Spanish Pearls Genealogy : On the way to Seville

September 24-26, 2012 – first time I’ve had internet since last posting on September 21…

We have now followed the old railroad tracks of our ancestors; watching the landscape change from mountains, to farms, to the plains and mountains again helped me see what they saw, feel what they felt as the daunting aspect of ‘a few more miles’ must have been whispered again and again. We felt their tiredness, sometimes despair, sometimes anxiety to reach Seville.

Driving south from Fuentesauco on the roads that, in 1911, would have held the old train tracks, my theory is they rode on wagons with trunks and children squeezed closely together on their way to the train station in Salamanca (about 22 miles). There were acres of sunflowers, farming villages and acres of orchards. The larger cities must have seen them pass by on the train as the plateau changed to rolling hills. There were gigantic bird nests atop church steeples; stork nests! They would have seen miles of low stone walls separating properties and along roadsides, stones pulled from the land to make the soil farmable. They would have seen farming on terraced hillsides as their train descended from the mountains they would have probably reached Canavera into the valley. Railroad tracks are still visible there and the thick forests would have given them sanctuary. It flattened even more around Santiago del Campo where trees stood in groups surrounding us in every direction and then the rio Almonte flowed below a bridge and the valley would have risen to meet them.

The railroad ran between terraced farmland. Vineyards appeared for miles on every inch of farmable land where vines could root into the soil. It reminded me of the old Johnny Appleseed movie, row after row of plants, green and lush.

Merida was our halfway point from Fuentesauco and Seville. We got lost immediately; there were roman ruins everywhere, huge towers and archways of stones and suddenly we found ourselves on a dead end street with a HOSTAL sign in front of us and a parking spot! Yes, we had a great room with a view!

The respite in Merida was welcomed and I wondered by then how very exhausted the families must have been. We were tired from riding in a car; they would have loved the luxury. The children must have whined, with dragging feet and tired little bodies and again the whisper, ‘just a few more miles’ from the adults who were also weak from the trip. I regress.

Zafra was next town (from my research of the railroad lines in 1911) but when we neared the city, I knew they didn’t go into the town. Railroad tracks were clearly visible through an ancient hamlet called Las Santas de Maimona just east of Zafra. Our families would have stopped, slept and possibly bartered for food or worked for a place to sleep under cover in one of the many sheds nearby. And they may have been told they should follow the road to Seville after talk with the villagers. They could leave the railroad tracks behind. I got goose bumps when we slipped through the village. I knew they’d been there. I could feel it.

The orchard-littered valleys spread for hundreds of miles; almonds, olives, oranges and grapes. Unfarmed land was ocher colored, (Spanish yellow) miles of dirt and straw-colored brush. And hundreds of shade (sombra) trees. They could begin the feel the air begin to warm around them even though it was mid February. By then, the road was clearer and a tunnel bored through the mountain led them southward easily. The panoramic views must have astounded them. It certainly took my breath away.

Once they saw the white village of Santiponce, they knew Seville lay ahead.

Seville ~ The streets were narrow, cobblestoned. At one point, I had to roll down the window to fold the side mirror into the car so Steven could turn a corner! His amazing prowess behind the wheel continues to amaze me.

A little planning and open minds made an unforgettable holiday as we planned to explore 3-4 tourist sites; One of which definitely felt our ancestors feet touch ground: The Torre de Oro (Tower of Gold) sits alongside the Guadalquivir River. We walked over an hour to reach the stone tower, built in 1220 by the Moors, once a defense position but not houses a maritime museum. We just wanted to stand below its tower, walk over the cobblestones and look at the river where our history took place…where our family walked beneath its shadow to board a boat at its feet.

My head spun with excitement as I walked over the cobblestones and stared at the stone steps they climbed to board the boat. How do I know this?

I’d connected with a genealogist/historian named Fernando Hidalgo weeks ago and he met with us, confirming the embarkation point in 1911 was at the base of the Torre de Oro. His brother works at the Port of Seville and those connections gave him the insight to help us. He also gave us the author’s name whose historical books would answer more of my questions about that time period.

The most exciting part of our visit was incredible: Fernando knows a man whose surname is SILVAN. He is the mayor of a town in northern Spain called Ponferrada, in the province of Leon. He said the Silvan name is rare and he believes this man is a descendant of our Silvan family line. I will contact him soon.

If only we’d met with Fernando before our trip north. We could have found this cousin and met him… But, though I’m tempted to taste the sour lemons, I will make the lemonade instead.
We have a link to our Silvan family after all.

From there, we walked toward La Giralda, which rises 322 feet next to the cathedral in Seville. The tower was part of a mosque that stood on the site and was kept when the mosque was torn down to build the cathedral. Walking, always walking… we found the best way to see the city and feel the energy and doing exactly what we felt like. Steven, luckily, is fluent in Spanish. I had learned a little and understood more than I expected. Everywhere are U.S. chain monsters, McDonald’s, Burger King, Dunkin’ Donuts. I was a little embarrassed this most visible American influence.

We discovered the afternoons, when most shops close for a couple hours, is a good time for espresso. Walk up, drink coffee with milk, if you don’t mind the omnipresent cigarette smoke.. People dress well, look dignified. It was nice to see so many senior citizens out walking, eating, shopping, they hardly fit into the American image of the elderly. Though with all that smoke, it’s amazing they get old at all.

By 2:00, it is time for their day meal and people crowd into outdoor cafes. One menu is handed to the man in the group. I imagined they felt women couldn’t read? Couldn’t choose food for themself? What? Modern Spain has changed quite a lot but this reminded me very much of old Spain and trying to read upside down, in Spanish was a work of art. (smile)

Later, the Moorish influence slapped us in the face once again as we gazed around us and especially at the Plaza de Espana and its thousands of ceramic tiles. There are painted ceramic tiles everywhere; street corner signs embedded into the corner of buildings, above doorways, religious icons, house numbers; too many beautiful tiles to explain. My heart fell in love with them. The colors, the shine, the intimate touch of art.