By territories of the Utrillas
Salts of Saragossa by the district to which popularly they call to him of the Low Aragon and, shortly before leaving the city to find with the feracious kitchen gardens watered by the Imperial Channel and the F you, bro, you will find to your right the central building of the old Station of Utrillas, a today turned its frontispiece into small and amiable garden that, in a zone as this one, so recharged of buildings by the damn speculation of the Sixties, is thanked for enormously. It is an almost square space headed by the facade main and framed by the lateral terms that, in times, occupied the secondary dependencies of the organism. We hope that a day these buildings, instead of being closed to lime and song, are opened so that the people of that district, so harrased of buildings, have a place to meet and to establish their cultural relations there, so hardly attainable by those places. Following waters of the Ebro, soon you cross an old modernist palace that, in times, was host of a Maria school nista, when the children of this city still went in mass to the Jesuits.
The highway continues crossing one of those rickety industrial estates and, a little but allies, of blow almost, appears the deflection that leads to you at the home of this route. Leaving the kitchen gardens you initiate the way by some so typical chalky territories of from Zaragoza environs. In a while you cross the route of the Saragossa-Barcelona railroad and already from that point, the mount of rosemary and thyme begin its reign that lasted the way almost throughout. The small port is ascending smooth until in front of you a phantasmagoric and unreal arises landscape between: all the under mount is illuminated of colors in front of the sun of the noon. It is an amazingly theater reflection that when you come near you think about science-fiction novels: All the sotomonte of rosemaries and thymes this materially occupied, as flowers born in the middle of a consumer schizophrenia, by frightful amounts of plastics. It is a dramatic tribute to the plastic. The reason is very simple: right some kilometers but towards the west, just behind the mud walls of from Zaragoza cemetery, the city burning fire its trashes. The tenacious wind that crosses these landscapes snatches thousand and thousand of bags and objects of plastic that are remained heartrenderingly imprisoned against the matojos of mounts of the east. There is a small tremor when crossing these futurist mounts — if there is no another perspective and one thinks that it would have to be engaged in, about organized trips, to the Hispanic families to see spectacles as this, then, unfortunately, the “continuous tribute” to the detritus society is normal throughout any itinerary that you cross by this country. Until in the humble places but, plastics they appear led in the highways as “it shows proud” from which also until the sad airs of “modernity” have arrived there.
Small tower of Valmadrid is to your right. He is pueblín of humble houses and somewhat left that sees, down, among the plots of the wheat, the tracks of the old one via and the rest of the houses of the signalmen. It has in this somewhat phantasmagoric surroundings that are repeated in the same Valmadrid, although this town counts in its proximities with the shipwrecked rest of the great pine that, in times, had to cross all these places from here to Fuendetodos and this place in the style of Goya to Saragossa. Now, islands as the existing ones in Valmadrid in frank deterioration by amazingly dirty domingueros and the own natural degradation to that the climate leads, make you understand the existing landscaping difference between this spectacular desert and what a time could be forest of pines.
From the stop of the port, and before inicial' the slope, agrees to pause and to see the panorama: The white salpetrous earth remain prisoners in the landscape, behind the back of the Puebla de Alborton, as intercepted gigantic waves of sea in their fall and under them, to the principle with humility and soon violently, the clays throughout everything arise an enormous horizon that by the east the territories of Escatrón and the Low turolense Aragon close — in the clean days the profile of the Thermal one of Andorra and by the south by spurs first of the Iberian System is seen that way.
The slope takes to you towards one of those towns that never you know very well what is the origin of its presence there: the Puebla de Albor- ton Already Antonio Ponz, in its book of “Trip of Spain”, it counts data of his terrible dryness that almost two hundred years later continues being a tremendous reality. Today, the Delegation of Saragossa must supply with tankers. The same Ponz is wondered how they have not worried in this town to have constructed cisterns to gather the rainwater. Perhaps the answer is that it does not rain either, or does so barely that it would never get to fill nor average cistern.
The town does not have anything of interest. Only a bust that, dedicated to the memory of Artigas, liberator of Uruguay and son of some natural of this lunar landscape, makes you meditate on the human condition and you think about those people, their emigration, in its history, and when you see the old men of this town brought closer to the sun of this dry land and you compare them with the humid Uruguayan prairies you shake a little. And also you shake, but this time of climb, when low of the town and, following the indication of Belchite that Or. P. has placed when coming out, you are, of blow, in half of the mount. You return backwards and the old men, that socarronamente has seen you take the wrong direction, indicate the new one saying to you:
— It is that this put it a young engineer just come from Madrid.
Between the Puebla and Belchite there is a sanctuary — of Eastern plan elevated on a knoll dedicated to the Virgin of the Pueyo. Ponz says of her: “It is a picture with five domes, the one in each angle and major in the middle, thought of nice taste and.” What it does not tell is that under its foundations had to exist an important Roman establishment, because the rest of ceramics and found currencies are enormous there, and that outside possibly cristianizado the place. It is what will be, the site is beautiful and has the enchantment of the sober landscape that surrounds it and in his ingenuous baroque interior and a shattering one it frames the smiling beauty of this Marian center. In one of its lateral ones a room exists — half “pictorial museum”, half sacristy in whose walls they hang wax votive offerings — hands, feet, legs and tapes with candles and offered pigtails of hair in gratefulness. It is not a too frightening vision, because it seems that either the offered votive offerings are not many. Perhaps but that makes think about some old tradition of this place, that is not nothing frequents in other religious places of Aragon.
The sanctuary is surrounded by a great building that in times were dedicated to hospedería and place of withdrawal of the people of the environs. Today, barely the place returns to recover life for the celebrations majors of Belchite or when some parishioner decides to marry under the invocation of this Virgin.
For warlike reasons, Belchite is one of those towns whose name is recognized in almost all Spain. To arrive until this town coming from the Puebla forces to you to walk in parallel to the rest of the railroad and to intermingle you by the olive groves that, silverplated by the wind, compose a beautiful light to the landscape. You pass a bridge over the rest of the “Utrillas” and end at the impersonal houses of the “New Town” leaving to your old and “important” right the station of the train. The bottom of the highway you see one of the old doors that gave access to the traditional town, today already an accumulation of rubbish and ruins. And if instead of to enter by this part it beams from the highway of Saragossa, the spectacle is still more phantasmagoric and remembers to any cinematographic scenery, in which, of violent way, it was wanted to represent the hardness of a great battle: Everything is piles of rubbish and, picking up envelope they, as cheese pieces of “gruyere”, three towers of the old churches.
The new town does not have anything to do. In any case it is possible to be eaten in some of his small restaurants, whose food, from homemade flavor, is excellent. And the old man already turns out dangerous to happen through him, then, of time in enormous time, walls collapse on the high street. The reality is thus that the town this not by the war — her so it left damaged as Guernica or Teruel-, but by the stupidity to make a new town — with manpower of political detainees and republican soldiers, forgetting so important elements for the people of the field, as a corral squares or. The belchitanos, that were occupying their new houses with an enormous lack of appetite, had to snatch to their old houses the sticks and the logs, leaving you marinate them without more defense against the inclemency that its own clay. The time, little by little, was turning what Mudejar Aragonese in a ghost was a beautiful gotico town, profiteer at the moment by the greater facist reaccionarismo trying to do of the Franco-developmental mess, a song to the heroism. Only that is of all that one dramatic history is the famous Wine press, in which during the siege they were buried to the dead. The rest, is the time that destroys everything, no matter how much that guide amateur who arises among the mines to the hunting of the silly tourist wants we showed.
Ponz tells us of the existence of a parish of gotico style, of a convent of Augustinian, a beguine convent to educate children and a graceful church executed by Nicolás Bielsa. Also, and of moralizing way, complaint of the existence of much pauper and good number of idle. At the moment the town is lost its old splendor and walks, after the droughts of the last years, worried enough.
Leaving by the door of the well, you descend towards the Aguas river Cheers and, passing it through an old bridge, to your right you are the old seminary also collapsed by the war, and while salts of the channel of the kitchen garden, ascending again towards another harder and dry desert, to the right you leave the left small village baptized in the forty as “the Russia”, to shelter all the people that, after the defeat of the republican army, returned of their Catalan exodus and, while their old houses were recovered, found shelter behind these humble walls.
Picked up again to the plateau, you ascend smooth, just as the track of the “Utrillas”, way of Lécera, whose houses you cross, if you do not pause to acquire wine of this earth that is strong and rough, hard and striking, as the same landscape that it rearing. Passed the town, again upwards; to intermingle to you with the rest of the railroad that go from a side to another one picking up this small port to enter itself, among the sales, towards Muniesa.
This it appears down, to far, presided by one of more beautiful the Mudejar towers of this old country, and that are many here and very beautiful. But this shakes from far by the arrogance and, at the same time, solidity. It is a dense octagon picked up against the sky, in an architectonic wonder of which those bricklayers were only able Moorishes and that made in this town works of an exemplary beauty. Because the Mudejar one is not a spectacular art, but the art to remove beauty to humility. And humble they are its architectonic elements, and humble its decoration, but that in the end gives an extraordinary game. Muniesa has beautiful and suggestive a high street. A pair of beautiful typically Aragonese buildings with herniosos eaves announces better times to you, although at present this town is one of which goodly they are defended against all the crises that fall to them here of blow.
The adjacent streets have numeral names, from the first a completes it, except which this dedicated to Miguel de Molinos, one otherwise great — according to Huxley- mystical the Spanish that had the misfortune of being a heterodox one in a nation where it is only raised to orthodox and at the most mediocre ones, better. Mills, founder of the quietism, destroyed with his attitude all the operating society and lead to the western world towards the contemplation. This was too dangerous in a world in which the competition was, and is, its guide and her north. During years nobody has known that was. A great man of so great history almost as San Juan de la Cruz remains hidden by “the spiritual” obscurantisms that in this country as much they dominate.
Salts of Muniesa by a door that remembers you to the one of Belchite, half altar half fort, and you end at a carefully cultivated piece of kitchen garden. Then, amorrando you already to the first slopes of the Iberian System, you ascend towards the Sales of Muniesa and, a little but allies, you arrive until Cortes de Aragon. Taking a deflection to the left it leads to you, by Josa, and through a narrow and full highway of curves and difficult road, until Alcaine.
They take the sun in that sweet noon from Wednesday of Passion and, without stopping the chatter, they contemplate to you to go of a side to the other of the part of the town that amorra to the Martin, whose waters run clean and calm by the bottom of a precipice, whose borders bring closer other ravines, not forming, between all, an intrincate spectacle. And at the top of some of these stone strong walls they are raised — now from pacific old pigeon houses you take from monitoring, that would defend this surroundings of the difficult harassments of Christians and after authorities other people's to the own one you communicate. Here, already from the Romans, there was a population that would possibly take advantage of the mining river basin that existed way of Oliete.
When you already take short while looking the spectacular panorama that surrounds to you you look for any excuse to enter into a dialogue with those people who still follow in their conversation as if your you were not, but looking to you with the interested tip of the eye and, just as you, to enter into a dialogue. They, to know you. Your, to know the tender one. And when blow questions by a person that your you know there, all they explain to you where this their house and assures to you that great part of them is family hers:
—Coñe! , its sister and my husband, brother cousins.
Until one of them, dicharachero one, she threads the fiber with you and she leaves to the others in the silence of the sun towards the gorgeous south of the sky.
— They come — she says, and taking to us until a house us to us the sample: this is hers. Great, very great. — And soon it adds: The wealth of this town was always in the bandits. Here they were locked in and they hid. They already see that with horses there was no way to follow by no side. It was a safe site.
I look it without believing much to me what it tells me; but is a good narrator and today, to find somebody you that is able to break with the culture of the image, through the word, is something worthy to be listened:
— Here there was a great time during the Moors. Everything had to be wealth. Because by these andurriales they walked. Pay attention if they walked that after the war ours, when I had myself to spend a year in the unavoidable Legion, the first time that I left in Melilla, I leagued together to some of Saragossa and we went to a celebration dwells. The Moors put themselves before you dwell and of blow they go and they touch a melody and I shelp: They cagüen the Co to Me…, if this is Reiano de Obon!
Singing the subject it already describes the steps to us while some neighboring, just descended from a car registered in Barcelona, shout to him: —Already these dancing the Reiano de Obon? (Obon is a town next to Alcaine, and that, according to Ponz, in the eighteen tapeworm 260 inhabitants, no pauper and very good kitchen garden to borders of the Martin.)
One pauses tired, and smiling in a tremendous Aragonese tone, it greets them:
—Already there are llegao?
— It is that we are not pensioners, as you.
One becomes towards me and it explains to me:
— Here we were ourselves when the mines were closed. It does about twenty years gave to work to some three hundred people and between that and the kitchen garden and the mount — here there was very good olive grove and very good vine we survived. But they closed and everything went away sinking. First the young women, the young girls left. To serve. Soon the young men and, finally, the old men. Twenty years living and working in Tarrasa.
— They do not have Catalan accent.
Its answer leaves me surprised. It is really of an amazing wisdom, because in the offices that he walked working, nobody protested to him that it assumed the Catalan language. The laborers are the only intemacionalistas of the world. We continue ascending by the raised narrow streets of Alcaine, and whenever you govern the glance towards the bottom of the precipice, by which the waters of the Martin run, the perspective in the afternoon transforms by the height and the light scattering in abundance by the rocky terrains.
We cross a collapsed lot and the man says to me:
— Here everything went away falling at the home of the emigration, when we fled from hunger j urando to return never and apostatizing from our stones and our houses. Then, many we realized our mistake and we returned to defend our walls. Now, in vacation, they return all.
Against a beautiful wall I indicate the so ingenious way to him to construct with the clay and the stone. It explains the method and it is showing the houses to me in which work and, along with other neighbors, throws years to the different property.
—They know what is this? — it shows two holes to us located on the doors of the houses.
— A water slope — I respond, to say something.
— NonSir, bocanas is two by which the neighbors removed the mouths from the trabucos and shot when somebody wanted to enter to rob.
—But they robbed to them here?
— Also. When the thieves walked of belt tightened without being able to leave to opened field, they lowered up to here and everything took what they could. From the interior, the neighbors defended themselves.
—There was some famous thief?
— Gabundi — he says to me. He was the owner of the redolada one. Towards which he wanted. I have writing a book on the history of my town.
— A unit sells to me.
— They are exhausted. It publishes them in Tarrasa and all were run out to me. Also it spoke in that book of my life in the civil war.
And it tells a history us, that it does not square to us, in which mixes his permanence in the pro-Franco side with his years of jail, after the war, and its punishment to remain a year in the Legion. Although we tightened a little to him the screws to unravel true history, the man slips as an eel. We left it and while he opens the door to us of his house, he speaks to us of another one of his likings: the fossil collection by the different andurriales, that he knows perfectly. It has them abundant and selected.
— The selvage in Catalonia. There they are sold very well.
While it offers a red glass to us rich — “it is of Lécera” —, it is teaching its good pieces to us, that it does not take on sale and describes its geologic theory to us of the valleys that were covered by closed waters, as Lagos. “The same it happens with the coal. The veins are in circuios. Just as valleys.”
Despaciosamente we left towards the place of the town, where we have parked the car, and in whose door of the church a social gathering of grandmothers walks “reviewing dumb”.
—They know what this one says? — it indicates socaiTon to me of my guide, who is going to us to clear the pensions.
The grandmothers, who already know it, laugh themselves. A proclamation by the air:
— They already could kill to us to all.
The rest laugh to outbursts of laughter.
Giving them thanks to our man,
we mount in the car and we left the town.
— Before nobody left here — it says to me supported in the window; one was born and one died here. The car has killed everything, absolutely everything.
With a boring gesture of the hand it says goodbye to us, while by a pineapple hill we left towards the highway. Some kilometers further on, the north wind return to appear with all their violence and what was a smooth climate in center of Alcaine, by Josa, becomes diabolical lost and cold gust of wind.
Again in You cut, takings the general and, to little, you hurry by a difficult port and place setting of holm oaks and oaks. Before lowering towards the Bathrooms of Safe, I see the great clouds of smoke far that are strange to me because the sobraderos of Utrillas are far still. When I come near to the Bathrooms I verify that it is the old custom farmer to burn left-overs, but that by these tremendous high woodlands burn everything what it comes to them in desire. I do not understand of field, but I observe, throughout the trips, that the fire has been the fundamental element that it has degraded the country to remove earth from I graze and of work. Now still it is continued using the fire as regenerator of the land when it gives the impression me that, in front of the nitrogen that produces the combustion, is many the things that load and takes ahead. Serious good that somebody clarified if the fire is beneficial or no; but also it would agree that only not everything was burned the necessary games and what there is around although they are barren earth.
The Bathrooms of Safe
Closed by the south by an enormous rocky terrain, barely opened by tame waters of the Aguas river Cheers, is the semicircle that locks up, in its depth, the humble facilities of Jos thermal bathrooms of Safe. Ponz says of it: “To average legua of the town is a hot water spring and famous bathrooms, to which usually they concur by the August up to 600 people in search of its health; but they experience great inconveniences for want of competent lodging, of doctor, surgeon and crew members. The lack of a writing is even greater that demonstrates the true virtues of these bathrooms”. I do not know if such writing exists, but fodder that so many years worked, something of certain must have those so famous waters in all the contour. At present, two families known in Saragossa run the bathrooms: the one of the Armisen, famous in the “entire world” for being the parents of soda waters of papelillo, and the Abós, met doctors and professors the cesaraugustana University. I suppose that both will have worried that the things which Ponz complained are already resolute.
If you go in winter — it is to say, outside season you will be everything closed to lime and song. On the contrary, the months of summer are a people swarm. The place is not calmed because it is not it the landscape, but the rest is assured between the walls of the hotel where the food is excellent — I never have been ill, but of client and the service, amiable and sufficient. If in addition it has the luck to arrive at the time in which that way they walk the Armisen-Abós or the Abos I do not know what, young people, who are excellent and intelligent people, you can find a shelter that cost much to leave it to you while you see the people you idolize of the water, who are also a spectacle that in a few parts is seen.
Giving to the complete return to the rock circus salts, by farallón, towards the air again. And a little but ahead you are with the town of Safe of Bathrooms, now very degraded, whereas Ponz sang its excellence and warned the authorities of the imminent danger that already it underwent the very rich forest of this town. Today it is not already nothing of him and many still are surprised of the enormous drought that every time devastates more violently these places. Ponz says: “One enters, before arriving — al town in his famous Pine, that they assure has seven leguas of extension, but with sixty towns that fights it by all the sides by means of the indiscretion of coal miners, woodcutters, stubbers and other that use arbitrarily of their wood. Nobody did case to him and the desolation of the desert is almost reality. Another warning but — and this one of a man of eighteen on the ecological balance and its consequences.
Nine kilometers but ahead and after following a quite fresh, back-to-back fertile valley the highway to the drawn up one of the railroad, is ended once at the general who unites “hypothetical and utopianly” Madrid with Tarragona through a pueblico with Vivel name of the River, of mythical memory in the passage of the railroad, then, here, the trip was already transformed into a sumptuous route after to have worried the last and difficult outlines of the route. An ample valley, crossed by the river Martin, is opened before you. And a good highway will accompany to you until Utrillas. It is, as always, the interest of the capital gain.
Little beyond Vivel he is Martin of the River, a back-to-back town most of his small village alongside izquerdo of the highway in the direction of Montalban. Of her, but the singular thing it is the enormous church that almost is appropriated the rest of the town. It is a great building inside which, and already some ago years, I walked singing Carbonell and, thanks to the support of a son of the town and which now she walks of professor by territories of Monsoon. Luengo, that therefore is called the old companion of turolenses ups and downs, is somewhat atypical of these places. Today turned into an international traveller certainly it feels by these earth and these houses — transition between the low Earth and the next large houses of Iría mountain range nostalgia between the love and the boredom. We sing within the church because this one walked in renovation and was right the day in which it died, in Madrid, the lieutenant of Guard Ci \ to, Mr. Pose. Seventy the five walked by these airs the strange summer of.
Past Martin, the fertile valley is become more and more rich and fertile. It gives just like you cross it in summer or winter, because the laboriousness of the people of these contours is interminable. In some places of the way mouths appear of left mines. They are small taken advantage of carboniferous nuclei in times, but devoid of interest at moments of the great industrialization of the mining work. These tender ones have undergone the abandonment that the coal was put under when the great glorification of the petroleum, causing that those that traditionally worked this office, left it far emigrating. Now, when the crisis of petroleum has reprimanded the use, again, of the coal as source energetics, one has been going away search a cheap labor in countries as Pakistan. And it is not rare to find you by the streets of Utrillas, Escucha or Montalbán, more typical scenes of those Eastern countries, that of the old men and tortured territories of the Low turolense Aragon.
In a while determined a deviation arises towards the south in that they indicate Utrillas, Listening and by the ports of San Just and Esquinazo, Teruel. The floor is exclente and the arrival to Utrillas, fast. In a curve they appear the coal laundries, always smoky, that cloy the throat to you. At the entrance of this zone the vote for pecé or pesoe and fodder are guinea fowl protesting, while I return this way, that one year of seventy the four in which, in company of journalist Luis Gra- nell, crossed these same earth way of Jorcas, above in the mountain range, to sing there for the first time. And not so that you think that the things have changed so much, in so few years, that history, the rate of history has taken to all contrapaso and is to us shaking vigorously gracefully.
I do not know so that whenever I arrive at Utrillas it is cold or it refreshes the time, is winter or summer, and in my skin I feel a chill. Perhaps everything is due to the terrified panorama that the vision of these houses now produces to me. Sensation gives me that is something risen provisionally and that everything there this position while it holds the coal and that the day that this one is run out, the ruins will return to hacerse* owners of the landscape, as in other places.
In front of the house quarter of the Civil Guard a locomotive of the old railroad of Utrillas is raised. She is tiny and it turns out amazing to think that it would have sufficient force to drag the wagons of travellers who, to the dawn, loaded of cattle ranches and of cold, they rose his departments to realise a short route that cost hours and hours. And of blow I see, boy, brought closer to the crystal of the window seeing the dawn by territories of the East and contemplating, with astonishment, the rabbits, that, terrified, fled before the deafening whistle of the machine. And the wagon, with a stove, in center filled with vocingleros hunters pushing its dogs, while the station master of Valmadrid grasped himself against the cold through an enormous scarf. And the station of Azuara, so distant to the town, and to which, according to the popular version, they lowered, in the forty, the facist women to hope to the terrified ones and intimidated beings which jails and concentration camps returned of and to grind them to woods as brotherly symbol of Paz de Franco. Because that war this still latent in the glances, the memories and the collective memory of these towns. In same Belchite, near the empty and ragged station by winds and solariums, they are the large cabins that, in times, the prisoners occupied, many of them of the International Brigades. “She was Tito”, whispers the popular and republican voice to you, although the Yugoslav leader would always deny it. And with the view in that little maquinita, you think about the bridge that crossed the Aguas river when coming out Cheers of Belchite and it give account to you of the useless thing which it was, against the great economic magnitudes, the superhuman effort to raise this trenecito to do independent, energetically, our land of the rest of the country. They were times of beautiful dreams, that the day that the wind removed hojarasca everything I remain in dreams. Nothing else.
A good way to finish this trip, is to take advantage of it and returning to Illegal the Madrid-Tarragona highway” until Alzañiz, that magnificent city that, to borders of the Guadalope, recall in its stones Italian symptoms by the beautiful one porticada of its place, or judaicos airs Moorishes among its narrow streets which, smoothly, they descend, or raise of the Guadalope the place. They are streets that are worth the trouble to be walked at dusk, because in this land of little romantic enchantments walking by this district it returns you to the fiction from the nineteen, aside from that to observe the singular urbanism of this zone is already a true wonder. In Alcañiz one eats very well — to seguer to Me it is an excellent example and if the “perneas” give you for it to stick one to you slept to the “templario”, in the castle of the twelve, from which morning the rich and beautiful fertile valley of the Guadalope is contemplated, he is farde that is worth the trouble. If the “dogs” do not give you for as much are very good hotels in the town and outside him. Alcañiz keeps an excellent pastelera tradition that you can verify it in the pastry shop that there is in the place and in any restaurant that, of dessert, the rich ones serve to you you graze of soul with flavor to anises and not at all cloying hair of angel. A beautiful spectacle was the one that in this city lived the day in which adoptive son to the great tierrabajino sculptor named, Pablo Serrano. As tribute to this man, who has made of the bronze bread an art work, all the tahonas of the environs, rehabilitated old panificadoras customs and exposed, in the City council, the bread forms and species that, traditionally, became in the region. It was a beautiful spectacle.
Before going you of these earth, it returns to the place and it contemplates until the eyes fill to you, the wonderful invoice of the Renaissance City council and the porticada Market. They are so beautiful spaces that one never gets tired to retain them in its eyes and their memory. Ponz, among other things, says the following thing of this city: “A source of seventy-two sewers in the border of the river and immediate to the bridge is remarkable in Alcañiz, from which a tree-lined avenue forms… One of the most important things is the famous marsh (today called the Monopoly) distant of the city one hour and which has another one of circumference walking To hoist constructed for the irrigation of great part of the kitchen garden… is of much gift the eels and barbels and other fish that grow up in the marsh… El Castillo was work of king don Jayme and strength of first order. In this it was the novitiate of Calatrava and they became election of Masters… to a side sees the tomb of don Juan of Lanuza, great Master of this Order and viceroy of Aragon, that died in 1537.” He is stranger who a as observant man as this Ponz does not describe, of the any way, most excellent at the moment of Alcañiz: The City council and the Market. So that? Not the answer.