Albarracín and a nostalgic artist
ON ONE of my forays inland, pre-Covid of course, I was entranced by one of the most majestic waterfalls I have ever seen. That this was just the beginning of a delightful excursion and the ‘nacimiento’ of the Rio Cuervo provided it. This glorious cascading source was out of this world.
Like a mini Niagara but much more colourful, I considered it far more beautiful.
That I had to trek a little off the beaten track from the Cuenca-Teruel road was well worth the effort. To reach the cascade, a certain amount of footslogging was necessary. However, the short trek was an enjoyable one via a woodland path through eucalyptus, pines and poplars. I was not sure what to expect as I trudged through the forestry but I was lured onwards when
I heard first the burbling then crashing of water.
Faint at first it intensified and soon became quite a roar. The sound of gushing tumbling over boulders, carving out a route down a sylvan hillside was truly entrancing. En route, the water music had been muted by the intense greenery so this made the eventual sight quite awesome ‘close-up’ as the deafening noise of the falls became even more impressive.
Visually it was a superb sight; millions of litres of water hurtling over a skyline in a combination of cataracts, waterfalls and fountains created a virtually permanent succession of steamy glittering rainbows crashing over moss coated caves protected by a shelf-like ridge before forming swirling pools at its base.
It formed a superb Edenesque oasis mere metres from where the spring sources of the river burst from the earth. Although the Cuervo is not one of Spain’s most regarded rivers, it's birthplace near Tragacete in Cuenca province is certainly one of the most idyllic and spectacular imaginable.
The source of Iberia’s longest river, the Tajo, is somnolescent by comparison, yet both rivers begin their lives in the 'Montes Universales' just a few kilometres apart, just off the 'green route' between Teruel and Cuenca.
Coincidentally, Albarracín regarded one of the most beautiful pueblos in Spain overlooking another river, the Guadalaviar - stands splendidly straddling the same route.
My first view of Albarracín was after driving through a tunnel and looking back. To really appreciate its beauty from a distance the pueblo must be approached from the direction of Teruel. At my first glance, its rose-pink stuccoed walls glowing in the evening light of autumn almost took my breath away. Above its stone, plaster and timbered buildings, castellated battlements climbed steeply up the mountain ridge like the serrated spine of a Jurassic beast.
Unfortunately the castle which once proudly overlooked the pueblo no longer exists. Albarracín is a medieval delight; its meandering lanes are an artist’s dream. I roamed in euphoric mood through the picturesque, cobbled streets where cottage eaves almost joined overhead and geranium packed window boxes creating an overall rosy pinkness. Towering above, the majesty of its church rivalled the surrounding rugged sierras for grandeur.
I encountered few tourists and I saw little sign of gimmicky peddling of memorabilia. What I did encounter when I finally wound my way into the rather well hidden 'plaza major' was a solitary artist totally absorbed at his easel in a niche within the confines of a beautiful cloistered pathway. A bearded bloke of indeterminate age, he was garbed in a paint-spattered smock. To me his canvas appeared to glow more colourfully than his surroundings. He seemed to have daubed heavy colour where subtle pastel shades would have been in keeping. He seemed to be exaggerating the existing picture of Albarracín.
I opted to stay overnight and drink in more of this lovely pueblo.
My evening meal would have satisfied even the most fastidious epicurean. Indeed, it rounded off a perfect way to enjoy some of the often wild and beautiful pleasures that Iberia offers