Castro Duro is situated on a hill of red earth.
One goes up to the town by a dusty highway, with the remains of little
trees which one Europeanizing mayor planted, and which all died; or else
by zigzag paths, up which saddle-animals and beasts of burden usually
go.
From the plain Castro Duro stands out in silhouette against the sky,
between two high, many-sided edifices, one of a honey yellow, old and
respectable, the church; the other white, overgrown, modern, the prison.
These two pillars of society are conspicuous from all sides, from
whatsoever point on the plain one looks at Castro Duro.
The town was an old important city, and has, from afar, a seigniorial
air; from nearby, on the contrary, it presents that aspect of caked dust
which all the Castilian cities in ruin have; it is wide, spread out,
formed for the most part of lanes and little squares, with low crooked
houses that have blackish, warped roofs.
From the promenade beside the church, which is called the Miradero, one
can see the great valley that surrounds Castro, a plain without an end,
flat and empty. At the foot of the hill that supports the city, a broad
river, which formerly kissed the old walls, marks a huge S with a sand
border.
The water of the river covers the beach in winter, and leaves it half
uncovered in summer. At intervals on the river banks grow little groves
of poplar, which are mirrored on the tranquil surface of the water. A
very long bridge of more than twenty arches crosses from one shore to
the other.
The hill that serves as pedestal for the historic city has very
different aspects; from one side it is seen terraced into steps, formed
of small parcels of land held up by rough stone walls. On these landings
there are thickets of vines and a few almond-trees, which grow even out
of the spaces between the stones.
On another part of the hill, called the Trenches, the whole ground is
broken by great cuttings, which in other days were no doubt used for the
defence of the city. Near the trenches are to be seen the remains of
battlemented walls, tiles, and ruins of an ancient settlement, perhaps
destroyed by the waters of the river which in time undermined its
foundations.
From the Miradero one sees the bridge below, as from a balloon, with
men, riding horses, and carts going over it, all diminished by the
distance. Women are washing clothes and spreading them in the sun, and
in the evening horses and herds of goats are drinking at the river
brink.
The great plain, the immense flat land, contains cultivated fields,
square, oblong, varying in colour with the seasons, from the light green
of barley to the gold of wheat and the dirty yellow of stubble. Near the
river are truck-gardens and orchards of almonds and other fruit trees.
In the afternoon, looking from the Miradero, from the height where
Castro stands, one feels overcome by this sea of earth, by the vast
horizon, and the profound silence. The cocks toss their metallic crowing
into the air; the clock-bells mark the hours with a sad, slow clang; and
at evening the river, brilliant in its two or three fiery curves, grows
pale and turns to blue. On clear days the sunset has extraordinary
magic. The entire town floats in a sea of gold. The Collegiate church
changes from yellow to lemon colour, and at times to orange; and there
are old walls which take on, in the evening light, the colour of bread
well browned in the oven. And the sun disappears into the plain, and the
Angelus bell sounds through the immense space.