Right in front of you, the Ramiro walk is easy to spot by its long stone wall topped with a smooth, beige ledge and lined with palm trees, set beside a modern square with green patches and the striking brutalist Azorín public library building in the background.
Imagine the scene centuries ago-fresh sea breeze mixing with the scent of old stones and Mediterranean grass underfoot. In the 1200s, this very spot was pressed up against the powerful city walls, right next to a bustling mosque, both protected and hidden by the city’s ramparts. Fast forward a few hundred years, and you’d find horse-drawn carriages passing by and elegant ladies in hats strolling through a romantic garden, the vision of an ambitious mayor named Carlos Chorro Zaragoza, who wanted to turn part of the old square into a proper green retreat. Surrounded by roses and winding paths, gossip filled the air here-unless you counted the mysterious statue of José María Muñoz, which stood guard for eight years, probably wondering why people threw more bread to the ducks than to him.
This plaza seems to have a case of identity crisis, too. Over a tumultuous century, its name changed more times than a chameleon crossing a rainbow-honoring everyone from a governor who bravely fought a cholera epidemic to the baroness who built a school for children, and then, for a while, even the famous poet Federico García Lorca. Not to be outdone, General Franco’s regime gave it yet another name, and by the 1980s, it was finally decided: let’s just call it Ramiro again.
Today, under the ever-watchful fragment of Alicante’s original city wall and the poetic gaze of Rubén Darío’s bust, skaters zip by where lords and baronesses once strolled. The cement of the modern square mingles with ancient stones, so each step here feels like treading through centuries-a wild mix of stories and a few skateboard tricks thrown in for good measure.
