Visitng Arcos de Jalón and Santa Maria de Huerta

On Saturday I visited Santa Maria de Huerta, a large Cistercian monastery in the province of Soria, close to the old frontier between Castilla and Aragón.

My original plan was to rent a car, and visit the towns of Soria and Sigüenza as well, both of which have sites of some significance to my research. Alas, it was not to be. It seems that the Spaniards, to get a jump on the usual August holidays, actually start going on vacation in droves in early July, and so there was no rental car to be had in Madrid (for anything approaching a reasonable price). So it was back to Renfe. I had avoided taking this trip earlier because the published train schedule looked dicey. Basically I had to change trains in a small town called Arcos de Jálon (left) in order to make it to the monastey and village of Santa Maria de Huerta. I was entirely correct in my skeptical approach to this train trip, but for the wrong reason: there was plenty of time to change trains, but there was no return train to Arcos. Apparently the schedule changed in June, and the Renfe website was the last to know.

I overcame this unforseen inconvenience, but not without some problems. The man at the train station in Arcos clued me in when I bought my ticket for Santa Maria de Huerta, and suggested I call a taxi and arrange a pickup ahead of time. He gave me a number to a guy who said he thought there would be no problem picking me up.

So I took the train to Santa Maria de Huerta, which it turns out was barely five miles from Arcos. I arrived at 1pm, and the monastery closed for the siesta at 1:15. With three hours to kill, I decided to walk around the village surrounding the Monastery. That only took about fifteen minutes, as the inhabited parts of the village are smaller than the monastery precinct. There was a considerable number of very abandoned houses (empty for over 50 years), and it appears that the village today is about one-third of its original size. There is literally nothing there: a very small grocery store, two restaurants, an out-of-business hotel, and a bar.

I decided to treat my self to a somewhat expensive lunch at the nicer of the two restaurants. I had a great meal full of vegetables which the proprietor assured me were from his or his family's gardens. He kept reminding me that Huerta means both orchard and market-garden. The village is aptly named, as the only thing that seemed to make life possible in this particularly hot and dusty part of Castilla was the stream and surrounding wetlands, which fed the village's irrigation ditches. The restaurateur also wildly exaggerated about the history of the Monastery, not knowing, of course, that I was certainly more educated about it than the average tourist he sees.

I spent the rest of my waiting period sitting by the small stream watching the village's two geese swin about in the small stream and trying to guesstimate the distance back to Arcos, should a problem arise with my taxi. This line of thinking made me decide to call the guy to confirm my ride... good idea, as it turns out. Jose informed me that he did not think he could make it all the way out to Santa Maria de Huerta because he had to get home earlier than he thought. Faced with the possibility of having to skip the monastery and hike back to Arcos in time for my 7pm train, I decided to ask around town to see if anyone had any suggestions. Luckily the first person I talked to, the lady at the bar, told me that Jose was a fool, but Miguel Angél, who also owned a "cab" would be happy to pick me up. I called my new driver, who sounded drunk, made arrangements, and headed to the monastery.

After an hour and a half of interesting Cistercian history (to be discussed in my next post), I waited by the main gate for my taxi. A gold (not bronze, gold) Chevy Impala pulled up a minute or two later, and Miguel Angél and I immediately recognized each other since nothing else was moving in the entire village. On the quick drive back to Arcos, he explained to me that he was retired, owned a car, and like to drive around, have some beers, and meet people, so he became an unofficial cabby. We got back to Arcos in five minutes, giving me almost an hour to kill before the train back to Madrid. I went into the bar next to the station, and was not surprised to see Miguel Angél working on his next beer. He very quickly bought me a beer as well, and proceeded to harrangue me about what he did and did not like about the Tour de France, which was on the TV. Javi, the bar-tender, bought me my next beer, as an excuse to have another himself. Thanks to two old drunken townies, my trip was not only salvaged from my transportation nightmare, but actually ended on a very pleasant note.