The castle rose out of the rock-strewn hills like a mailed fist aimed at God, a sinner’s defiant strike at an absentee Father. I knew instantly I’d have to investigate.
It turned out it wasn’t a castle at all but a folly, a simulacrum of ancient greatness. From a hundred yards out, it evoked all of the inspired madness of the item proper; then again, my blood was up from shaking 503 horses by the neck and surviving. I was drunk on the raw beauty of Andalucia, punchy from the last 40 miles of arterial pavement flung across the rills and reaches of southern Spain.
Nelson Ireson 