I visited the castle (Palacio de la Aljafería / Cortes de Aragon). I wanted to see some of the Arabic history of Spain – my special interest in history, might be Roman, but there is always “well, what happened next?”

I wanted to walk around the perimeter to get a feel of the building before going in, trying to make sense of the structure. It clearly had several centuries of use and modification, which is the joy of studying buildings that have had seen continual use through time.

A guard ran over to me “No! No! No!” He said, and shepherded me towards the front door. I tried to ask whether one could walk around the outside, aside from knowing that it wasn’t allowed, I couldn’t understand the reason.

There was a bag scanner, which seemed a little extreme. But I cheerfully popped my rucksack on and stepped through the human scanner. No problems.

Inside I got a bit more of a feeling for the place. Beautiful stonework, although I was never completely certain what was original and was restoration. I think I prefer preservation over restoration, since restoration can give you completely the wrong impression because you can become trapped by the vision of the restorer rather than the original creator.

I passed though various salons, admiring the ceilings. One particular staircase with exquisite windows really grabbed my imagination as being very “Spanish”. That same staircase had a large family tree of the royal family of Aragon; Zaragoza was the capital of that kingdom back in the day. I looked and looked trying to find Catherine of Aragon, the first wife of our Henry VIII and mother of Mary I. I wondered if she’d been forgotten, poor lass.

Catalina! That’s how it’s written in Spanish! Found her! Her spouse being Enrique VIII De Ingleterre. You can imagine her screaming “Ricky!” in an energetic Mediterranean way.

The castle also houses a Goya museum. I didn’t know much about the man, apart from knowing the name. His bust was reminiscent of Beethoven. They must have shared hairstylists.

I wasn’t aware that I had seen Goya’s work before. Aside from his religious and commissioned works, there were some sketches that were nightmarish – these I had seen before. I am intrigued and want to know more! However, that is something that’s gonna have to wait – the Goya museum is cutting closed for refurbishment.

That wasn’t it for the castle: suddenly I found myself in the parliament room!

So that’s what all the scanning was about! This building is the current region of Aragon’s parliament!

Next I thought to head back towards the old section because there’s another Goya museum and I want to know more about his work. At this point, I didn’t know that it was closed.

On the way I popped into the cathedral. A giant box with stuck-on-after kind of architecture – and very few windows. In English cathedrals it’s all about the light – they are going to be cold anyway and no amount of radiators will make any difference.

In Spain they have a different problem: windows would make them hot. So this church minimised the glass and was like a great gilded cavern – a physical sanctuary from the heat as well as a spiritual sanctuary.

Once again, plastic candles with battery powered lights. I’m not doing that. So I sat at the back and closed my eyes and enjoyed the peace.

Every now and then somebody came on the loudspeaker saying a prayer in Spanish.

Then I became aware that they’d closed the church for a service! I was trapped!

As a result, I witnessed my first Catholic mass. I wasn’t going to disturb things by leaving – besides, it felt rude. And I thought I might learn something.

Having been brought up an Anglican, I feel a respect for other people’s devotions, even if I don’t feel the same way myself. Prayer is prayer.

I couldn’t orient myself in the service though. My last Anglican experience of Holy Communion was fifteen years ago at my Nan’s funeral. This was a Mass in Spanish. I could only pick up about 10% of what was said, beyond the many references to Maria and her hijo.

I had my eyes closed through most of it, and felt dangerously like sleeping. The cool, but not cold church, the unintelligible yet pleasant and sonorous mumblings of the priest, were lulling me. I had to fight to stay awake: it simply would not do to snore!

They seemed to reopen the church before the end of the service. Some people left straight after they’d taken bread and wine. It felt strange and sacrilegious to have tourists come in and film the final hymn. I know I am a tourist (and I left my hat on).

So there we are! A moorish castle and a Catholic service!