Look for the pale stone structure on your left featuring a tall, square bell tower and an elaborate Baroque doorway flanked by columns.
Before these stone arches rose, this ground heard different prayers. You are standing in the heart of the Rabal. This neighborhood was the historic refuge of the Moriscos, the descendants of the local Muslim population who converted to Christianity to remain in their homes, yet were forced to live here, just outside the protective city walls. For generations, they lived as outsiders in their own town, barred from government and treated with deep suspicion.
When the Christian leadership decided to assert their power, they didn't just build a church nearby; they planted this temple, Santa María, directly on top of the community's main mosque. It was a heavy symbol of the new faith rising over the old. But stone is expensive, and ambition often outpaces gold. The construction dragged on for centuries, stopping and starting as funds dried up. It became so desperate that in 1630, the neighboring town of Biar actually had to donate stone just so the walls wouldn't stand unfinished.
Inside, the architecture tries to trick the eye. There is only one nave-that is the central open hall where the congregation stands-but the pillars are cut in a way that makes it look like three. It is a space built by sheer persistence. I love the story of the parish priest, Diego Hernández. He wasn't a master artist, but he spent his life covering the interior walls with murals himself. He admitted he had more will than skill, but he said his true mission was "painting Christ in the soul of his parishioners."
Violence has touched this place, too. During the Spanish Civil War, fire swept through the building. The flames devoured the roof and destroyed the ancient coat of arms of Doña Catalina Ruiz de Alarcón, the noblewoman who had funded the church's foundation four hundred years earlier.
But while some treasures were lost here, others found sanctuary. Do you remember the Torre del Orejón? The tower we discussed earlier with the famous clock? When that tower was demolished in 1888, its voice did not die. The "Campanica de la Virgen," the bell that once signaled the curfew and announced the arrival of the patron saint, was saved and brought here to Santa María. The tower is gone, and the clock’s automaton is lost to time, but the bell found a new home in this tower.
It remains a sanctuary sustained by its people. Recently, the "Friends of Santa María" association had to raffle off a painting just to pay for urgent roof repairs. Just like in the days of Doña Catalina, this place stands only because the neighbors refuse to let it fall.
Now, lift your gaze high above the rooftops. Do you see the fortress dominating the skyline? We are going to make our way up to the Watchtower Castle.
