Chinchón, near Madrid, Spain
Chinchón is one of the most picturesque and best-known towns within the Autonomous Community of Madrid and the fact that it lies very close to the capital city has not impinged on its conserving its own personality, with its dark gray and ochre colored landscapes, bunches of houses grouped upon hills surrounding its unique main Square and its winding streets that are a witness to the life and the history of the village.
The town of Chinchon was declared, in 1974, a Historical Site by the Council of Ministers. Thanks to this fact starts the height of the hospitality industry and tourism, making Chinchón one of the most popular destinations, both domestically and internationally.
Excerpts from THE TELLING:
[...] Timber-frame house with timber balconies surrounded an almost round village square; the walkways, about three huge stone steps higher than the square itself, were covered by the timber structures and gave a protective shade in this country of cruel sun and obviously offered a dry place when the heavy rains came down. There were restaurants and bars, each with their own coloured table cloths; and where the tables stood in the square itself, the parasols formed happy and inviting groups in many colours, each establishment having clearly cut a deal with one of the suppliers of the amber liquid. I was gobsmacked and couldn’t stop staring.
I saw Aybee on one of my visual round trips looking at me looking at it with a smile of pride, seeing her enjoyment reflected a hundred-fold in the ‘greenhorn’. She must have read my thoughts again and said, “I was busy all night preparing this for you,” and threw her head back in typical Aybee fashion and laughed uproariously. “Come on, I’m starving.”
Instead of ordering two big meals, we had first courses coming in abundance and shared. Again I couldn’t keep my eyes off my surroundings. We were on the second floor of one of those old buildings, wooden beams everywhere, crooked with age, and there was meat dripping juices onto the coals of a huge open stone grill, sizzling and sending up delicious odours. They not only made my mouth water, but brought Don Quixote and Sancho Panza very much into the presence. I imagined them traipsing in and ordering a couple of cañas, draft beer.
“Medieval. Fifteenth Century,” said Aybee, sticking her fork into one of the bowls and picking up a small chorizo, a pork sausage. “This town square, this Plaza Mayor, is possibly one of the most beautiful in the world – it certainly is among the top three in Spain. Thought you’d enjoy it. Can you believe that at the highest level of the plaza there are houses with three galleried floors and that there are 234 wooden balconies in total? By the way, they’re called claros.”
I left the table for a moment to walk out on to ‘our’ balcony and take another look at the square, this time from my new vantage point. In my mind’s eye I imagined a bullfight taking place below, and somehow I didn’t recoil from the thought. In a different place and setting I would have voiced passionate anti-bullfight feelings, but this place touched an atavistic string even in my bleeding heart. When I got back to the table I mentioned this to Aybee who looked thoughtful and serious.
“You’re right, Oliver. The plaza is used for bullfighting even today. Come September it’ll be transformed into a bullring and people buy tickets for a place on one of the balconies a year in advance. I can see by your face that bullfighting is not in your book of favourites, but it’s a little easier to understand when you just shut the door to your Anglo-Saxon youthful repugnance and try and see it for a moment with ancient eyes. I admit that there was a time in my life when I could see the attraction of the re-enactment of man’s fight against beast, man besting the Minotaur, a ritual as ancient as man’s conscious history on this planet. I could even see the ‘art’ in the spectacle itself, the dance, almost choreographed, yet every moment new in its execution, determined by the two protagonists. Oh yes, I was aficionada, turned on originally by Hemingway who, by the way, wasn’t that much of a connoisseur, something I have only discovered since living in Spain. But Hemingway was ‘cool’ when I was young.”
Chinchón is one of the most picturesque and best-known towns within the Autonomous Community of Madrid and the fact that it lies very close to the capital city has not impinged on its conserving its own personality, with its dark gray and ochre colored landscapes, bunches of houses grouped upon hills surrounding its unique main Square and its winding streets that are a witness to the life and the history of the village.
The town of Chinchon was declared, in 1974, a Historical Site by the Council of Ministers. Thanks to this fact starts the height of the hospitality industry and tourism, making Chinchón one of the most popular destinations, both domestically and internationally.
Excerpts from THE TELLING:
[...] Timber-frame house with timber balconies surrounded an almost round village square; the walkways, about three huge stone steps higher than the square itself, were covered by the timber structures and gave a protective shade in this country of cruel sun and obviously offered a dry place when the heavy rains came down. There were restaurants and bars, each with their own coloured table cloths; and where the tables stood in the square itself, the parasols formed happy and inviting groups in many colours, each establishment having clearly cut a deal with one of the suppliers of the amber liquid. I was gobsmacked and couldn’t stop staring.
I saw Aybee on one of my visual round trips looking at me looking at it with a smile of pride, seeing her enjoyment reflected a hundred-fold in the ‘greenhorn’. She must have read my thoughts again and said, “I was busy all night preparing this for you,” and threw her head back in typical Aybee fashion and laughed uproariously. “Come on, I’m starving.”
Instead of ordering two big meals, we had first courses coming in abundance and shared. Again I couldn’t keep my eyes off my surroundings. We were on the second floor of one of those old buildings, wooden beams everywhere, crooked with age, and there was meat dripping juices onto the coals of a huge open stone grill, sizzling and sending up delicious odours. They not only made my mouth water, but brought Don Quixote and Sancho Panza very much into the presence. I imagined them traipsing in and ordering a couple of cañas, draft beer.
“Medieval. Fifteenth Century,” said Aybee, sticking her fork into one of the bowls and picking up a small chorizo, a pork sausage. “This town square, this Plaza Mayor, is possibly one of the most beautiful in the world – it certainly is among the top three in Spain. Thought you’d enjoy it. Can you believe that at the highest level of the plaza there are houses with three galleried floors and that there are 234 wooden balconies in total? By the way, they’re called claros.”
I left the table for a moment to walk out on to ‘our’ balcony and take another look at the square, this time from my new vantage point. In my mind’s eye I imagined a bullfight taking place below, and somehow I didn’t recoil from the thought. In a different place and setting I would have voiced passionate anti-bullfight feelings, but this place touched an atavistic string even in my bleeding heart. When I got back to the table I mentioned this to Aybee who looked thoughtful and serious.
“You’re right, Oliver. The plaza is used for bullfighting even today. Come September it’ll be transformed into a bullring and people buy tickets for a place on one of the balconies a year in advance. I can see by your face that bullfighting is not in your book of favourites, but it’s a little easier to understand when you just shut the door to your Anglo-Saxon youthful repugnance and try and see it for a moment with ancient eyes. I admit that there was a time in my life when I could see the attraction of the re-enactment of man’s fight against beast, man besting the Minotaur, a ritual as ancient as man’s conscious history on this planet. I could even see the ‘art’ in the spectacle itself, the dance, almost choreographed, yet every moment new in its execution, determined by the two protagonists. Oh yes, I was aficionada, turned on originally by Hemingway who, by the way, wasn’t that much of a connoisseur, something I have only discovered since living in Spain. But Hemingway was ‘cool’ when I was young.”