Ronda Is Tough Town to Get Out of Your Heart

The sounds of drum beats and chanting voices drew closer, stirring the crowd with anticipation. Candles flickered. Firecrackers exploded. Church bells announced the procession.

This was Ronda’s romeria , the Pilgrimage of the Virgin of the Cabeza , a traditional religious festival celebrated in many Spanish towns and villages.

We were lucky to have arrived in time for the town’s colorful celebration, during which an image of the Virgin Mary is decorated and carried on the shoulders of participants to a chapel in the countryside. It’s held annually during the second Sunday in June.

The swaying, white-clad statue of the Virgin moved through a sea of shoulders, her weight carried by young women wearing colorful flamenco dresses.

“ Viva la Virgen! “ the crowd cheered. “Viva Ronda! Viva Andalucia y la Alegria (joy)!”

Ronda, famous cradle of bullfighting and the burial place of Orson Welles, is an ancient town in the mountains of the Andalusia region of southern Spain.

Legendary for its beauty, Ronda has for centuries attracted travelers and inspired such writers as Miguel de Cervantes, Ernest Hemingway, Federico Garcia Lorca and Rainer Maria Rilke.

Most recently, Ronda served as the location for the film version of Bizet’s “Carmen,” starring Placido Domingo.

Last year, having completed an assignment in Seville, my husband and I spent a week in Ronda, a town of 31,000 about 50 miles north of Gibraltar.

The three-hour bus ride from Seville was on precipitous, serpentine mountain roads. Nonetheless, our driver nonchalantly removed a hand from the steering wheel to light a cigarette. A violent Turkish action movie, “The Prize of a Life” (dubbed into Spanish), blasted from a television set in the front of the bus.

Though negotiating curves at high speed, the driver frequently took his eyes off the road to adjust the volume while flirting with the pretty girl selling tickets.

After driving through a landscape dotted with white villages perched on rocky summits, the bus came out of a curve and I caught my first glimpse of Ronda.

Dramatically situated on two high cliffs separated by a deep ravine, the white town emerged in the center of a green valley.

Clemente Bernad, a Spanish photographer who had invited us to join him in Ronda, met us at the bus stop. He was on assignment in town, and had found us a room in the pension where he was staying.

Shortly after settling down, we went to see the main attraction--the view from Puente Nuevo, one of three bridges joining La Ciudad (the Old City) with modern-day Ronda.

Legend has it that the construction of the 18th-Century bridge was so difficult that the architect, Juan Martin de Aldehuela, committed suicide by jumping into the 300-foot ravine.

The scenery evoked images of a romantic 19th-Century etching. Whitewashed houses hanging on the steep hillside glowed in the afternoon sun.

Falcons hovered over the river below. Beyond the olive groves, a shepherd was herding his sheep home. The serene, undulating fields stretched into the Serrania de Ronda mountain range in the distance.

Until this century, the area was notorious for poachers and bandits, making the lonely mountain roads unsafe for travelers.

Inhabited since prehistoric times and settled by the Romans, Ronda was a Moorish fortress for eight centuries. The invincible city walls finally yielded to a Christian siege in 1485, seven years before the Moorish dominance of Spain ended.

As with other Andalusian towns, Ronda retains an Arabic flavor. Whitewashed homes with enclosed patios and soothing fountains line narrow, winding streets.

On the edge of town are the Arab baths. Overgrown with weeds and surrounded by plots where chickens scavenge for food, the site was closed for restoration when we were there. But Manuel Bellido, a friendly workman, was easily persuaded by Clemente to let us in.

Bellido told us that the 13th-Century sunken baths were discovered only 50 years ago, when the site was used as a tennis court.

Side-stepping rubble and thorny bushes, we navigated down to three damp, cold chambers with brick columns supporting Moorish horseshoe arches.

Centuries of dampness and floods had removed great portions of the stucco and discolored the wall paintings. Bleak rays of light filtered down into the dark space through star-shaped openings in the ceiling.

Outside the baths, we were accosted by a Gypsy girl begging for money. Clemente gave her a coin. A moment later, she reappeared, asking for more.

“But I just gave you 25 pesetas,” Clemente said.

“I lost it,” she replied in a low voice. Clemente laughed.

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” he said. “You are too smart for that. You know it’s not true, and that I’m not going to give you any more money.”

The girl looked up in amazement and giggled as Clemente waved goodby.

Every day, buses arrive from the tourist towns of the Costa del Sol region, 50 miles away. Visitors pour out to see the cathedral, with its remnants of a minaret and the Palacio de Mondragon, where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella stayed.

Ronda’s most popular attraction, however, is its bullring and museum. Built in 1784, it is believed to be the world’s oldest bullring. Bullfights can be seen during the months of May and September.

Modern bullfighting was developed here by the matador Pedro Romero and his followers.

Each September, the bullring is host to the famous Goyesca bullfighting festival of Pedro Romero, where matadors perform in 18th-Century costume. This year’s event is set for Sept. 3-9.

Bullfighting aficionados Hemingway and Welles traveled here to see Antonio Ordonez, the great matador of the ‘40s and ‘50s.

Welles, who in his youth trained as a bullfighter, eventually became friends with Ordonez. At Welles’ request, in 1987 his daughter brought his ashes to be buried at the ranch where Ordonez lives, outside Ronda.

Every evening, after the tour buses pull out from Plaza de Espana and squeeze through the narrow streets, Ronda returns to normal.

At 7 o’clock, the paseo , or traditional evening stroll, begins. Shops close and the streets explode with life. Cafes and bars open. Couples walk arm in arm. Old men wearing berets take their seats outside the Casino (men’s club).

Young Spanish foreign legionnaires from the base outside town stroll around in neat green uniforms and tilted caps with tassels, reminding of the days when Ronda was a fortress. In Parque de Alameda, overlooking the valley, children play soccer and romantic couples watch the setting sun.

One evening while we were having dinner at our favorite restaurant, Los Faroles, Clemente rushed in, exclaiming: “Want to hear some flamenco tonight?”

Clemente said that Ronda is believed to be one of the oldest sources of flamenco. A local pena flamenca , a group of aficionados, gets together regularly and keeps the tradition alive.

In the dimly lit outskirts of town, we arrived at a small, closed gas station. It did not seem like the usual place where one would expect to find a flamenco recital. But from behind the drawn metal shutters came the sounds of singing, guitar music and palmas , rhythmic hand-clapping.

The pena flamenca was rehearsing for the next day’s romeria festivities.

As the sun rose on the second day of the romeria, the plaza filled with romeros (rosemary). Women and girls in flamenco outfits wore flowers and rosemary in their hair. A man wearing a flat-brimmed hat and leather chaps rode by on an Andalusian stallion, his girlfriend seated in front outfitted in a scarlet, polka-dotted dress.

In the cafe, coffee cups clanked and espresso machines gurgled. Customers, red-eyed from the previous night’s singing and dancing, fortified themselves with cafe con leche. I watched in dismay as they dunked bread soaked in olive oil into their coffee.

“ Hola Chicago!” someone shouted in our direction.

Lola Sierra Gutierrez of the festival choir had recognized us from the previous night’s procession, when my husband John had been taking photographs.

As Lola and I spoke, someone fastened a badge with an image of the Virgin to my shirt, slapped a gorra (cap) on my head and handed me a sheet with that day’s songs.

John and Clemente went off to take pictures and were nowhere to be seen. Next thing I knew, I was dragged into the procession, called upon to sing, clap hands and dance. Botas (wine-filled leather pouches) were passed around. I watched my neighbor, Vicente, raise the bota an arm’s length above his face to drink.

“ Toma !” (take some), he said. “Have some sherry.” I tried, but succeeded only in dousing my face and shirt with the sticky, sweet liquid.

After walking about six miles, with frequent stops to dance and drink, the procession of singers and colorfully decorated carrozas (carts) reached the site of the Virgin’s Chapel.

Brightly colored casetas (tents) were scattered beneath pines in the open field. Young men on beautiful Andalus horses rode back and forth, inviting pretty girls for rides. Gypsies played guitar while women danced flamencos.

The choir invited us to its caseta for a feast of music and food: salads, ox-tail stew, homemade sausage, Manchego cheese, cured ham, olives and wine. John and Clemente returned, saying we had been invited to other casetas to visit their parties.

As the afternoon progressed, people circulated between casetas or lay down to sleep under trees. Many of the young men went off to the pine trees to flirt with their girlfriends.

As the colors of the day began to redden with the setting sun, everybody slowly prepared for the return of the Virgin to the cathedral. There was a flurry of activity. Dust-covered, sunburned and tired, the romeros began the long hike back. Singing not quite in tune, the procession spread out and more people hitched rides from passing carrozas.

Unexpectedly, I was hoisted onto the back of a crowded carroza. “You looked like you needed a ride,” a man said, smiling. A friendly party of women, their flowers wilting, their dresses wrinkled and soiled, offered me a bota.

I rocked in the swaying carroza. Across the valley, Ronda glowed in the reddish light.

“Viva Ronda, Viva Andalucia y la Alegria!” The cheers kept ringing in my ears.

Lifting the bota, I took a swig, thinking there was no point staying neat anymore.