A Blogger Oversleeps. Next Stop, a Monastery.

I hope you are sitting down whilst reading this. 

I finally woke up at 9:58 am.  That's the latest I've woken up since I turned 30, and that was so last century.  Well, since I had been for 40 straight hours, I'm going to retain my Iron Tourist card.  Oh, I had awakened a few times, meaning to get up and get going, but the pillow kept calling my name.

I shaved and showered the shower of the unclean, and that felt good.  One of the three stray cats (actual cats, not the rockabilly '80s band with the "Stray Cat Strut" hit) that were hanging around us all last night somehow got into the house.  I opened the bathroom door, not expecting to see a cat (well, more of a kitten), screamed and shut the door again.  Apparently I have feelings of vulnerability at cats that see me in a fairly advanced state of undress.

After a breakfast of a banana and yogurt, we hit the road around 11 am.  Without a doubt this was the latest we have ever gotten started during my reign as Iron Tourist.

After following the GPS to the wrong place, we figured out where we were going and drove through the countryside, and a couple of small towns to the Monasterio de Veruela.  Loosely translated, that means Monastery of Veruela.  (Editor's Note: That's an exact translation, not a loose one.  Blogger: Exactly!  Loosely speaking that is.)

We entered the outer walls, which date from feudal times, through the imposing tower.  Our first stop was the wine museum, dedicated to the wines of the Aragon region, including dating back to ancient times.  Carol enjoyed matching wits with the displays, trying to translate the Spanish.  I could read a word or two, but much of the museum's information was completely lost on me. 

We next visited the small illustrative olive grove out back (it featured five different types of olive trees).  I tasted one -- apparently just picking a ripe olive off the tree does not mean a rewarding culinary experience.  Mrs. Iron Tourist found the taste to be even more wanting than I did, spitting it out and complaining loudly about the aftertaste.  Finally some Altoids calmed her down.

The view down the dirt road to the actual monastery itself was quite beautiful, framed by large trees (see picture in next post below).  Entry is through a small hall into the cloisters, which are beautiful and peaceful.  According to Wikipedia, they are modeled on the cloisters at Westminster.  We walked through the various side rooms, including the kitchen, the dining hall, but kept being drawn back to the cloisters.

Founded in 1145 as the first cistercian monastery in Aragon, (I have no idea what "cistercian" means -- and am too lazy to look it up now.  Okay, sigh, for my readers I have learned it is a religious order of monks and nuns, originally emphasizing self-sufficiency.  Named for a French village near Dijon, apparently the order no longer cuts the mustard-- ha!  That last point was included just for the Dijon mustard joke.)  For more information, google it.

Finally we went into the church, which was big and sparse.  Pretty in an understated way, it was made more enthralling because we had the place to ourselves.

After the visit, since we had a light dinner and a light breakfast, we found a roadside restaurant for a hearty, albeit not very good, lunch.  It was filling and cheap, so it did the trick.  The small villages are stunningly barren to me -- no restaurants, no small country stores, maybe the occasional baker or butcher.  Driving through the villages, you hardly see signs of life, although it may be because it is wine making time.