The Red Palace and rosemary

The Alhambra is undoubtedly one of Spain’s oldest, best preserved and most fascinating monuments of Al-Andalus. The only other Moorish building of similar grandeur that springs to mind is La Mezquita de Córdoba, but as that was long ago converted into a Catholic place of worship, I don’t really feel it qualifies as being intact.

The Qal’at al’hambra – although initially just a small castle first mentioned in the 9^th century – was partially renovated in the 11^thcentury before being completed by Yusuf I and Mohammed V in the mid-1300s. Named ‘The Red Fortress’ after the rosy hue of the clay bricks used, it was a true reflection of the last years of Nasri rule: not only a fortification against the growing strength of Fernando II de Aragón and Isabel I de Castilla; ruthless in their determination to recapture and unify Spain; but also a place of refuge for Moorish artists and scholars to continue their work undisturbed.

The Alhambra is a walled city than can be reached via La Puerta de Granadas (the pomegranate gate) dating from the 15^th century. That grand entrance is followed by a steep climb to El Pilar de Carlos V (a large fountain built in the mid-1600s) before turning left and entering through La Puerta de Justicia (the gate of justice): so named as its large tower was once used as a court by the Moors.

The fortress is composed of different buildings: the Alcazaba (citadel) being the oldest and that from which the Catholic Kings flew their flag upon recapturing the city of Granada. Los Palacios (The Royal Complex or palaces) consisting of Mexuar – the administrative centre of the palace, Serallo – its brightly coloured interior and Patio de los Arrayanes built by Yusef I during the 14^th century, and the Harem – the living quarters for the wives and mistresses of the incumbent royal family.

El Palacio Árabe (Moorish palace) – with its never emptying pools, El Salón de los Embajadores (hall of the ambassadors) – the largest reception room in the Alhambra, and the one that held the Sultan’s throne, El Patio de los Leones (court of lions) – perhaps the most evocative of the Alhambra with its central fountain supported on the backs of twelve lions, La Sala de los Abencerrajes – whose name is derived from the massacre of the chiefs from the Abencerrage dynasty supposedly carried out by Boabdil’s father in that very room.

The Generalife and its gardens; completed earlier than the rest of the Alhambra in the early 14^th century although given a small makeover shortly after; was built as a summer palace for the Nasri Kings. Originally linked to the Alhambra by a covered walkway, it is one of the oldest gardens to survive from Moorish times.

All of the Alhambra’s buildings are wonderful examples of the Moorish wont of mixing natural elements – particularly water and light – with man-made structures; providing a treat for the senses. The art and decoration itself is a good example of Moorish styles developed during the eight hundred years they had been on the Iberian Peninsula and were uninfluenced by their contemporaries on the Islamic mainland.

The delicate columns, the lacy arabesques tooled onto the walls, the almost stalactite-like creations on many of the ceilings and the glorious stilted arches are all a great tribute to a highly creative culture and an amazing contrast to the heavy, oppressive and pretentious Catholic art that was to follow.

Indeed, almost as soon as the city had been re-conquered, modifications to the Alhambra began. There is a definite feeling of spite about the actions of the Spanish Catholic conquerors as the red walls were whitewashed, the paintings and the gilding effaced and the furniture destroyed. In the mid sixteenth century Carlos V took down a large section of the winter palace to build his Renaissance structure El Palacio de Carlos V, a large square monstrosity, complete with gargoyles that is totally out of keeping with the rest of the Alhambra and remains unfinished, five hundred years later.

The French also had a hand in its potential demise, as Count Sebastini destroyed some of the towers in the early nineteenth century. Napoleon himself then attempted to blow up the whole structure and was thankfully foiled in his dastardly plans by one of his own soldiers. An earthquake caused yet more damage to the edifices in 1821. And so it went on, until in 1828, an architect named José Contreras was given the task of restoring the Alhambra, an unenviable job that was taken over by his son Rafael and subsequently by Rafael’s own son.

One man who fell under the enigmatic spell of the Alhambra was the American author, essayist, biographer and historian Washington Irving (1783 – 1859). In 1829, Irving moved into the Alhambra, and although he was called away to England after only a few months, the impression that the Moorish palace left with him was lasting.

“Tales of the Alhambra” is a magical collection of essays, stories and Irving’s own impressions of the Alhambra that guides the reader through the author’s own journey of discovery as he uncovers the history of the fortress and its surroundings. It recounts the tales and legends of old, spanning the hundreds of years from the dawn of the Nasri occupation of Granada to the families still living within the walls of the Red Palace in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Ideally, this literary work of art should be read whilst sitting in a quiet corner of the Alhambra, perhaps in the evening, when there is nobody else around to disturb your mystical time travel as you stare around you at the very same walls Irving was writing about nearly two hundred years previously.

At various points along the walk up to the Alhambra, a gaggle of long-skirted, black-plaited women can often be espied – the regulation mules slapping against cracked heels providing a final clue as to their provenance.

Upon arriving in Granada I had initially felt a lingering kinship with the many gitanos to be found around the city; the legacy of two years with faithless Manolo; but it only took a couple of encounters with these particular women for me to realise that the gypsy world was certainly no longer, and had probably never been, mine.

A polite “no” served no purpose when faced with their entreaties: sprigs of rosemary being pushed relentlessly towards you; path resolutely blocked by the solid bulk of gypsy womanhood.

And woe betide those who allowed their protesting digits to be imprisoned between swarthy callouses – your ‘future’ will cost you, whether you care to hear it or not.

Carry on pushing past: “no, no, no, no gracias” and minimum eye-contact would sometimes do the job; but should you have wished to acquiesce to this dubious ‘cultural’ experience, it would have been highly unwise to get out your purse without first being sure that it contained a few easily accessible coins – for if notes were spotted before the palms had been crossed with a measly couple of hundred pesetas, at least one would be whipped out between clever fingers and tucked into the bosom of the owner’s voluminous blouse before you had time to formulate an objection.

It is thought that the gitanos arrived in Spain from the Indian subcontinent around 1415, where they quickly dispersed to all corners of the country.

Initial relations with local lawmakers were good; but with the arrival of the Catholic Kings life for this nomadic people quickly turned sour, as it did for all ethnic and religious minority groups in the country – the Catholic drive to homogenize the population leading to aggressive annihilation of anything that did not conform to their perceived ideas of life and worship.

The gypsies were given two months in which to settle in a permanent home, to find a job and to abandon their traditional form of dress and language; failure to do so would result in expulsion or slavery.

But persecution of the population continued long after Spain was retaken from the Moors, with the rarely spoken about Gran Redada – taking place in 1749 – leading to the forced separation of gypsy men and women in an attempt to wipe out the race once and for all: the gitanos being given ‘useful’ activities to be carried out whilst imprisoned for the rest of the natural lives, and the gitanas locked away in religious institutions.

Those still alive were finally released in 1765, but special laws continued to allow the victimisation of the gypsies by the guardia civil right up into the 20th century.

But despite the relentless prejudice leading to thousands of gypsies taking flight to the new world, and across into Central and Eastern Europe, Spain is still a country with a strong gypsy presence. And Spanish gypsies, although having long since abandoned their itinerant lifestyle, have nevertheless managed to retain much of their culture – with many living almost entirely segregated lives, where their patriarchal laws of virgin brides, violent retributions and misogynistic principles remain largely undisturbed by a ‘payo’ police that has long since given up on the task of trying to impose the Spanish legal system on this untameable people.

So with this rather different gypsy experience fresh in my mind, you would have thought I would have been lesson-learnt and heart-hardened by the day I heard a horribly familiar voice calling my name as I was walking down Avenida de Madrid on my way to the internet café.

Manolo hadn’t changed a bit: cocky swagger and cheeky grin just as familiar on the streets of Granada as they had been on the beaches of Mallorca.

‘Rubia, ¡estás más gordita!’

‘Pero me gusta. Sí, sí. ¡Mucho mejor!’ And with his hands he traced the air in the form of something that resembled the Michelin woman rather too closely for my liking.

Weight-related comments aside, it was strangely exciting to see him again, and against my better judgement I found myself handing over my mobile number before we went our separate ways – an excellent way to get to the bottom of the wife-beating rumours, I told myself…

I never thought for a moment he would actually call, but he did.

Then he called a second time, then a third.

He was apparently still with Maria, so the calls never lasted more than a minute or two: sneaky how-are-you-fine-and-yous while she was in the shower, or out at the shops.

This rather pointless contact may well have carried on indefinitely, until one day Abel snatched the phone from my hand and told Manolo in the most manly terms I had ever heard issuing from his lips never to call again. I was then requested to cut up all the photographs I had ever taken of his nemesis and told that if I ever spoke to the faithless gypsy again, I would become instantly boyfriend-less.

In retrospect, although I am a bit peeved to have lost irreplaceable photographic evidence of a significant part of my life; I acknowledge that he no doubt did the right thing.

Sadly it would be many years before I grew out of the desire to throw myself into the arms of men who didn’t give a stuff about me…