SIURANA,
PIERRE SUR PIERRE SUR AIR

Per Blai Rosés
Vídeo: Andrei Moldovan


The legend tells of a walled castle, an impregnable fortress debated between Moors and Christians for centuries. Experience a center of power in the Middle Ages, the last stronghold of the Moorish kingdom in Catalonia. That was the great battle for Siurana, but not alone. In the final assault on the castle, cuts and all supply routes and executed relevance siege, and defeated the enemy of the Condes Barcelona, the figure of Abd al-Azia, a queen arrears without leaving the saddle rises preferred a leap of fatal cliff, rather than surrender to the feet of Christians. This is the legend that word of mouth has gone through time, curious to distinguish only the crumbs of history. Right there where they say jumped the queen, too often hapless who have lost faith rush. The legendary fortress ruins that are only hint at the presence of what must be the castle. The stones are now divided between crop margins and houses of the village. The magnetism of the vertigo persists and more than one hundred thousand climbers each year pay homage reversing the fall, climbing the rugged dolomite limestone walls.

Flat Rock is a natural viewpoint Siurana against a land full of stories and prehistories. Caves and chasms where paintings take us back four thousand years in time as Emeritus Dr. Vilaseca. Dens of bandits during the French War and later defeated in the civil war. Old mills and villages abandoned today witnesses of the past. They talk about refugees coming from Montsegur Cathars and massacres wrought by henchmen of the Inquisition enabled the conqueror issues skirts. West vineyards and villages surrounded by vineyards, Priorat and its legend of glory and misery

And the Montsant, Montsant always, old and benevolent.

Surrounded by pine, oak and holly Siurana remains slender as a tongue of red and gray stone, uninhibited, breaks the space. Last cliff west of the Sierra de Prades, is a patch of rock that connects the Old Catalonia with the Ebro and beyond. Siurana is the end. Walking, to know you have to walk. Retracing the ravine Foradada, down to the river Siurana, traced by the mill and Esquirola Candi and Ribelles farmhouses near Gorg to Febró. Climbing to the Muller and Andreu Portillo. Guided north to the top of the Gritella and contemplate the Pyrenees. Near the village, the Cortijo Beard and ancient oak, the gorge of Estopinyá and natural temple Siuranella painted amber and ashes. Landscape capitalized.

I have seen educated Frenchmen, standing on the balcony of Portillo de la Cruz, stunned and speechless literally stretching the hair, watching the evening light the imposing silhouette of Siurana. Planted there, solemn, on the space that surrounds it. I have seen ladies of the city down a taxi in Barcelona with heels rolling his Samsonitte the cobblestones shrieking in a children English Such a wonderfull weekend. I saw East Berlin rediscover themselves in the investigation of the romantic beauty of Goethe shedding his soul after a huge full moon beating down on the winding ridge of Montsant. I have seen the sleeping giant lying on the peaks of Porrera contemplate the evening star and the sky with an abysmal calm. I have seen the white Selene illuminate the passage of Trona on solstice night surrounded by hipsters avoiding waking the tune of Pale Blue Eyes by Lou Reed.

I've seen wedding photographers, I've seen herds of hungry Russians and pot-bellied, I saw love to promise a lifetime and sophisticated widows scatter the ashes. I saw lines of cars looking for parking and the hum of the quacks of Palm Sunday. I've seen the last of the old people look at me with suspicious eyes sitting on stone benches one day each day. I have seen the presence of some strange, powerful. Siurana I've seen in a thousand years. I look at her and she ignores me.

The editor and writer Joan Sales rang his great novel Incerta Gloria at his residence in Siurana, very late dictatorship. There was still no road and next to the natives shared with such discrepancies "The Belgian". They say Nazi refugee under the Franco regime. It was the second great battle that I can tell, the greed against common sense. The Belgian wanted to seize the town, while Sales and his wife, managed to make the road and keep the community alive. Siurana was the last town in Catalonia to have the only county road now still no lights. Legend and legend. And I wonder, what sources bebe legend? How the places are loaded this uncertain magnetism that makes vibrate with an inescapable intensity?

Abd al-Azia, perhaps we can explain. With my heart in my hand I will explain with confidence that once I found her in the square of Cornudella: dark eyes, dark and silky, black hair night, terse lips and serene look. Abd al-Azia. The sonar returns me a drink fantasy, a smiling table celebrated the day with grenache and carignan, Arbequina olives and sausage.































Special thanks to David
Brascó, Sergi Casademunt,
Ms Maria from L'Acàcia,
Anaïs Chauveau from Siuranella
Hotel
and Pau Escriu from
Els Tallers Restaurant










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