Washington Irving’s ‘Tales of the Alhambra’ Relived on Romantic Tour of Granada Palace

Give him alms, woman, for there is nothing in life, nothing, so sad as to be blind in Granada.

--Francisco de Icaza

Washington slept here. Washington Irving, that is.

Irving, the author and diplomat, left Madrid in 1829 and traveled south to the Andalusia region. Accompanied by a Russian friend, he ventured to Granada on a solitary mountain road then controlled by bandits.

A century ahead of Ernest Hemingway, Irving wrote of his travels in Spain. Inspired by his book “Tales of the Alhambra,” my husband and I visited Granada and the Alhambra as part of an Andalusian holiday.

The Alhambra, a palace and fortress high above the city, was the last Moorish bastion on the Iberian Peninsula and residence of the Spanish Christian royalty, Ferdinand and Isabella.

In the early 1700s, the palace started to decay and the city remained pretty much ignored by travelers for the rest of the century.

During the romantic l9th Century, Granada attracted artists such as Claude Debussy, Victor Hugo and Alexandre Dumas. But it was Irving’s writings that had the strongest impact on Granada’s fame. Thousands of travelers come daily to visit this town in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Searching for the spirit of Irving’s tales, we walked up to the Albacin. This old Moorish quarter is a cluster of whitewashed houses and winding streets.

A horseshoe arch, piercing the remnants of an ancient wall, opened into a long, green plaza. Families sat on benches. An old man, leaning on his cane, raised his head. “Welcome to the Albaicin,” he said.

A ball rolled by, with a child in pursuit. Two girls in tight-fitting skirts--one orange, the other bright green--leisurely swayed by, arm in arm. All the men turned their heads, including the old man. Water splashed behind us. It was an old woman, emptying a bucket in the gutter. The sound of laughter, music and plates clanking from a cafe attracted our attention. The smell of food invited us in.

Inside, flamenco music poured from a cassette player. My husband, a flamenco aficionado, asked a regular about the singer and the conversation immediately turned to the popular dance form.

“ Oye , Pepe!” shouted our new acquaintance, to a slender, sharp-featured man. “Give us a song.”

As if only waiting for the invitation, Pepe came over and began to sing. He kept the rhythm by softly clapping his hands. His concentration was total. Conversation came to a halt. His voice rose, clear and sharp. Pepe’s friends encouraged him. With a clap and a stomp he finished, and everyone cheered.

After we left the cafe, Antonio, a local we had met in the cafe, took us to see examples of Moorish architecture. A contractor, he grudgingly remarked, “Old heritage is all very well, but a man can no longer put up a board, much less tear down a brick in his own home, before the city inspectors come running to check that it’s done right.”

Speaking fast, with a classic Andalusian accent, Antonio said: “Since you like old houses, I’ll give you a tip. You simply have to see Dar-al Horra Palace. It’s precious, and right here in Albaicin, too.”

Following Antonio’s directions, we ended up in a narrow street running parallel to the ancient city wall. A small sign marked the entrance. An older man opened it and peeked out, seemingly surprised to see visitors. His wife joined him to guide us around.

In the center of a cool patio, a dormant basin reflected sun rays to the wall. Lush, green plants filled every corner of the cool oasis. The rooms had decorated walls, beautiful arches and carved woodwork.

Dar-al Horra, explained the caretaker, meant “House of the Queen.” It once belonged to the mother of Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada. In the 15th Century, the palace was one of the centers of power in the city.

From a tower, we overlooked luxurious gardens and pools of rich, modern homes literally clinging to the city wall.

“See the white church, up in Sacromonte?” asked the caretaker’s wife, speaking to my husband, who is a photographer. “That’s San Miguel El Alto. You can take pretty pictures from up there.”

Farther up the hill, heading to the Sacromonte, Gypsies accosted us with offers to see “authentic” flamenco. Climbing past the last houses, we ventured into a winding path, bordered by thorns and uninhabited caves. The view from the church was breathtaking. A green valley separated the Albaicin from the Alhambra.

Alhambra is an Arabic word that describes a reddish color. True to its name, the palace glowed with the afternoon sun against a backdrop of snow-covered mountains.

Fat, yellow letters by a hole in the wall caught my eye: “ Ojo ladrones “ (watch out for thieves). I was struck by the solitude of the spot. Heeding the warning, we retreated, past caves and shacks. Perhaps the descendants of the smugglers who frightened Washington Irving still lurked about.

Plaza Nueva, at the foot of the Alhambra, is busy in the morning. The outdoor tables at Cafe Lisboa were filled. Behind us, two businessmen discussed a trip while dunking churros in hot chocolate. Another man gulped his espresso in one sip, put down the payment and rushed off. He stopped at the corner, picked up a paper and ran across the busy street. Waiters in white jackets and black pants darted between tables, elegantly balancing their shiny metal trays.

Finishing the morning coffee ritual, we were ready for the climb up the narrow Cuesta Gomerez to the Alhambra. Guitar makers and souvenir shops dotted the street. Copies of Irving’s book, in several languages, were displayed in every window. Taxis zoomed past. I wished we had taken one. A bus barely squeezed through the narrow Gate of the Granadas farther up the hill.

It was at this gate, I had read, that Irving met Mateo Jimenez, a Gypsy who called himself “Son of the Alhambra.” In Irving’s account, Jimenez negotiated for a room with the squatters who had taken over the palace and became the American’s guide, storyteller and valet.

We were welcomed to The Alhambra by a Gypsy woman who gave me a red carnation. “ Toma guapa, te la regalo (here you are, honey, it’s a gift),” she said. Seconds later, she began to ask me for money. Annoyed, I returned the wilting flower.

Walking under a soft canopy of trees, we reached the entrance, the Gate of Justice. Above the outer arch of the Moorish tower, a large hand is carved into the stone. A key also appears over the inner arch.

These symbols of Moslem faith were given a different meaning by popular belief in Irving’s days. The founder of the palace was a magician who cast a spell on the buildings. On the day when the hand would reach down and grasp the key, legend had it, the spell would break and the palace would crumble to ruins, revealing all the treasures hidden by the fleeing Moors.

I was first impressed by the extraordinary carved walls inside the Nazaride palace of the Alhambra. Twisting passages and steps disoriented me. Through a small door I came out into the light. Next to an oblong pool, past an elaborately adorned colonnade, is the Hall of Ambassadors.

The walls shine with colorful tiles and meandering Arabic inscriptions. Ornate arches support an immense wooden cupola.

I entered a small doorway, walked a few steps and was bombarded by golden light and patterns of shadow. A forest of slender columns with intricately decorated capitals created a feeling of weightlessness. I was in the Courtyard of the Lions, named after a fountain supported on the backs of a dozen stone lions.

A basin in the adjacent Hall of Abencerrajes reflects the columns and gardens outside. The space suddenly filled with a tour group. Their English-speaking guide related Irving’s tale of the 36 knights who were decapitated here by the jealous and vengeful Boabdil.

A Spanish group came in, followed by a French group. Their voices, multiplied by the echo, rang in my ears. I found myself staring at a red spot on the floor, pointed out by a guide. Before my eyes it seemed to transform itself into a dark pool of blood. I rushed out to get some air.

We were shown Irving’s quarters, normally closed to the public. Above the door, a plaque commemorates the creation of his tales. Originally built for King Charles V, the rooms are fully furnished, including a piano supposedly used by Irving.

He had an excellent view over the white Albaicin. In the city far below, the bells of the cathedral rang for Mass. Next to the immense Renaissance church is the Royal Chapel, mausoleum of Ferdinand and Isabella.

The grand interior is centered around their reclining marble statues. Underneath, in the narrow crypt, simple coffins momentarily reduce the legendary kings to ordinary mortals.

At 6 p.m., the streets filled with people taking an afternoon paseo , or stroll. Most cafes and bars were packed. On the sidewalks, people stood in groups talking, with beer or Coke in hand. Weaving our way through the crowds, we entered the nearest bar.

While we ordered tapas , a young man asked us where we were from. In a natural Andalusian manner, he invited us for unas copas (glasses of wine) and introduced us to his friends, all students at the University of Granada.

The sun set the skies ablaze. From a terrace at the Albaicin, we watched the Sierra Nevada and the Alhambra take warmer tones with the setting sun.

The white walls of the Generalife, the royal summer retreat above the Alhambra, were surrounded by lush, green gardens. In Irving’s “Pilgrim of Love,” a king built the palace to shelter his son from the temptations of love.

I, too, found it difficult to leave, and was reminded of something Irving once wrote: “A little further and Granada, the Vega and the Alhambra, were shut from my view and thus ended one of the pleasantest dreams of a life which the reader perhaps may think has been but too much made up of dreams.”