The genesis for my book on the Islamic period on the Iberian Peninsula was a walk that my wife Veronica and I took in the hills near Estepona (in Málaga Province, Andalucía) some years ago. We made our way through the red dust of a mule track over a ridge leading to the Sierra Bermeja, overlooking the Mediterranean. We came upon a small hill which dominated the ridge and the valleys around. There were the remains of buildings, little more than rubble, in stone and pieces of red brick. A local map indicated that these were “Moorish ruins”.
This sparked my interest. Who were these people? What were they doing here? How did they live? I went to look in bookshops and searched on Amazon. I couldn’t find any book which gave a simple answer. There were lots of books of an academic bent, which characteristically got diverted up obscure cul-de-sacs. I could not find a book that told me plainly and simply in a linear fashion the story of these people and their era. (Later I discovered that the name “Moors” is a misnomer, as most never came from Morocco. Generally they were of local Iberian origin, converted to Islam over the centuries of al-Andalus).
Having written several books, I resolved to write an accessible book on the era of al-Andalus. Al-Andalus refers to Islamic Spain and Portugal. Originally it extended over most of the Iberian Peninsula, but was progressively reduced so that by the middle of the thirteenth century it was confined to the Kingdom of Granada, more or less the territory of present-day Andalucía.
0 of 6
Intrigued, I set off on my quest around the Iberian Peninsula. My usual pattern was: do the research on any vestiges of al-Andalus, identifying remains in different locations; then onto the Ryanair website and book a flight to the nearest airport; pick up a hire car and drive to my selected destinations. Usually it involved driving endlessly around the narrow streets of the casco antiguo of the particular town, lost, seeking directions many times in my poor Spanish. And then, I found the remains that were my objective. They could be mere rubble – or sometimes a marvellously restored building. I spent five years at this, using all my leave and covered the Peninsula: from Covadonga (set in the mountains of the far north, scene of the first repulse by the Christians of the Muslim forces in 718, see below), to Andalucía in the south, where the last of al-Andalus, the Kingdom of Granada, remained until the taking of the city by the Catholic Monarchs, or the Reyes Catolicos, in 1492. It was indeed a labour of love, but one with the benefit of seeing wonderful parts of a Spain, not generally visited by tourists.
A stumble in Ronda
Ronda, an exquisite white town in Andalucía, was an important Taifa (or statelet) in the eleventh century. It has extensive buildings and city walls and defences dating from that era. My big project in Ronda: to take a photo of the famous bridge over the deep gorge, the Tajo de Ronda. Armed with my camera and tripod, I walked down into the deep gorge, along steep, rough paths. On the way, I passed the remains of old defensive walls from the taifa era, made of rammed earth. About a year previously I had bought a poster of the bridge from the tourist office in Ronda, which showed the bridge in a photograph of 1918. The photograph was highly dramatic and I wanted to reproduce the same shot. I progressed to my goal. The path ended. I navigated my way around a field of fennel and set up the tripod and took photos. The conditions were perfect; an evening sun. I noted, in comparison to the old photo, buildings in the foreground had mostly disappeared. I was not in the right spot.
I went down to the bottom as low as one could get. There was now a narrow road on the valley floor, going in the direction of the bridge. I spotted at least one of the original mill buildings. However, I was still figuring out how to line it up with the original foreground. I saw a low ridge above. I guessed that the original photo had been taken at its crest and climbed up its side. It was all rough ground and turned out to be impenetrable thorny brambles. Disappointed, I turned back, with the tripod slung over my shoulder. A few steps later I slipped on the sloping rocky ground. I fell heavily on my side, striking a prominent sharp rock. Wow. My side hurt like hell. I had to wait a while as I gathered my breath. Shaken, I made my way back up towards the town. It looked like a long way up and I didn’t feel too well. Slowly, I took the road back. I came to a point where a steep climb up the embankment would bring me to a higher path that led into the centre of town. I took it and got back to the hotel. Sleeping that night was sore, so onto the paracetamol – I discovered the excellence of the Spanish health system the next day when I visited the Urgencias (A&E) in Antequera.
Cordoba
I, together with a friend, headed off to Madinat al-Zahra (palace city of the Caliph Abd al-Rahman III) to meet Señor Barasona (manager of the estate on which the aqueduct de Valdepuentes was located, which had supplied Madinat al- Zahra with fresh water), as arranged. After a drive in his jeep, we set off by foot through a gate of the estate and walked through dry grass, past wild olive trees, along undulating rising ground. He recounted that the estate was 250 hectares and this wild area was being maintained as it was. He said that the fire breaks had to be strimmed every year. If it wasn’t done one would be liable for the costs of the planes that dump water to put out fires. After about one kilometre we came to the ruins of the aqueduct, spanning a small valley. It was probably 20m across, around four to five metres high in the middle. It was mainly open at the top now, but originally was covered over to keep dirt and leaves out. He told us that the water supply was from a limestone area, and it clogged up the inside, so that had to be cleaned on occasion. Originally the aqueduct had served Roman Cordoba but later was diverted to the Madinat (about AD 850), while other aqueducts were brought into play to serve Cordoba. The aqueduct led into the hill, where the channel was tunnelled. He showed us the detail: the original level of the masonry was Roman, using a particular type of mortar. Later a higher level was added, so it could proceed to Madinat al- Zahra, with a different mortar.
On the way back Senor Barasona asked me if I was interested in seeing a monastery, part of the estate. He said “I know you are an Arabist”, but for himself he would find the monastery more interesting. With alacrity, we agreed to go, so back to his jeep. We drove up about 800m up the track. He opened a gate and we entered the grounds of the Monasterio de San Jeronimo de Valparaiso, now private and not open to the public.
He explained that stones from the nearby ruins of Madinat al-Zahra had been used for its construction in the middle part of the 15th century. He said that King Ferdinand (of los Reyes Catolicos fame) had stayed there while he was planning the taking of Granada, as did the later monarch Felipe II. In 1836, the monks were expelled from here when the Spanish Government decided to take over the monasteries (they needed the money. The gold, silver and anything valuable were seized.) The monastery, in ruins, was bought by the present owners in 1910. Without any state aid they have been doing extensive restoration over the years. It looked well maintained and in good shape. However, the chapel still had no roof. Senor Barasona said it would be difficult to restore as there were a mix of styles – gothic, baroque and modern. Thanks to this courteous man, I was lucky to have the opportunity to see this part of the hidden architectural heritage of Spain.
Into the Misty North
The Arab invaders had no wish to occupy the misty, cold and rainy mountains in the north of the Iberian Peninsula. In 718, they had a skirmish at Covadonga with a local Visigothic nobleman called Pelayo, who defeated them. I flew into Bilbao from Dublin and hired a car. I set off through torrential rain, heading for Covadonga (near Oviedo) in the western foothills of the Picos de Europa.
I duly took my photograph of the statue of Pelayo, suitably framed against a misty backdrop. Time to explore the other aspects of the site: it is an extraordinary place. It has developed into a Catholic place of pilgrimage. There is a church and several shrines. Many busloads of Spanish people congregate there every day. It is considered as the start of what some call the Reconquista. The name Covadonga was suitably inspirational to the Spanish Falangists to be used as a code word during the run-up to the rebellion against the Republic in 1936.
Pelayo is important, as the traditions of the Visigoths were transmitted via his descendants to the Christian kingdoms that emerged in the north of Spain. These later became imbued with a crusading spirit of Christianity, so that, more than three centuries after the battle of Covadonga, the conquest of territory from the Muslims of al-Andalus began in earnest.
The despoblado of Adzuvieta
This place is part of the sad last chapter of the story of al-Andalus. Adzuvieta is in the mountainous Marina Alta region of the Communidad de Valencia. During the 17th century Valencia was heavily populated by Moriscos (Iberian Muslims who were forced to become baptised Christians, living under Christian rule). They were distrusted by the king, Felipe III, who was fearful of the rising threat of the Ottomans in the Mediterranean. He decided to expel them from Spain – and Valencia’s turn was first. A decree of expulsion was published by the Viceroy in Valencia in September 1609. The Moriscos in each locality were given three days to arrive at specific gathering points whence they would travel to the disembarkation ports. Ships would then transport them to North Africa. By the middle of 1610, all the Moriscos of Valencia had been rounded up and expelled from the kingdom, an estimated number of about 120,000. The process was repeated in the rest of Spain.
So, it was with a sense of poignancy and sadness that Veronica and I walked amongst the ruins of Atzuvieta, which the inhabitants had been forced to leave around 1610. The village, one of several similar in the regions, had never been re-populated. It had eerie similarities with the famine villages I have seen in my native west Cork.
The concept of expulsions of peoples and the theme of abandoned villages was picked up by Robert Fisk in his article in the London Independent on May 4th, 2014 when he wrote:
“Lost lands are littered with the homes of those who lived there. Armenian houses in south-eastern Turkey. Abandoned Palestinian homes in Israel. German property in what was the Sudetenland and Prussia. There are Greek homes around Smyrna – now Izmir – and down the west coast of Ireland lie the roofless cottages of those who died or emigrated in the Great Famine. Michael Barry, an Irish engineer and railwayman, has recorded the broken homes of the Moriscos – ‘little Moors’ – of Spain, the very last Muslims to be driven out of Andalusia in 1613. His photographs of arched stone walls, roofless cabins and broken timbers in Atzuvieta in Valencia look eerily similar to the wreckage of the 19th-century peasant houses of his own country.”
