Look ahead at the narrow, sloping street paved with grey stone that rises steeply between the rustic, whitewashed facades to your left and right.
We have reached the end of our journey, here in the deep, beating heart of the historic center. It feels different here, doesn't it? The streets we walked earlier were wider, flatter... designed for commerce and parades. But here, the ground rises to meet the mountain. This tangle of alleys wrapping around the castle is known as El Rabal.
For centuries, this city was a tale of two worlds. Down below, around the Church of Santiago, was the Christian city, walled in by the powerful Don Juan Manuel. But up here, in the shadow of the fortress, lived the Muslim population. This was their home, built upon the rock. But if you listen closely to the wind rushing through these narrow gaps, you might hear the echo of a terrible silence.
You see, these stones hold the memory of a deep trauma. In 1609, a royal decree arrived that shattered the life of this neighborhood. The expulsion of the Moriscos. These were the families who had lived here for generations, who knew every curve of this hillside. They were forced to leave their keys in their doors, pack only what they could carry, and march to the port of Alicante to be shipped away to North Africa.
Imagine the emptiness they left behind. A silence fell over El Rabal that lasted for decades. It was a demographic void, a hollow place in the city where a vibrant community used to be. The neighborhood lost its people, and for a long time, it seemed like their story might simply vanish.
But Villena knows how to mourn its lost treasures. The silence of these streets is matched by another loss, one that happened in the Plaza Mayor we passed just a few minutes ago. There, the city misses a different kind of friend.
For centuries, a clock tower known as the Torre del Orejón stood watch over the market. It wasn't just a tower... it had a soul. Inside, there was a wooden automaton, a carved head with enormous ears. Every hour, the "Orejón" would open a window to look out at the square. He was funny, he was strange, and the people loved him dearly. He was as famous to them as the great clock figures of Europe.
But in 1888, the authorities decided the tower was unstable. Despite the outcry of the citizens, they tore it down. They destroyed the guardian of the plaza. It was a heartbreaking moment, another piece of the city's identity turned to dust.
However, this is not a tragedy without hope. This is a city that refuses to let its history disappear completely. When the tower fell, they saved its voice. The bell, known as the "Campanica de la Virgen," was rescued and moved to the Church of Santa María, where it still rings out today.
And look around you now. El Rabal is not empty anymore. The cave houses have been recovered. The Fiestas del Medievo now fill these streets with music and life every year, celebrating the Andalusi heritage that was once banished. We are the guardians of these stories now. By walking here, by remembering the families who left and the tower that fell, you keep them alive.
You have walked the path of the castle, the palaces, and the humble streets. You have heard the echoes. You are now part of the city's memory.
