Spain in the slow lane

MONTEMOLÍN, Spain — For 35 years, José Morón Luna worked at an auto plant in Barcelona, but he always thought about retiring to his native village here in southern Spain's hill country of Extremadura. Visiting his farm here, it is easy to see why.

Spring rains turned the landscape into a fertile patchwork of green, the muted hues of olive groves alternating with lush pastures flecked with purple and red wildflowers. The kitchen garden offered artichokes and Swiss chard, and a small orchard yields pears, figs and peaches.

"I grew up around these fields. Here you can enjoy the tranquillity of nature," José said. "In the city, you can't even see a star with all the light pollution."

My visit with José and his wife, Carmen Campanario, was a highlight of a weeklong exploration of Spain's sparsely populated and often overlooked region of Extremadura, which abuts the nation's western border with Portugal.

This is a place steeped in Spain's tumultuous history. The city of Mérida was founded in 25 B.C. as the capital of a large Roman-ruled province. Cáceres has an amazingly intact historic section of town, largely built in the Middle Ages, that has been designated as a United Nations World Heritage Site.

In tiny Montemolín, a crumbling fortress dominates the hilltop above Morón Luna's house, a legacy of the Moors who ruled this land for centuries until finally vanquished by the armies of a Catholic monarch.

In the center of the village, a modest plaque outside the church lists the names of more than 30 villagers who died during the Spanish Civil War, which raged from 1936-39 and claimed the lives of more than 600,000 people.

But the region offers surprising glimpses into 21st-century Spain, such as the solar panels spread about a field full of grazing sheep, reflecting the nation's big push into renewable energy.

Most of all, Extremadura offers a chance to savor life far away from the tourist meccas of Seville, Toledo and Madrid. You can take a seat at a local tapas bar and, even if your Spanish is mediocre, find yourself deep in conversation with the folks at the next table as you sip a cold beer and nibble on mussels.

The region also is much more affordable than much of Europe. Many restaurants offer three-course meals that include wine or other beverages for 8 to 12 euros (about $11 to $17), and we found modest but clean and comfortable pensions for about 35 euros a night (about $50).

Rural roots

A visit to the village of Montemolín was suggested by my Seattle Times colleague, staff artist Gabriel Campanario, the son of José Morón Luna and Carmen Campanario, who arranged for my wife, Ann; my son, Matthew; and me to meet his parents.

Arriving in the village, we first stopped at the Bar Centro, owned by Gabriel's aunt, Fermina Galván, and her daughter, Manoli Carbajo. They greeted us warmly, with kisses planted firmly on our cheeks, and pointed with pride to a pen-and-ink drawing of the Moorish fortress that hung on the wall. This was one of Gabriel's early works, sketched back when he was 16 and, bored by summer-afternoon siestas, would head outside into the hot sun in search of artistic inspiration.

Leaving the bar, we headed to the home of José and Carmen. They have deep farming roots in Montemolín but grew up in the aftermath of the 1930s Spanish Civil War, when the economy stagnated under the dictatorial rule of Gen. Francisco Franco. They joined many other rural youth in a massive exodus from farming villages all across Spain.

Carmen left in 1954 with her family and eventually worked in Barcelona as a seamstress. Then in 1961, after returning from military service in North Africa, José headed to Barcelona. "If you didn't own the land, there was no work, and my father's farm was not large enough to support myself and my two brothers," José said.

Franco died in 1975, and his name has been stripped from Spanish boulevards and his statues toppled from public squares. As a new democracy took hold, and the Spanish economy strengthened, José earned enough money in Barcelona to buy a 27-acre "finca" back in Montemolín, where he now spends most of the year.

But even today, the village struggles to hold on to its youth.

"It is very difficult today to make a living from farming because the prices for olive oil are very low," José said. "And the young people, they don't like farm work, so they leave."

Bird-watchers' haven

After an overnight stay, my wife and I left Montemolín and drove for several hours to the more rugged northern half of Extremadura, to the steep gorges and oak-covered hills of Monfrague National Park. A haven for vultures, eagles and other raptors, the park draws birdwatchers from all over Europe.

We hiked along a trail flecked with pungent wild lavender and ended up on a hill with a sweeping view of the park. In the 1960s, loggers cleared much of the native landscape so it could be replaced by eucalyptus plantations to provide pulp wood for a paper plant. But after the death of Franco, a burgeoning environmental movement in the 1970s led to a surge of protests and the creation of the park.

Ever since then, a massive restoration effort has been underway as the eucalyptus trees are mowed down and tens of thousands of cork, Holm oak and other native species are replanted. Yet, much of the land still looks raw and red.

"The trees grow slowly, but they are growing," said a park guide we met at the end of our hike. "It will take 50 to 60 years."

Ham and history

Just outside the park, many oaks have been left standing in the middle of prime pasture lands. These trees produce acorns that help fatten Extremadura pigs and give a rich nutty flavor to the region's famed "jamón ibérico."

This ham has gained an international reputation and is on display all across the region. Huge cured haunches hang in storefront windows and behind the bars, where servers shave thin slices of meat and drape them across bread to serve as tapas.

The pig did not always hold such an exalted status here. In the Muslim and Jewish communities that once prospered in Extremadura, pork was forbidden by religious dietary laws. But under Catholic rule, the edict of 1492 banished Jewish people who refused to convert to Catholicism, and those who refused to eat pork risked being tagged as heretics during the dark years of the Spanish Inquisition.

We explored the old Jewish barrios in cities such as Plasencia and the smaller Hervás, which spreads out at the base of formidable mountains in the northeast corner of Extremadura. But in Hervás there are no Jews left who can trace their lineage to these families.

"They are all gone," said Marciano de Hervás, a local scholar who wrote a book about this community. "There was so much oppression, it wasn't possible for anyone to be a Jew."

Another mountain town, Garganta La Olla, has a sobering museum that features some of the bleak instruments of torture used in the Inquisition. Back in the 15th and 16th centuries, Garganta La Olla, which sits at the confluence of two river gorges, also had a strategic military importance with a population of some 5,000 people and a dozen brothels — marked by blue paint on their exterior walls — that were frequented by soldiers stationed in Extremadura.

Today, the village has dwindled to 1,000 people and draws tourists who explore the mountain trails, take a dip in local swimming holes and check out the local shops for artwork, crafts and specialty foods.

We visited an old brothel — now a gift shop. Still bearing the distinctive blue paint it offers cherry kirsch, smoky-flavored paprika and artisan cheeses.

The shop owner, Mark Jankovic, was a refugee from Madrid who tired of life as a bartender in the capital city and relishes his new life in Garganta.

"This town was once one of the most important in the region. Its time has passed. But I am happy to be here," Jankovic said.

Hal Bernton: 206-464-2581 or hbernton@seattletimes.com. Seattle Times staff artist Gabriel Campanario assisted with this report.