Travel with Beebe as she explores the 12th century Catalan Cistercian monastery of Poblet and its wine fields in the heart of Catalonia.

By Beebe Bahrami

My friend Mia had joined me for ten days during my research into the sacred sites of Catalonia. We were currently fixed at a local café across the street from the Monastery of Santa Maria de Poblet, located inland in the rippling countryside not far from the coastal city of Tarragona.

Getting there had been another one of those local bus adventures: The bus driver from Tarragona assured us he would let us off in Poblet. But as we passed the scant four or five building site — granted, one of those ”buildings” was the Cistercian monastery complex — the entire bus load of elderly locals and young commuting workers erupted in an uproar. As one voice they chorused, “You didn’t stop for the two Americans! Stop! Go back!” On the bus ride, curiosity and boldness, two wonderful Spanish features, had already led to other passengers learning all about us and why we were on the bus.

Momentarily embarrassed, our driver hit the brakes and reversed to Poblet. By the time Mia and I got off, his usual puffy confidence had returned, “I’ll be back at 4:45 p.m. sharp to pick you up at the fountain.” I craned around, looking for a fountain, refusing to step off the bus for fear that he would leave before explaining. “The fountain?”

“Si, the fountain, back there.” He gestured with his thumb to an imagined place somewhere 180 degrees behind him.

“You promise?” I tried to say sweetly, hiding my trepidation at his lapses in memory.

“Of course. Why don’t you trust me?”

I stepped off the bus, deciding that being left in Poblet forever was not a bad fate. As the bus door closed behind me, I heard our Greek chorus say as one, “Would you trust you?”

We looked around ourselves and took stock. Mia had been studying the area indicated by our bus driver’s thumb. After a few minutes she saw, a couple hundred yards down the road, a grove of trees overshadowing a crumbling semi-circular pool with a hovering cherub-like angel.

“I think that’s the fountain.” There was hope in her voice.

The bus was a white dot on the black stripe of road when I suddenly saw the immense beauty of the place. A grand and ancient stone wall lined one side of that road and the other side was covered with rolling vineyards. The Torres vineyard’s fields were nearest at hand. Behind us, rising behind the slight hill was Poblet, a truly small hamlet, and the golden-pink stones of one of the Cistercian world’s most beautiful monasteries. The hamlet and monastery were nestled in these vine-covered hills like a puppy in its basket with its brothers and sisters, all huddled and cozy. Wine fields radiated from the monastery forests, purple-green hills arrayed like the sun’s rays.

Later that afternoon, I was to learn that the winemakers on this rare little spot within the monastery’s grounds predominantly produce Pinot Noir, a rare varietal in the Spanish world of wines. This spot has the perfect conditions, warm days and cool nights in summer, to lure this sensitive grape into a delightful vintage.

But for the moment, a mutt that had Rotweiler somewhere in his past ancestry lay at my feet snoring and drooling. Once, he woke up and lifted his head toward me, allowing me to scratch his head. He looked Rotweiler but had the disposition of a retriever.

Arrayed before us on our little café table were a selection of tapas: a ceviche of little neck clams marinated in red wine vinegar and spicy Spanish paprika (berberechos al pimentón); homemade chicken fritters (croquettes casera de pollo); succulent, small, deep fried squid (calamares), and a green salad of baby romaine, radicchio, escarole, radishes, onions, carrots, and tomatoes dressed simply with local olive oil and sea salt. We enjoyed a dry white wine with notes of juniper, orange zest, and spring grass from the Campo de Borja growing area in Aragón, to the west of Poblet. We would wait to try the local Pinot Noir once we got into the currently closed monastery.

Poblet means “white poplar grove,” derived from the Latin, “populetum,” and I think the brothers knew something when they arrived here and decided to build. Mia said it best when she stood taking in the monastery and fields. “There are angels all around here.” She paused, looking with the same intensity she had when locating the crumbling fountain. “They’re even in the fields.”

This might well be the secret to the incredible Pinot Noir made on the monastery grounds.

When our lunch of tapas was over, the monastery gates swung open. There were other visitors just like us, dining at the little café just across the street. It was a good set up. Get there for lunch, dine on great food in the one place in Poblet that has any food at all, and then funnel in to the sacred grounds.

Poblet is still occupied by monks. Visits here must all be done as a part of a guided group tour. The only tour for the afternoon before Mia and I had to catch our ghost bus was for a group of visitors from France and was to be in French. Luckily, in graduate school I’d had to learn French in order to read and translate texts for my research. I faux-confidently told Mia not to worry, I’d translate. To assist, our tour guide unknowingly helped. He spoke French with a nice strong Spanish accent (meaning, more letters got pronounced than usual), and he even threw in the odd Spanish or Catalan word to my delight and to the rest of the crowd’s confusion. Mia floated through, enjoying her unique perch of hearing a patois of French, Catalan, Spanish and English as we soaked up the yellow-pink-light-from-within stone on the arches, and fountain, and the carved sacred symbols on walls all across the monastery.

The highlight of the tour was walking on the rooftop of the cloister below, and then descending into the monastery church via inner private passages.

The Monastery of Santa Maria de Poblet was begun in the 12th century, with subsequent additions going on up to the 18th century. Like other monasteries in the region, Poblet was a part of the campaign to resettle territories in Spain that had been ousted from medieval Muslim Spain’s control. The new conquerors wanted to secure the empty lands with enough settlements so as to discourage Muslim attempts to take it back.

In its heyday Poblet was an important monastery for the Aragonese and Catalan nobles and many are buried here, including Jaime I (James I) whom you will find in the church in a tomb embedded into an arched underpass near the apse. In his peaceful slumber, which you see in a beatific smile, he holds his sword hilt with his left hand and a vigilant lion lies beneath his resting feet. Other nobles lay in these curious in-the-air tombs, the purpose is to be perpetually in the path of prayers and benedictions so as to assure blessings in the afterlife. This was a common practice in many churches for anyone who could afford to acquire such an auspicious burial spot.

Poblet’s Cistercian church possesses exquisite acoustics, something for which the Cistercians were famous in their architecture. The physical harmony that brings this about is equally delightful to experience. Throughout the monastery, the stones glow with an ethereal pink-yellow hue.

In 1835, all across Spain, monasteries were disbanded. Poblet, among hundreds of other monasteries, was abandoned and pillaged. The contents of the royal tombs were taken to Tarragona’s cathedral for safe keeping, and they were restored to their original resting place in 1946, shortly after the Cistercian Abbot General brought four monks from Italy to revivify the monastery.

These 20th century refounding monks are credited with making Poblet a vibrant spiritual center today. Within the monastery grounds you will see vineyards, which are a part of the Cistercian wine-making revival begun in 1989. The choice to grow Pinot Noir grapes, in addition to possessing the ideal climate, was also historical. The first Burgundian Cistercians grew this grape in the 11th century and Poblet wanted to maintain its spiritual heritage, also stemming back to the Burgundians. When you enter the monastery through its outer gate, the Vins de Poblet cellar and wine shop is immediately to your right, in a 19th century farm building.

Our bus driver did return for us. That evening Mia and I dined in. Back in our home base of Tarragona, we procured an array of cheeses, cured hams, fruits, baby cucumbers, and vine-ripened tomatoes from the little shops on the plaza beneath our third floor balconied room perch. We uncorked the bottle we’d bought at the monastery — Les Masies de Poblet, 100% Pinot Noir, 2004, Denominació d’Origen: Conca de Barberá. Resting our feet on our balcony, we took a sip.

I don’t think Pinot Noir achieves this personality anywhere else in the world, here on the edge of its ancient ancestral lands and in the hands of people who have all the time in the world, and the help of angels, to make it.

Beebe Bahrami (www.beebesfeast.com) is a widely published freelance writer and cultural anthropologist. Her book, “The Spiritual Traveler Spain — The Guide to Sacred Sites and Pilgrim Routes,” is due this May 2009 from HiddenSpring Books, an imprint of Paulist Press.

The post A Pilgrimage To Poblet And Pinot Noir In Catalonia appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Exploring the magical city of Oviedo, the jewel of northern Spain.

By Beebe Bahrami

Jetlagged but finally at our destination, Miles and I checked in at the Hotel Favila, dropped off our backpacks, splashed our groggy faces with cold water, and joined the swelling crowd for the evening stroll along Calle Uria. The critical mass carried us past the magical forest of Campo de San Francisco Park. Men and women were paseando through the park, dressed in the year’s colors of brown and violet, fuchsia and black, and wrapped in Kashmir shawls and suede jackets. We went on toward the medieval neighborhood with its towering Gothic cathedral and golden arched passageways.

We were in Oviedo, the capital of Spain’s northwestern province, Asturias. Oviedo has become something of an annual pilgrimage for us before we venture into the enchanting coastal wilds of the province. Oviedo is enchanting in its own right. This green city casts a spell through her intimate avenues of sandstone, marble and carved wood, her jovial residents who help the visitor without a moment’s hesitation, her golden cider bars, her Celtic and pre-Romanesque motifs, and her fresh, locally grown/caught/hunted food. A university town, Oviedo is surrounded by rolling green hills and mountains while the Atlantic Ocean is only a forty-minute drive away.

Founded in A.D. 757, then destroyed by invading Arabs and Berbers, Oviedo’s more permanent beginnings date to the early 800s when King Alfonso II moved his court from the nearby mountain town, Cangas de Onis, and rebuilt the sacked city. It was around this period that the warm golden and unique pre-Romanesque architecture flourished with its carved swirling stone and colorful facades of fantastic creatures and stories.

Some years back, Woody Allen arrived in Oviedo to accept a prestigious filmmaking award from the Principe de Asturias. When asked how he liked the city, he replied, “Oviedo is a city of fairytales.” Allen’s one-liner made Oviedans so happy that there is now a statue of him in the center of town with a plaque engraved with his magical words.

The next morning we set out on foot for the north end of town to explore the 9th century pre-Romanesque buildings on the nearby outskirts of Oviedo. Within ten minutes we were heading up a steep hill. In “Handbook for Travelers in Spain” the 19th century English travel writer Richard Ford described this walk as being forested and wild. Today, a neighborhood of walled-off luxury homes mark the first half of the ascent. After that, it’s almost as if you’ve transported back to Ford’s time: forest mingled with green pastures, farms, grazing cows, and horses all stretching upward toward two amber yellow stone buildings over 1,100 years old.

Built under king Ramiro I (A.D. 842-850), both buildings were constructed from a stone that appears to have absorbed the rays of the sun and illuminates from within. The first structure we reached was the church of Santa Maria del Naranco, a tall, narrow, airy, and perfectly symmetrical edifice with pillars and walls engraved with animals and symbols of kingship. An unusual shape for a church, it was originally built as the royal summer residence.

A little higher up the hill was the second pre-Romanesque building, the Capilla de San Miguel de Lillo. It was in more disrepair but teams of experts had recently discovered the chapel’s original walls and had outlined them on the ground. The standing remains revealed walls that had once been painted with rich, saturated colors in shapes depicting holy figures, animals, and plants. Pillars supporting the heavy vaulted ceiling encased twining motifs making the worshiper feel as if he were in a forest.

Hungry, we hiked back down into the city, pausing briefly to enjoy a frothy cold beer at a road side café. Miles, whose enthusiasm for Spain grows ever deeper as he discovers how much Spaniards enjoy gathering and eating, became animated with the thought of lunch. He enthusiastically suggested we hunt down a menu del dia.

Menus del dia, daily, prix fixe menus, are three-course lunch and dinner menus posted outside bars and restaurants all across Spain. We made a beeline for the medieval city’s stone walkways where only pedestrians could enter and where these menus abounded. We landed ourselves in a place called Cafeteria Manhattan. As east coasters the irony hit us, and we committed to their 10 euro lunch and warm welcome. The feast included fried calamari, grilled chicken, french fries, a salad of greens, olives and tuna, a small loaf of whole wheat bread, red wine, and finished with a dessert of Asturian cheesecake (less sweet than its American cousin and rich with very fresh creamy cheese from a nearby, grass-fed cow).

As we were tucking into our grilled chicken, I asked our waiter about the license plates. He lit up. “As you can see, the owner has a thing for Manhattan.” He paused, hoping our faces would register the marvel of this. They did. “The license plates come from his many years of living and working in New York. He, like so many Asturians, had to leave to find work; there’s just not enough work here. I lived in Hamburg for 20 years. Two years ago I returned and the owner gave me this job.” Stories of immigration are as much a part of Asturias and Oviedo as are the green hills, the good food, and the cows on the edge of town.

Every Tuesday morning the weekly market sets up in the center of Oviedo, next door to the historic heart’s daily covered market, El Fontan. Gypsies, West and North Africans, Ecuadorians, and Asturians alike mingled as artisans, farmers, ranchers, and merchants hawking their wares. The surrounding neighborhood had winding stone residential streets where homes were painted cobalt blue, spring meadow green, rust red, mustard yellow, and periwinkle.

Miles and I then stepped into El Fontan where we came upon an enormous selection of just-picked produce, fresh-caught fish, cured sausages, Spanish spices (especially saffron and smoked paprika) and hills of green, black, and red olives. The fishmongers efficiently wielded their pirate-like thick knives to behead, descale, and filet each fish to order. A nearby outdoor café refueled market goers with cider, wine, Asturian cheeses, Spanish omelets (tortillas), and olives.

Though a city, Oviedo is intimately connected to its countryside. It would have been difficult to leave if we didn’t have a few weeks in a rugged coastal village. As our train pulled out of the station, we saw the third and final pre-Romanesque building in Oviedo, the church of San Julian de los Prados. Built by Alfonso II, it is the oldest pre-Romanesque structure still standing in all of Spain. I knew I’d be back to check it out and to return to the Tuesday market.

Beebe Bahrami is a writer and cultural anthropologist specializing in travel, adventure, food and wine, and cross-cultural writing. Her book, The Spiritual Traveler Spain—The Guide to Sacred Sites and Pilgrim Routes, is due out in the spring of 2009 with HiddenSpring Books/Paulist Press. Her writing also appears in Michelin Green Guides-Provence, TransitionsAbroad.com, SouthSilkRoad.com, National Geographic books, The Pennsylvania Gazette, and in Bark, Wag, Expedition, and Archaeology magazines, among others. To read more of her travel writing or to learn about The Spiritual Traveler Spain, please visit her website at www.beebesfeast.com.

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