagine a friend or daughter placing a small offering of wine into the focus atop the stone, the scent rising like a prayer.

A gesture made for the living—and for the dead.

The Industrial Revolution in Spain: A Catalyst for Social and Political Change

Spain’s Industrial Revolution, which gained momentum in the 19th century, was slower and more uneven than in other European nations. Industrialization remained concentrated in Catalonia’s textile sector and the Basque Country’s steel and mining industries, while much of Spain retained its agrarian structure. This imbalance shaped economic and social tensions that would later contribute to political unrest.

Industrialization spurred mass migration from rural areas to cities like Barcelona and Bilbao, leading to rapid urban growth, overcrowding, and worsening living conditions for the working class. While a new industrial bourgeoisie gained influence, the working class faced exploitation, fueling the rise of labor unions and socialist and anarchist movements. In contrast, rural areas suffered depopulation and economic decline, further deepening social divides.

The Catholic Church, historically dominant in Spanish society, aligned with the monarchy and landowners to resist socialist and anarchist ideologies. It promoted Catholic trade unions and charitable initiatives but faced growing hostility from workers and secular movements. This opposition intensified as calls for social reform, land redistribution, and regional autonomy gained traction.

The social fractures caused by industrialization—urban-rural disparities, class struggles, and regional tensions—exacerbated Spain’s political instability. By the early 20th century, strikes, protests, and political violence became widespread. The Church’s close ties to conservative elites made it a target of leftist movements, leading to deepening polarization. These conflicts culminated in the Spanish Civil War (1936–1939), where conservative forces, led by Franco and supported by the Church, clashed with leftist republicans. Franco’s victory reinstated authoritarian rule, suppressing many of the social changes that industrialization had set in motion.

Burgalimar Castle (Baños de la Encina, Spain)

Burgalimar Castle (Baños de la Encina, Spain).

Baños de la Encina’s Burgalimar Castle played a pivotal role during the Reconquista, the centuries-long struggle between Christian and Muslim forces for control of the Iberian Peninsula. Constructed in 968 AD under the orders of Caliph Al-Hakam II, the fortress was strategically positioned on a hill overlooking the Guadalquivir River, a crucial route linking Córdoba to the Christian kingdoms of the north. This made it a key defensive stronghold for Al-Andalus, guarding against advancing Christian forces.

By the 12th and 13th centuries, as the Christian kingdoms pushed southward, Burgalimar found itself at the heart of military campaigns. In 1225, the castle briefly fell to the forces of King Ferdinand III of Castile, though it later returned to Muslim control. However, in 1227, the Christians permanently seized the fortress, marking a decisive moment in the reconquest of Jaén. The castle was then reinforced and repurposed as a Christian garrison, serving as a crucial defensive point for Castile’s continued expansion into Andalusia.

With its fourteen imposing towers and sturdy Almohad-era walls, Burgalimar remained a formidable military outpost well into the late Middle Ages. It also played a role in securing the Kingdom of Jaén, which became an important border territory between Castile and the remaining Muslim strongholds, particularly the Emirate of Granada. Over time, the castle lost its military significance and transitioned into a symbol of the town’s rich history, standing today as one of Spain’s best-preserved examples of Moorish military architecture.

Whispers from the Earth – The Mummies of Quinto (Spain)

Nave of the Church of the Assumption, now the Museum of the Mummies of Quinto.

In the quiet town of Quinto, Aragón, something extraordinary surfaced beneath the old brick floor of a church. When workers began restoring the 15th-century Mudejar church known locally as El Piquete, they expected to uncover layers of dust and perhaps a few bones. What they found instead were naturally preserved human remains—bodies of men, women, and children, wrapped not in linen but in time itself.

These were not deliberate mummifications. There were no chemicals, no wrappings, no rituals meant to preserve the flesh. Instead, the unique microclimate beneath the church—cool, dry, and undisturbed—had done the work that nature rarely does: it kept the bodies intact. Skin, hair, even clothing had survived for centuries in the earth beneath the altar.

Today, this church is no longer a place of worship in the traditional sense. It has become the Museum of the Mummies of Quinto, Spain’s first museum dedicated entirely to naturally mummified remains. The museum doesn’t display death as spectacle, but as story. Each figure—preserved in glass, resting in silence—offers a glimpse into life as it once was in this remote part of Aragón. One was a child who never learned to walk, another an elderly woman whose worn shoes speak volumes. All were ordinary people, buried with dignity and found again with reverence.

The setting itself adds to the experience. El Piquete, with its fortress-like walls and slender Mudejar tower, embraces visitors with history. The preserved bodies rest exactly where they were buried centuries ago, making this museum less an exhibition and more a conversation between past and present.

Far from macabre, the museum invites reflection. What do these quiet bodies say about faith, poverty, sickness, or resilience? About forgotten lives in forgotten towns?

The Mummies of Quinto do not answer. They simply endure.

Interior of the Chapel of Santa Ana with display cases with some of the naturally mummified remains, Museum of the Mummies of Quinto.

The Carlist Wars

Carlos María Isidro de Borbón and Isabella II (María Isabel Luisa de Borbón y Borbón-Dos Sicilias).

The Carlist Wars (1833–1876) were a series of civil conflicts in Spain that stemmed from a dynastic dispute and broader ideological divisions between traditionalists and liberals. The wars erupted after the death of King Ferdinand VII in 1833, when his daughter, Isabella II (1830-1904), was named queen under the regency of her mother, Maria Christina of the Two Sicilies. This succession was challenged by Carlos María Isidro de Borbón (1788-1855), the king’s younger brother, who claimed the throne based on the principle of male primogeniture. His supporters, known as Carlists, represented a deeply conservative faction that sought to preserve absolute monarchy, regional fueros (traditional rights), and the influence of the Catholic Church.

Opposing the Carlists were the liberal supporters of Isabella II, who aimed to modernize Spain through constitutional monarchy, centralized governance, and secular reforms. The struggle between these factions led to three major Carlist Wars (1833–1840, 1846–1849, and 1872–1876), primarily affecting regions like the Basque Country, Navarra, Catalonia, and Aragón, where Carlist support was strongest.

These wars had a lasting impact on Spain’s political and social landscape, reinforcing deep divisions that persisted well into the 20th century. The Carlist movement continued as a political force even after its military defeat, influencing Spanish conservatism and nationalist movements.

The Mystery of the Bronze Figure Plate at the Museu Episcopal de Vic

MEV 7946 at the Museu Episcopal de Vic.

In one of the display cases in the Museu Episcopal de Vic (MEV) lies a small and enigmatic Iron Age object: a stylized bronze anthropomorphic plate with hanging pendants, catalogued as MEV Inv. 7946. Dated to the 7th–6th century BCE and attributed to the Picene culture of central Italy, this piece has puzzled researchers and raises intriguing questions about trans-Adriatic connections, ritual symbolism, and even its own provenance.

An Unusual Artifact

The bronze object in question takes the form of a schematic human figure: a flat, trapezoidal plate with raised arms, a loop-shaped head, and a series of perforations along the lower edge. These holes are used to attach a set of ritual pendants, including miniatures of hands, axes, spoons, and abstract shapes. Despite its simplicity, the plate radiates symbolic density: the outstretched arms may signify prayer or invocation; the pendants suggest ritual paraphernalia. It is not merely decorative—it is a visual language of power, status, and possibly female priesthood.

A Rare Type from Picenum

Objects of this type are exceedingly rare. Closely comparable pieces have only been securely documented in a few elite tombs from Picenum, a culturally rich region along the Adriatic coast of central Italy (modern-day Marche and Abruzzo). Graves at Montegiorgio, Montambone, and Ascoli Piceno have yielded similar anthropomorphic plaques, often found with women of high status. The distinctive combination of stylized form and symbolic pendants appears to be a Picene cultural signature.

This association is supported by the object's typology, metallurgy, and symbolic language, all of which firmly point to an Adriatic-Italic tradition. Furthermore, no parallels of this type have been found in the northeast of the Iberian Peninsula, including the region of Tarragona—where this object is allegedly said to have been found.

A Problematic Provenance

This brings us to the most confounding aspect of MEV 7946: its provenance. The object entered the museum's collection as part of a group of bronzes said to have been discovered near Tarragona. However, multiple clues cast doubt on this claim:

• Typological mismatch: The object shares no stylistic, functional, or technological features with Iberian Iron Age bronzes from the region.

• Cultural singularity: The anthropomorphic figure plate is entirely absent from Iberian archaeological records.

• Contextual inconsistency: The collection includes a restored fibula (inv. 30) and other items of varied patina and corrosion, suggesting a modern aggregation of separate finds.

• Trade and antiquarian channels: The early 20th century saw numerous Picene artifacts enter European collections via the antiquities market, often with unclear or falsified findspots.

Together, these factors strongly suggest that MEV 7946 may not have been found in Spain at all, but rather acquired through art dealers or collectors who misattributed—or intentionally obscured—its origin.

Ritual Meaning and Cross-Cultural Echoes

Despite its murky provenance, the object opens a window onto the ritual world of Iron Age elites. The raised arms and pendant symbols resonate with themes of supplication, protection, and magical function. Interestingly, similar symbolic arrangements appear in other Iron Age cultures, such as the Paeonians of the Vardar Valley (in present-day North Macedonia), whose elite women also wore composite ornaments with symbolic danglers. Though unrelated culturally, the convergence suggests widespread visual languages of status and sanctity across Iron Age Europe.

Conclusion

MEV 7946 is a unique artifact with a powerful presence—and an uncertain past. While its design and meaning root it firmly in Picene ritual tradition, its presence in a Spanish collection remains unexplained and increasingly doubtful. Rather than diminishing its significance, this mystery only deepens the object’s allure: a trans-Adriatic ambassador of Iron Age spirituality, displaced in time and space, but still eloquent in bronze.

Its silence speaks volumes.

Berenguela/Berengaria of Castile (1180–1246): The Woman Who United Castile and León

Berenguela/Berengaria of Castile.

Berenguela/Berengaria of Castile, born in 1180, was a royal daughter who became one of the most remarkable political figures in medieval Iberia. As the eldest child of King Alfonso VIII of Castile and Queen Eleanor of England (daughter of Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine), Berengaria grew up in a court where diplomacy, faith, and power were deeply intertwined. Although she ruled Castile for only a short time, her influence stretched across decades. Through her foresight, personal sacrifice, and political skill, she helped unify Castile and León under her son Ferdinand III—altering the course of Spanish history.

From childhood, Berengaria was treated as a valuable political asset. For several years, she was the presumptive heir to Castile, and at age nine, she was betrothed to Conrad of Swabia, son of the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. The proposed alliance between Castile and the empire was ambitious but ultimately abandoned, likely under pressure from Berengaria’s grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Conrad’s death in 1196 ended the matter permanently.

The next alliance would prove far more consequential. In 1197, the teenage Berengaria married King Alfonso IX of León—her cousin—in a calculated move to ease tensions between the two rival kingdoms. The union produced five children, including the future Ferdinand III, but it soon drew the disapproval of the Church. Pope Innocent III declared the marriage invalid due to their close blood relationship. Berengaria, however, skillfully negotiated to ensure that their children remained legally recognized as legitimate heirs. After the annulment, she returned to Castile with her children, where she devoted herself to securing their future and maintaining her political independence.

In 1214, following the death of her father, Berengaria's younger brother Henry I became king at just ten years old. Their mother, Queen Eleanor, briefly acted as regent, but died shortly after. Berengaria stepped into the regency but soon faced opposition from Castile’s most powerful noble faction, the House of Lara. Forced to relinquish power in 1215, she quietly withdrew, keeping a close watch as the political situation in Castile grew increasingly unstable.

Tragedy struck two years later. In 1217, King Henry I died in a bizarre accident—a falling roof tile ended his life at age thirteen. Berengaria, understanding the stakes, kept the death secret while she arranged for her son Ferdinand—then living at his father’s court in León—to return to Castile. Once Ferdinand was safely by her side, Berengaria publicly announced her brother’s death and claimed the crown as the rightful heir. But rather than rule herself in an era suspicious of female monarchs, she immediately abdicated in favor of her 18-year-old son. This deliberate and strategic act not only preserved the succession but prevented her former husband Alfonso IX from pressing his own claim. Berengaria’s actions stabilized the kingdom and allowed Ferdinand III to ascend the throne without bloodshed.

Though Berengaria never again wore a crown, she remained deeply involved in her son’s reign. She was his most trusted adviser, helping him manage the kingdom and avoid conflict. She arranged important marriages to strengthen Castile’s alliances, including Ferdinand’s first marriage to Elisabeth of Hohenstaufen, linking Castile to the Holy Roman Empire. After Elisabeth’s death, Berengaria and her sister Blanche of Castile chose Joan of Ponthieu as Ferdinand’s second wife, building ties with France. She also arranged the marriage of her daughter to John of Brienne, a respected leader in European politics. Through these careful alliances, Berengaria helped secure Castile’s place in the wider world.

Perhaps Berengaria’s most impressive achievement came in 1230. Upon the death of Alfonso IX, the throne of León did not pass to Ferdinand, but to two daughters from Alfonso’s first marriage. Rather than risking war, Berengaria personally negotiated with the two princesses and their mother, Queen Teresa of Portugal. The result was the Treaty of Las Tercerías, in which the daughters renounced their claims in exchange for compensation. This brilliant diplomacy allowed Ferdinand III to inherit León and unite it with Castile, forming the foundation of a future Spanish kingdom.

While Ferdinand waged war in the south during the Reconquista, Berengaria governed the heartland. She ensured the loyalty of nobles, maintained stability, and supported the military campaigns through strategic administration and resource mobilization. She was also a devout patron of religious institutions. She supported the Order of Santiago, endowed monasteries, and continued to sponsor Las Huelgas Abbey, where she was later buried. She also promoted historical writing, commissioning chronicles to preserve and legitimize her family's legacy.

Berengaria died in 1246, having lived to see her son triumph in Córdoba, Jaén, and Seville, and recognized as a defender of Christendom. She was buried at Las Huelgas Abbey in Burgos, among her royal ancestors.

History remembers Berengaria as one of the great queens of medieval Europe—not because she held power for its own sake, but because she used it wisely, and often relinquished it when others would have clung to it. She united two kingdoms, shaped a future saint, and ensured that her son’s rule rested on a foundation of peace, not conquest. Her legacy lives on in the enduring strength of the Castilian-Leonese crown, and in the very idea of Spain as a unified realm.

Further Reading

• MedievalWomen.org – "Berengaria of Castile (1180–1246)" – A comprehensive summary of Berengaria’s life and political achievements, including her regency and crucial decision to abdicate to her son.

• Shadis, Miriam – Berenguela of Castile and Political Women in the High Middle Ages. An academic study analyzing Berengaria’s role as a female ruler and her strategies in a male-dominated political sphere.

• Bianchini, Janna – The Queen’s Hand: Power and Authority in the Reign of Berenguela of Castile. A scholarly book (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012) offering an in-depth look at Berengaria’s reign and influence on 13th-century Iberian politics.

San Julián de Cuenca (1128-1208) – Patron Saint of Cuenca (Spain)

A painting of San Julián and Lesmes, Cuenca (Spain). (Lesmes is the saint’s faithful servant and companion.)

San Julián de Cuenca, the patron saint of Cuenca, served as the city's second bishop from 1198 to 1208. Born in Burgos around 1128, he excelled as a scholar and teacher before choosing a life of solitude and prayer. In 1198, King Alfonso VIII appointed him bishop of Cuenca, a city newly reclaimed from Muslim rule.

During his decade as bishop, San Julián devoted himself to rebuilding the diocese and caring for the needy. He became known as the "father of the poor," often depicted weaving baskets to raise money for those in need. His simple lifestyle and unwavering generosity left a lasting legacy of faith and compassion. Recognizing his holiness, Pope Clement VIII canonized him in 1594.

This painting is housed in the Cathedral of Santa María y San Julián de Cuenca, a stunning example of Early Gothic architecture, built between the late 12th and early 13th centuries. The cathedral, one of the first Gothic churches in Spain, stands as a testament to Cuenca's medieval Christian heritage and the enduring influence of its beloved patron saint.

Juan Pacheco and the Castilian Succession Crisis

The Castle of Belmonte (Spain), built by Juan Pacheco.

Juan Pacheco (1419 – 1474), 1st Marquis of Villena, was one of the most powerful and ambitious nobles in 15th-century Castile. As a close advisor to King Henry IV (Henry the Impotent), he held great influence at court. However, his shifting loyalties and political maneuvers helped create the conflict that led to the Castilian Succession Crisis. By switching sides multiple times, Pacheco played a key role in shaping the fight for the throne.

At first, Pacheco was one of Henry IV’s most trusted allies. He gained large amounts of land and power, including the lordship of Belmonte, where he built the Castle of Belmonte in 1456. But when other nobles, like Beltrán de la Cueva, started to gain the king’s favor, Pacheco felt threatened and turned against Henry IV.

In 1465, he joined a group of nobles who wanted to remove the king, arguing that Henry was weak and unfit to rule. They staged the Farce of Ávila, a public event where they symbolically deposed the king and declared his half-brother, Prince Alfonso, the rightful ruler. Pacheco became one of Alfonso’s main advisors and military leaders, but when Alfonso died suddenly in 1468, Pacheco had to find a new way to stay in power.

He then switched his support to Isabella, Henry IV’s half-sister, helping to negotiate the Treaty of the Bulls of Guisando (1468), where Henry named her as his heir. However, Pacheco wanted to control Isabella’s decisions. When she secretly married Ferdinand of Aragon in 1469 against his wishes, he saw her as a threat and once again changed sides. He returned to Henry IV’s camp and supported Joanna la Beltraneja, Henry’s daughter, as the rightful heir.

Pacheco’s constant shifting between rival factions deepened the crisis and helped lead to the War of the Castilian Succession (1475–1479). However, he did not live to see the war begin, as he died in 1474. Though his political plans ultimately failed, his influence left a lasting mark on Castile, and his Castle of Belmonte still stands as a reminder of his wealth and ambition.