Cathedral Cities of Spain

In Short

This book functions as a travelogue and architectural survey of Spain’s major cathedral cities at the dawn of the twentieth century. Through a series of detailed observations and sketches, the narrator explores the cathedrals of Andalusia, Castile, and beyond, documenting their artistic treasures, structural evolution, and the remnants of Moorish influence. It has lasted as a testament to a vanished era of slow travel, offering a blend of historical reflection, aesthetic appreciation, and candid commentary on the social conditions of the Spanish people in the early 1900s.

The Story

The journey begins with the thesis that religion is the great unifying force of Spain, a "country of contrasts" where the expulsion of the Moor left a cultural vacuum filled by the Church. The narrative moves across the landscape, treating each city as a repository of both triumph and decay. In the south, the narrator visits Seville and Cordova, where the lingering presence of the East is felt in the architecture and the persistent poverty of the streets. He observes the "irregular mass" of Seville's cathedral, contrasting it with the Giralda tower, while in Cordova, he struggles to sketch amidst importunate beggars and decaying ruins.

As the journey progresses toward Granada and Malaga, the narrative shifts toward the tension between grand, often "jerry-built" cathedrals and the ruined palaces of the past. The narrator encounters the remnants of Moorish life—the "patient angler" on the river, the "groaning" water-mills, and the repurposed buildings that now serve as warehouses or asylums. He notes the irony of historical progress, such as the town of Tortosa, which prided itself on adopting gaslight while the rest of the world moved on to electricity.

Moving north, the focus turns to the distinct ecclesiastical styles of the peninsula. In Barcelona, he finds a refreshing mystery in the narrow, high-vaulted naves and the cool cloisters filled with sacred geese. In Toledo, the narrative examines the richness of a cathedral that acts as a "museum" of kings and cardinals, though the narrator does not shy away from criticizing the "theatrical" and "jarring" modern additions.

The arc reaches its culmination in the wilder, colder landscapes of the north, including Leon, Burgos, and Salamanca. Here, the narrative becomes one of endurance. He details the French-influenced elegance of Leon, the "forest of small spires" that crowns the city, and the rugged, isolated life of the Maragatos near Astorga. He recounts the heroic, bloody history of Saragossa, emphasizing the spirit of a city that fought house-to-house against invaders. The journey concludes with the recognition that these cathedrals are not merely static monuments but living organisms, subject to the ravages of time, earthquakes, and human interference. The final impressions are of a nation where the "glories have departed," yet the architectural fabric remains, silently witnessing the changing currents of history, from the Moorish conquest to the era of the Napoleonic wars and beyond.

How It Unfolds

The religious foundation The narrator establishes that the Catholic faith is the singular thread connecting Spain’s disparate provinces. He introduces the architectural progression from the early ninth-century churches of the north to the Romanesque and Gothic structures that followed the retreating Moor.

The Southern experience The focus shifts to the intense, humid atmosphere of Seville and Cordova. Here, the narrator grapples with the juxtaposition of breathtaking religious relics and the "loathsomeness" of the local squalor, highlighting his difficulty in reconciling artistic beauty with urban decay.

The Mediterranean route Traveling along the coast, the narrator makes brief, colorful stops in Tortosa and Valencia. He documents the quirks of local life, such as the pride of a landlord in an aging gas-lighting system or the dangers of traveling in a local omnibus.

The heart of Castile The journey arrives in the monumental cities of Toledo and Salamanca. The narrator provides a microscopic look at the cathedrals’ interiors, cataloging the carvings, the tombs of forgotten nobles, and the strange, "theatrical" modern interventions that clash with ancient stone.

The Northern conclusion The narrative ends in the cool, mountainous regions of Leon and Burgos. He reflects on the "forest of spires" and the profound influence of French Gothic architecture, ultimately leaving the reader with a sense of the vast, varied architectural heritage that defines the Spanish skyline.

The People

The narrator serves as our guide, a man of refined aesthetic taste who is perpetually frustrated by external factors—whether it be the "unpleasant throng of idling loafers" in Malaga or the "venomous mosquitoes" of Valencia. He is a keen observer of human nature, showing genuine, if condescending, affection for the "lively little landlord" in Tortosa who attempts to be his constant companion.

He elevates historical figures to the status of legends, such as Herman Perez del Pulgar, whose "holy zeal" drove him to pin a devotional scroll to a mosque door under the cover of night. We also meet the "redoubtable peasant" Tio Jorge Ibort, a figure of the people who helped lead the defense of Saragossa, and the "Maid of Saragossa," whose courage at the artillery gun serves as an idealized symbol of Spanish defiance. The "verger," a recurring figure in various cathedrals, often acts as the gatekeeper to these treasures, sometimes providing helpful insight, other times merely complaining of the cold or the necessity of modern, opaque glass that spoils the light.

In Its Own Voice

"Wherever one's footsteps wander, be it in the progressive provinces of the north, the mediævalism of the Great Plain, or in that still eastern portion of the south, Andalusia, this one thing is ever omnipresent and stamps itself on the memory as the great living force throughout the Peninsula."

In the preface, the author defines the central thesis of his journey: that religion is the primary, binding element of Spanish identity.

"I found it impossible to sit in the streets where I would gladly have planted my easel, and it was only by standing with my back to the wall that I was able to make my sketch of the Campanario."

The author vividly describes the physical challenges of capturing art in the streets of Cordova, where he was constantly besieged by beggars.

What It's Really About

The book is an exploration of the concept of "the past" as a living, breathing entity. It investigates the tension between preservation and progress, arguing that the true soul of Spain resides in its cathedrals, which act as vessels for a history that is frequently contradictory and often violent. The narrative repeatedly questions the cost of cultural survival: how much of the original, "authentic" spirit of the Moorish or early Christian period can be maintained when it is obscured by later, sometimes "jerry-built" additions? It is a study of how a nation processes its own complex, multi-layered identity, using architecture as the primary source material to interpret the rise and fall of empires.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the slow, observational prose of early twentieth-century travel writing will find this book deeply rewarding. It offers a window into a Spain that has largely faded—a world of horse-drawn carriages, "sorry-looking horses," and the quiet, dusty atmosphere of a pre-tourism era. The book is not a light guide but a thoughtful, sometimes grumpy, and highly detailed companion.

Modern readers should be prepared for the author’s candid, often blunt assessments of the people he encounters, which reflect the social hierarchies and period attitudes of 1909. He is as likely to complain about the quality of the drinking water or the "loathsomeness" of a beggar as he is to rhapsodize about a Gothic portal. Those who value precision in description and a genuine, unvarnished look at the difficulties of travel will find his voice refreshing. The book is best read as a slow, deliberate exercise in seeing—a way to inhabit the quiet, semi-gloom of a cathedral interior, far from the hurried pace of contemporary life. It remains a poignant reminder of how history is not just read, but physically walked through and sketched, line by painstaking line.