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Neanderthals in Spain: Life in a Valley That Had Everything

Neanderthals in Spain (An impression, generated with AI).

A valley, 100,000 years ago

Around 100,000 years ago, long before cities, farming, or even modern humans reached much of Europe, groups of Neanderthaler lived in what is now central Spain. In a valley north of present-day Madrid—today known as the Valle de los Neandertales—they found something rare: a landscape that offered everything they needed to survive.

This was not a paradise in the modern sense, but it was perfectly suited to their way of life. There was water from the river, open land where herds of horses, deer, and bison grazed, caves and rock shelters for protection, wood for fire, and stone for tools. Because all these elements came together in one place, Neanderthals kept returning here over tens of thousands of years, making the valley not just a temporary stop, but a recurring home.

Skilled hunters in a crowded world

The people who lived here were not primitive in the way they were once imagined. They were experienced hunter-gatherers who understood their environment in detail and adapted to it with remarkable flexibility. Much of their life revolved around hunting the large grazing animals that moved through the valley—horses, deer, bison, and at times even larger prey such as wild cattle or rhinoceroses.

They worked together to hunt, butcher, and process these animals, using tools shaped from whatever stone was available. In this region, that often meant quartz—far from ideal, but nearby and sufficient for their needs.

At the same time, they were not alone in relying on these herds. Lions, hyenas, and leopards hunted the same animals, turning the landscape into a shared and often contested space. Survival depended not only on skill, but also on timing, cooperation, and an ability to navigate this competition. When large prey was available, Neanderthals focused on it, suggesting a preference for efficiency and planning rather than opportunistic scavenging.

A mind not so different from ours

What makes these Spanish sites especially compelling is not just how Neanderthals lived, but what they may have thought. Among the discoveries is the burial of a very young child, carefully placed in the ground. Nearby traces of fire suggest that this was not a random event, but something intentional.

This changes the story. It points to care for others, even after death, and perhaps to early forms of ritual or symbolic thinking. In fact, Neanderthals in Europe may have buried their dead long before modern humans did in other regions, suggesting that emotional and social complexity were already part of their world.

Over time, research has shifted from asking how Neanderthals survived to asking how they understood their world. They were not simply enduring life—they were experiencing it.

A disappearing world

Neanderthals lived across Europe, including the Iberian Peninsula, for hundreds of thousands of years. Then, around 40,000 years ago, they disappeared. The causes were likely complex: changing climates, shrinking populations, and competition with incoming modern humans all played a role. Rather than a sudden extinction, it seems to have been a gradual fading of small, vulnerable groups.

Walking through their world

Standing in that quiet Spanish valley today, it is hard to imagine the life that once filled it. But once you know the story, the landscape begins to shift. It becomes a place of fires and movement, of hunters watching herds cross the valley, of families gathering in the shelter of rock and cave.

And perhaps, more than anything, it becomes a place where the distance between them and us feels surprisingly small.

Arco de Santa María: How Burgos Introduces Itself

Arco de Santa María at first light—Burgos presenting its history in stone before you even step inside the city.

A city entrance with a purpose

When you approach the Arco de Santa María in Burgos (Spain), it feels less like a gate and more like a declaration. This is where Burgos presents itself to the world.

In the Middle Ages, this really was a working city gate. People arrived here on foot, on horseback, with goods to trade or stories to tell. Beyond it lay the safety and order of the city; behind it, the uncertainty of the road. But what you see today is not just that medieval structure. It is something more deliberate.

In the 16th century, the city decided to transform its entrance—partly to impress the visiting emperor, Karel V. The old defensive gate was reshaped into a monumental façade. From that moment on, this was no longer just a place to pass through. It became a place that spoke.

A story carved in stone

Look closely at the figures above the arch. They are not decoration. They are a cast of characters.

There is El Cid, the city’s most famous hero, somewhere between history and legend. Nearby stands Fernán González, tied to the early independence of Castile. Around them, kings and symbolic figures fill the niches.

Together, they tell a simple but powerful story: this is a city with roots, with heroes, with authority. The gate becomes a kind of stone introduction—one that would have been immediately understood by visitors centuries ago, and still resonates today.

Passing through

And yet, for all its grandeur, the gate still does what it always did. You walk through it.

The moment you step under the arch, the façade disappears behind you. The noise softens, the light changes, and for a brief moment you are in between—neither outside nor fully inside. It is easy to imagine how many others have made that same transition over the centuries.

That is what makes this gate more than architecture. It is not just something to look at. It is something to experience—a threshold where Burgos shows you who it is, and then quietly lets you in.

The Coat of Arms of Badajoz

The Coat of Arms of Badajoz.

A city shaped by its position

To understand the coat of arms of Badajoz, you first need to understand where you are. This is a city on the edge—close to Portugal, and for centuries on the shifting frontier between Islamic and Christian worlds.

From the 8th century onwards, Badajoz was part of al-Andalus, at times even the centre of its own taifa kingdom. Only in the 13th century did it become part of the Christian north. Even then, its role did not change: it remained a border city, now between Castile and Portugal.

That sense of being “in between” is key. It is also where the name Extremadura comes from: a land at the extremes, at the edge of power.

The lion: conquest and royal power

The crowned lion in the coat of arms points back to that turning point in the 13th century, when Badajoz was incorporated into the Kingdom of León. But it also says something about how the city was governed.

Badajoz was not handed over to a local noble. It became a royal city, ruled directly by the king. In a frontier zone, that mattered. The crown kept a firm grip on places like this, both to defend the border and to control a strategically important region.

The lion, then, is not just about conquest. It represents royal authority anchored at the edge of the kingdom.

The pillars: from edge to expansion

Next to the lion stands a very different symbol: the Pillars of Hercules, wrapped with the motto Plus Ultra—“further beyond.”

In the ancient world, these pillars marked the end of the known world, somewhere beyond the Strait of Gibraltar. By the 16th century, under Charles V, that meaning had changed. The old boundary became a starting point. The motto encouraged movement, exploration, and expansion.

By adding this symbol to its coat of arms, Badajoz became part of that new outlook. A city that had long defined itself by borders was now connected to a world that stretched far beyond them.

A story in one image

The coat of arms brings these layers together. The lion speaks of conquest and royal control; the pillars point to a horizon that keeps moving outward.

Together, they tell the story of Badajoz: a place that was first defined by its limits, and later by what lay beyond them. What looks like a simple emblem is, in fact, a compact history—of borders, power, and changing horizons.

Before Rome: Trade in the Time of Phoenicians and Carthaginians

Four amphorae from the Museo de Huelva, arranged from early Phoenician to later Punic forms, illustrating the evolution of Mediterranean trade between the 9th and 5th centuries BC.

From left to right:

- A small, rounded early Phoenician vessel (late 9th–8th century BC), likely used for limited quantities of valuable goods such as oil, perfume, or fine wine.

- A more regular Phoenician transport amphora with two handles, reflecting the growing standardisation of trade containers.

- A taller, more slender vessel influenced by Greek and Punic forms (6th–5th century BC), designed for easier stacking and long-distance transport.

- A sharply pointed Punic amphora, built for large-scale maritime trade; its pointed base allowed it to be fixed securely in a ship’s hold.

Together, these vessels show how transport technology evolved alongside expanding trade networks.

Long before Rome dominated the Mediterranean, trade was already connecting distant regions in a structured and sustained way. On the Atlantic edge of Iberia, Huelva emerged as one of those early contact zones — not a remote outpost, but a place where ships arrived regularly, carrying goods, ideas, and people from far beyond the horizon.

Between the 9th and 6th centuries BC, this region — part of the Tartessian cultural sphere — became deeply embedded in long-distance exchange networks. Traders from Tyre and other eastern Mediterranean ports sailed west in search of metals, especially silver and copper from Iberia’s interior. In return, they brought wine, olive oil, fine ceramics, and crafted goods. What began as exploratory contact developed into something more predictable: repeated routes, familiar cargoes, and growing trust between trading partners.

How trade actually worked

This early trade did not depend on empires, but on practical systems. Ships followed coastlines, stopping at known anchorages where goods could be exchanged and journeys planned in stages. Amphorae — robust clay containers — played a central role. Their shapes allowed them to be stacked efficiently in a ship’s hold, counted, transported, and reused.

Cargoes were typically mixed. A single ship might carry wine from one region, oil from another, and return loaded with metals or local products. Huelva’s location made it particularly valuable within this network. It connected Atlantic routes along Iberia with Mediterranean routes from the east, while river systems linked it to the resource-rich interior. As a result, it functioned as a redistribution hub, where goods were not only received but also reorganised and sent onward.

Archaeology beneath the modern city confirms how intense and long-lasting this activity was. Excavations have revealed dense layers of imported ceramics — especially amphora fragments — showing sustained contact over centuries. The mix of Phoenician, Greek, and later Punic forms, along with local imitations, reflects a system that was both international and locally embedded.

A system already in place

Over time, this network became more efficient and more extensive. Early exchanges gradually gave way to more organised patterns of trade. Production became more standardised, container shapes more functional, and transport more reliable. Phoenician traders laid the foundations, Greek merchants expanded the network, and Carthaginian systems intensified it further.

The amphorae displayed in the Museo de Huelva belong to this evolving world. They were not made to be admired, but to move — filled, sealed, transported, and often reused. Some completed their journeys; others were lost at sea — at least one vessel of this kind in the museum’s collection was recovered from a shipwreck.

By the time Rome entered the western Mediterranean, it encountered not an empty space, but a fully functioning trade system. What these vessels preserve is a glimpse of that earlier world: one in which long-distance exchange had already reshaped economies and connected cultures across the sea.

Las Navas de Tolosa: A Battle Remembered at Las Huelgas

The Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa at the Monasterio de Santa María la Real de Las Huelgas in Burgos (Spain).

A quiet monastery, a distant battlefield

Inside the Monasterio de Santa María la Real de Las Huelgas, everything feels calm and contained—stone, light, silence. And yet, on one of its walls, you suddenly find yourself in the middle of a battle fought hundreds of kilometres away, more than eight centuries ago.

The fresco shows the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa, fought in 1212 in southern Spain. At that time, much of the Iberian Peninsula was under the control of the Almohads, a powerful Islamic empire based in North Africa. For the Christian kingdoms in the north, this was not just distant politics but a constant pressure. Only a few years earlier, the king of Castile, Alfonso VIII of Castile, had suffered a painful defeat.

What followed was unusual. Rival kingdoms—Castile, Aragon, and Navarre—set aside their differences and formed a coalition. Even more striking, the campaign was supported by the pope, Pope Innocent III, who granted it the status of a crusade. That meant that fighting in Spain was, in the eyes of the Church, part of the same wider struggle as the crusades in the eastern Mediterranean. For those who took part, this was not only a war for territory, but also a war framed in religious terms.

When the armies finally met near the Sierra Morena, the battle was hard and chaotic, fought at close range. At a decisive moment, the Christian forces broke through the Almohad lines and reached the caliph’s camp. The victory did not end the conflict overnight, but it shifted the balance decisively and opened the way for further advances into the south.

Reading the fresco

The fresco in Las Huelgas does not try to recreate that chaos. Instead, it turns the battle into a clear and structured image. At the centre stands Alfonso VIII, larger and more composed than the figures around him, as if the confusion of the battlefield has been organised into a story with a single focus.

Once you start looking more closely, the painting reveals itself as less of a report and more of a statement. The different rulers appear aligned, the movement flows toward a moment of breakthrough, and the uncertainty that must have defined the real battle is replaced by clarity and purpose. What you are seeing is not simply what happened in 1212, but how people, centuries later, chose to remember it: as a moment of unity, of faith, and of decisive victory.

The people beneath the painting

What makes this fresco more than just historical decoration is where it is placed. This monastery was founded in 1187 by Alfonso VIII and his wife, Eleanor of England, and it was intended from the beginning as a royal space, closely tied to the identity of the kingdom.

They are buried here.

That fact quietly changes everything. The battle on the wall is not an abstract national memory; it is part of the personal story of the people lying beneath it. Alfonso VIII fought that battle. Eleanor supported the political and dynastic world in which it became possible. Together, they founded the monastery that would preserve their memory.

See also: Alfonso VIII and Leonor of England – A Royal Marriage Carved in Stone

A place where history is arranged

The Monasterio de Las Huelgas is not just a place where history happened; it is a place where history has been carefully arranged. Royal tombs, objects linked to the battle, and the fresco itself all work together to tell a coherent story.

What is striking is not only what is included, but how it is presented. A violent and uncertain battle becomes a clear turning point. A coalition of uneasy allies becomes a unified force. A complex past is shaped into something that can be understood at a glance.

Standing there, you are looking at more than a painting. You are looking at an interpretation that has been given a permanent place, above the graves of the people it commemorates. The silence of the monastery and the intensity of the battle do not contradict each other; they complete each other.

The result is a space where past and memory meet—where a distant battlefield is brought into a quiet room in Burgos, and where the story of a kingdom is told in a way that still feels present.

A Stone for an Emperor (Ciudad Rodrigo, Spain)

Roman Power, Provincial Spain, and the Afterlife of Domitian

Roman honorific inscription dedicated to Emperor Domitian (ca. 85 CE), originally from the nearby municipium of Irueña and now preserved in the cathedral museum of Ciudad Rodrigo.

Imp(eratoris) Caes(aris) divi / Vespasiani f(ilii) / Domitiani Aug(usti) / pont(ificis) max(imi) trib(unicia) / p(otestate) imp(eratoris) II p(atris) p(atriae) co(n)s(ulis) / VIII desig(nati) VIIII / d(ecreto) d(ecurionum)

(To Emperor Caesar Domitian Augustus, son of the deified Vespasian, Supreme Pontiff, invested with tribunician power, acclaimed Imperator for the second time, Father of the Fatherland, consul for the eighth time, designated for the ninth, by decree of the town council.)

In a small museum room beside the cathedral of Ciudad Rodrigo, far from the marble forums of Rome, stands a modest but revealing Roman inscription. Carved in marble in the late first century CE, the stone is dedicated not to a local notable, but to the emperor himself: Domitian.

The text is formal, restrained, and unmistakably official. It names Domitian as Imperator Caesar, son of the deified Vespasian, holder of tribunician power, Pontifex Maximus, and consul-designate for the seventh time. Such titulature allows historians to date the stone with unusual precision, to the mid-80s CE. This was not a funerary monument, but an honorific inscription—part of the language of loyalty that bound Rome’s far-flung provinces to the imperial centre.

Rome in the Western Hinterland

In Roman times, Ciudad Rodrigo itself was not yet the fortified city we see today. The stone most likely originated in the nearby Roman municipium of Irueña (Urunensium), a regional centre connected to the road networks linking Lusitania (the southwest of Portugal) and the Meseta (the heart of Spain). Revealingly, even here—on what might feel like the margins of the Roman world—the emperor was present, invoked in stone as guarantor of order, authority, and continuity.

Such inscriptions were acts of public performance. To dedicate a monument to the emperor was to declare loyalty, to inscribe Rome’s hierarchy into local space. Power travelled not only through legions and administrators, but through formulaic Latin carved in durable stone.

Domitian and Memory

Domitian’s reign (81–96 CE) was marked by strong central authority, administrative efficiency, and increasing autocracy. Ancient sources, largely written by senatorial elites hostile to him, portray him as a tyrant. After his assassination, he was subjected to a damnatio memoriae: his name erased from inscriptions, his statues destroyed or reworked.

That makes this stone all the more remarkable. Unlike many Domitianic monuments, it survived intact—probably because it was reused as building material in the Middle Ages and later incorporated into ecclesiastical holdings. Ironically, spoliation preserved what official memory sought to erase.

A Long Afterlife in Stone

Today, displayed quietly in the cathedral museum, the inscription bridges worlds: Roman imperial ideology, late antique transformation, medieval reuse, and modern historical curiosity. It reminds us that imperial Rome was not only built in capitals and monuments, but also in provincial gestures of allegiance—some of which, against all odds, still speak to us.

Further Reading

  • Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. II (Hispania), no. 862

  • Brian W. Jones, The Emperor Domitian

  • Javier Andreu Pintado, Municipia y civitates en la Hispania romana

  • Géza Alföldy, Roman Social History

  • Hispania Epigraphica Online (HEpOL)

A Lion and Its Prey: A Fragment of Late Roman Villajoyosa

Stucco medallion showing a lion attacking a deer or gazelle, made from a mould and dated to the 3rd–4th century AD; found at Torre de la Cruz / Xauxelles (Villajoyosa) and displayed at the Museo Arqueológico de Alicante (MARQ).

A small stucco medallion shows a simple, brutal scene: a lion attacking a deer—or perhaps a gazelle. The object was made using a mould and dates to the 3rd–4th century AD. It was found at Torre de la Cruz / Xauxelles, near modern Villajoyosa on Spain’s Mediterranean coast.

Scenes like this were common in Roman art. They appear in mosaics, wall decorations, and reliefs across the empire. The theme is straightforward: strength over weakness, predator over prey. It reflects a worldview in which nature is ordered, but not gentle.

Decoration and context

Stucco was widely used in Roman interiors. It allowed for repeated decorative elements at relatively low cost. Medallions like this were likely part of wall or ceiling decoration in:

  • villas

  • reception rooms

  • or possibly funerary spaces

The use of moulds suggests a standardized visual repertoire, rather than a unique artwork.

Villajoyosa in the Roman period

The findspot lies in the territory of the Roman settlement of Allon. This coastal area was economically active, with agriculture, fish processing, and trade connections across the western Mediterranean. Even in the later Roman period—often described as a time of crisis—local elites continued to invest in buildings and decoration. This medallion fits within that pattern. The specific site of Xauxelles is today largely hidden, incorporated into later structures. The original building to which this piece belonged has not survived in a visible form.

A recurring motif

Animal combat scenes were not random decoration. They appear frequently in Roman visual culture, especially in domestic settings. The imagery connects to:

  • hunting as a marker of elite identity

  • the display of control and order

  • a broader symbolic language shared across the empire

The absence of human figures does not weaken the message. The action itself is enough.

Street Art in Cartagena

Street art in Cartagena.

At first glance this corner of Cartagena looks like a forgotten place: crumbling brick walls, fragments of demolished houses, and empty urban space. But look again and the wall begins to speak.

Across the surface runs a collage of murals. A large, fragmented face dominates the centre, emerging from the brickwork as if the building itself were revealing a memory. Around it appear sketch-like figures and smaller portraits, some bold and recent, others faded and partially erased.

Cartagena is a city built on layers of history. Founded by the Carthaginians as Qart Hadasht, it later became the Roman port of Carthago Nova. Yet the wall in this photograph tells a much more recent story.

During the late twentieth century parts of the historic centre declined, leaving empty plots and exposed walls. These surfaces gradually became canvases for urban artists. Festivals such as Mucho Más Mayo helped encourage this transformation, turning neglected corners into open-air galleries.

What makes scenes like this fascinating is their unfinished quality. The murals interact with cracks, repairs and old brickwork. Art and architecture blend together, creating a living canvas that changes over time.

In Cartagena, even a broken wall can become part of the city’s cultural landscape.

Keeping the Roman Roads Running

Roman milestone commemorating road repairs under Emperor Caracalla (AD 214), now displayed in the Museo de Málaga. Milestones were placed along Roman highways to mark distances and to record the construction or restoration of roads.

IMP CAES M AVR ANTONINVS PIVS FELIX AVG, DIVI SEVERI FILIVS, DIVI ANTONINI MAGNI NEPOS, DIVI PII PRONEPOS, PONTIFEX MAXIMVS, TRIB POT XVII COS III P P, VIAM RESTITVIT

(Translated: Emperor Caesar Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Pius Felix Augustus, son of the deified Severus, grandson of the deified Marcus Antoninus, great-grandson of the deified Antoninus Pius, chief priest, holding tribunician power for the seventeenth time, consul for the third time, father of the fatherland, restored the road.)

The inscription dates the monument to AD 214, when Emperor Caracalla ordered repairs to several highways in Roman Spain. Such stones were set up along the roadside both to mark distances and to advertise imperial investment in infrastructure. This milestone once stood beside a road connecting Malaca (modern Málaga) with other cities of the Roman province of Baetica, part of the extensive road network that linked the Iberian Peninsula to the wider Roman world.

When we think about Roman roads, we often admire how well they were built. Some of them still exist today after nearly two thousand years. But building the roads was only part of the story. The Roman Empire also had to maintain and repair them.

One of the most important clues about this maintenance comes from milestones—stone pillars placed along Roman roads to mark distances between cities. These stones often carried inscriptions with the name of the emperor. When a road was repaired, new milestones were sometimes erected to announce the work.

By studying these inscriptions, historians can trace the maintenance history of Roman roads in Spain (Hispania).

Roman Spain had an extensive network of highways linking cities such as Malaca (Málaga), Gades (Cádiz), Hispalis (Seville), Corduba (Córdoba), and Tarraco (Tarragona). One of the most important routes was the Via Augusta, which ran along the Mediterranean coast.

The inscriptions show that roads were not repaired regularly every year. Instead, emperors occasionally launched large repair campaigns. Major work took place under rulers such as Vespasian, Trajan, Hadrian, and Caracalla. One particularly large program was carried out in AD 214, when Emperor Caracalla ordered repairs on several Spanish highways.

These repairs were not just practical. Roads were essential for moving soldiers, goods, and information across the empire. Maintaining them was therefore a matter of imperial power.

Interestingly, the milestones also reveal something about the health of the Roman state. During periods of strong government, repairs were frequent. In times of crisis, they became rarer. By the late fourth century, inscriptions recording road repairs almost disappear—an indication that the empire was losing the ability to maintain its infrastructure.

Garum: The Taste of the Roman Empire

The Factoría de Salazones El Majuelo in Almuñécar (Spain).

Looking at the ruins of the Factoría de Salazones El Majuelo in Almuñécar, you see rows of rectangular stone basins. Two thousand years ago these vats produced one of the most famous ingredients of the Roman kitchen: garum.

Garum was a fermented fish sauce made from fish and salt, left to mature under the Mediterranean sun. It was used throughout the Roman world. In modern terms it worked much like Worcestershire sauce, Maggi seasoning, or fish sauce—a powerful flavor booster of which only a few drops could transform a dish.

The southern coast of Hispania, especially around Almuñécar—known in Roman times as Sexi Firmum Iulium—became one of the main production centers. Fish were fermented in large vats like these, the sauce was sealed in amphorae, and then exported across the Mediterranean.

From this Andalusian coast, garum travelled to markets throughout the Roman Empire, seasoning meals from Rome to North Africa.

The quiet basins of El Majuelo therefore tell a surprisingly global story: a local product from southern Spain that flavored the cuisine of an entire empire.

Books, Madness, and Don Quixote

José Moreno Carbonero, El escrutinio (1925), Museo de Málaga – The priest and barber put Don Quixote’s library on trial.

In the Museo de Málaga hangs a painting inspired by one of the most memorable scenes in Spanish literature. The work, “El escrutinio” (“The Scrutiny”), was painted in 1925 by the Malagueño artist José Moreno Carbonero.

The scene comes from Don Quijote de la Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes.

The Painter

José Moreno Carbonero (1860–1942) was one of Spain’s leading historical painters. Born in Málaga, he trained in Madrid and Paris and became known for dramatic scenes from Spanish history. One of his most famous paintings shows the moment Christopher Columbus was received by the Catholic Monarchs after returning from the New World.

Besides historical subjects, he occasionally turned to Spanish literature for inspiration. “El escrutinio” is one such example.

The Scene

In the early chapters of Don Quixote, the aging nobleman Alonso Quijano loses himself in books about knights and chivalry. Convinced that these stories have driven him mad, his friends decide to examine his library.

The village priest and the barber inspect the books one by one—“the scrutiny.” Some are condemned and thrown aside to be burned, while a few are spared. The episode is humorous, but it also allowed Cervantes to poke fun at the popular literature of his time.

Moreno Carbonero captures this moment perfectly: figures gathered around a pile of books, debating their fate.

Seen today in the museum in Málaga, the painting is both a tribute to Cervantes and a reminder of the power of stories. After all, in Don Quixote it is books that inspire a man to reinvent the world—and sometimes even himself.

An Egyptian Jar in Spain

The surprising journey of an Egyptian canopic jar to southern Spain

In the old quarter of Almuñécar, beneath the slopes of the hill of San Miguel, lies the fascinating underground complex known as the Cueva de los Siete Palacios. Today the vaulted chambers house an archaeological museum.

The cave itself is already unusual. Archaeologists believe it formed part of the substructures of a Roman temple dedicated to Minerva. Over time these spaces became storage rooms, shelters, and eventually a museum displaying objects that tell the long history of the town — from Phoenician beginnings to Roman times.

Among the most surprising objects on display is a stone canopic jar from ancient Egypt, inscribed with the name of the Hyksos king Apophis.

From the Nile to the Western Mediterranean

In ancient Egypt, canopic jars were used during the process of mummification. The internal organs of the deceased were removed, embalmed, and placed in these vessels so they could accompany the dead into the afterlife. Such jars formed part of the elaborate funerary traditions of Egyptian elite burials.

The jar displayed in Almuñécar dates to the 16th century BC, the time when Apophis ruled Egypt during the Hyksos period. Its hieroglyphic inscription mentions the king and a royal sister, confirming that the vessel once belonged to the world of Egyptian royal or elite culture.

But the real mystery is not its Egyptian origin. It is how it ended up in southern Spain.

A Phoenician Story

To understand this, we must look at the people who founded the earliest settlement here.

Long before the Romans built temples on the hill of San Miguel, the coast of southern Spain was dotted with colonies established by the Phoenicians. These seafarers connected the eastern and western Mediterranean through an impressive network of trade routes.

Their ships carried metals, wine, olive oil, luxury goods — and occasionally ancient objects that already had long histories of their own.

Egyptian artifacts were particularly prized. They were exotic, beautifully crafted, and associated with one of the most prestigious civilizations of the ancient world. Phoenician merchants often transported such objects across the Mediterranean, where they could be reused as prestigious items, ritual objects, or heirlooms.

The jar from the time of Apophis likely travelled west along these routes centuries after it was made. Eventually it reached the Phoenician town that once stood here, known in antiquity as Sexi.

Seen in this context, the jar becomes more than an Egyptian funerary object. It becomes evidence of something larger: the vast maritime world that linked distant societies long before the Roman Empire.

Today, deep inside the vaulted chambers of the Cueva de los Siete Palacios, this small stone vessel quietly reminds visitors that the Mediterranean world has been connected for thousands of years.

Further Reading

  • Francesco M. Galassi et al., The Canopic Jar Project: Interdisciplinary Analysis of Ancient Mummified Viscera.

  • Diego Ratti, Atletenu: Avaris and the Hyksos.

  • Josep Padró, Egyptian-Type Documents from the Mediterranean Littoral of the Iberian Peninsula before the Roman Conquest.

  • Manfred Bietak, Avaris: The Capital of the Hyksos.

The Punic Wars: How Carthage Rebuilt Its Power in Iberia

Image created with AI

Travel today through southern and eastern Spain—from Cádiz to Cartagena, and along the coast near Alicante—and you are moving through landscapes that once played a central role in one of the greatest conflicts of the ancient Mediterranean.

Between 264 and 146 BC, Rome and Carthage fought three major conflicts known as the Punic Wars. These wars determined who would dominate the Mediterranean world for centuries. Yet one of the most important chapters of this story unfolded not in Italy or North Africa, but in Iberia, along the coasts and mining regions of what is now Spain.

The First Punic War

The rivalry began in 264 BC on the island of Sicily. Rome intervened in a local dispute and soon found itself at war with Carthage, the dominant maritime power of the western Mediterranean.

The conflict lasted 23 years. Rome, originally a land power, even built massive fleets to challenge Carthage at sea. In 241 BC, Rome finally won, forcing Carthage to surrender Sicily and pay a heavy indemnity. Soon afterwards Rome seized Sardinia, leaving Carthage weakened and humiliated. The First Punic War

But Carthage was not finished.

Turning to Iberia

After the war the city nearly collapsed during a rebellion of unpaid mercenaries. The general who saved it was Hamilcar Barca, a commander who had fought Rome in Sicily.

Hamilcar understood that if Carthage ever wanted to challenge Rome again, it needed new resources—especially money and soldiers. He found both in Iberia.

Phoenician traders had long been active along the Iberian coast. One of their oldest settlements was Gadir, modern Cádiz, founded centuries earlier as a trading port linking the Atlantic and Mediterranean. But in the 230s BC, Hamilcar began transforming Carthaginian influence in Spain into a real territorial power.

The region’s silver mines filled Carthage’s treasury, and Iberian warriors joined its armies.

Carthaginian Cities in Spain

Hamilcar’s successors continued this expansion. His son-in-law Hasdrubal the Fair founded a new Carthaginian capital in Iberia: Carthago Nova, today’s Cartagena.

The city had an exceptional natural harbor and lay close to the mining districts that financed Carthage’s growing power.

Further north along the coast lay Akra Leuke, usually identified with the area around modern Alicante. According to ancient sources, Hamilcar himself established a Carthaginian base here during his early campaigns in Iberia.

Together with Cádiz and Cartagena, these cities formed the backbone of Carthage’s Spanish power.

Among the young men growing up in this frontier world was Hamilcar’s son: Hannibal.

Hannibal’s Iberian War Machine

Hannibal spent much of his youth in Iberia, surrounded by soldiers and tribal allies from across the peninsula. The armies he would later command included large numbers of Iberian warriors, and Spain’s silver financed his campaigns.

In 218 BC, at the start of the Second Punic War, Hannibal marched from Carthaginian Spain across the Pyrenees and eventually over the Alps into Italy — accompanied, according to ancient accounts, by African forest elephants.

For years he defeated Roman armies, winning famous victories such as Cannae in 216 BC.

Yet even Hannibal could not destroy Rome.

Why Rome Survived

Rome’s strength lay in its political and military system. Roman commanders rotated regularly, creating a steady supply of competent leaders rather than relying on a single genius.

Even more important was Rome’s network of allies across Italy. These communities supplied vast numbers of soldiers, allowing Rome to rebuild its armies again and again.

Over time this system wore Hannibal down. Rome eventually defeated Carthage in 202 BC, and in 146 BC the city itself was destroyed.

Iberia’s Forgotten Role

Today the Punic Wars are often remembered for Hannibal’s dramatic march across the Alps.

But the deeper story runs through Spain.

From the ancient Phoenician port of Cádiz, to the Carthaginian stronghold of Cartagena, and the early military base near Alicante, Iberia became the place where Carthage rebuilt its power after defeat.

It was here that the silver, soldiers, and strategy emerged that allowed Hannibal to challenge Rome—and nearly change the course of Mediterranean history.

Stone Sentinels of the Pirate Coast (Costa Blanca, Spain)

Part of a map showing the coastline of the Costa Blanca with its watchtowers. (Seen at the Museu de la Mar in Denia.)

Standing on the cliffs of the Costa Blanca today, the old stone watchtowers look quiet and almost decorative. Many hikers pass them without realizing that they once formed part of a carefully designed defensive network. In the sixteenth century the Valencian coast was not a holiday destination. It was a frontier.

Across the Mediterranean lay the ports of North Africa where Barbary corsairs operated. Their ships appeared suddenly on the horizon, raiding coastal towns, looting houses and carrying captives away to slave markets. Communities along the Spanish Mediterranean lived with the constant fear that the next sail might bring disaster.

This fear was based on repeated attacks.

One of the most dramatic occurred in 1550, when the Ottoman corsair Turgut Reis (Dragut) attacked Cullera, south of Valencia. Corsair ships landed suddenly, overwhelmed the town’s defenses, and looted the settlement. Many inhabitants were captured and taken across the Mediterranean to be sold as slaves. The attack shocked the region and reinforced the urgency of improving coastal defenses.

Further south, Villajoyosa faced a similar threat in 1538, when Barbary corsairs attempted to land and plunder the town. The inhabitants managed to resist the attack, but the event revealed how vulnerable the coast was to sudden amphibious raids. It is still remembered today in the town’s Moros y Cristianos festival.

These raids were part of a wider Mediterranean conflict. Corsair fleets connected to the Ottoman world — commanded by figures such as Hayreddin Barbarossa and his lieutenants — regularly attacked Christian coasts. Their goal was often not conquest but profit: prisoners, livestock, goods and ransom.

Spain’s response was both practical and surprisingly modern.

In 1554, the Italian military engineer Giovanni Battista Antonelli travelled more than 500 kilometers along the Valencian coast with the viceroy of the kingdom. After inspecting the shoreline he proposed a coordinated defensive system built around roughly fifty watchtowers positioned on cliffs and strategic headlands.

Drawing of the port of Moraira and a proposed watchtower for Moraira and the island of Benidorm Island, created in 1596 by the military engineer Cristóbal Antonelli. The document illustrates the planning of the coastal watchtower network built to defend the Kingdom of Valencia against Mediterranean corsair raids.

The concept was simple but effective.

Each tower had a clear line of sight to the next. When lookouts spotted suspicious ships, they lit signal fires or raised smoke signals. The warning travelled rapidly along the coast, alerting inland towns and castles. Within minutes an entire stretch of coastline could prepare for an attack.

What appear today as isolated ruins were once parts of a coastal communication network.

The project reflected the ambitions of Philip II, who invested heavily in mapping and documenting his territories. Engineers, surveyors and cartographers worked together to understand the landscape and strengthen its defenses. One of the first maps to show the system was produced in 1584 by the Flemish cartographer Abraham Ortelius, depicting the Kingdom of Valencia and its chain of coastal towers.

The towers themselves varied in shape. Some had circular bases with sloping walls designed to deflect cannon fire, while others were square. Most housed a small garrison and a signal platform from which guards scanned the horizon.

Financing such a system required substantial resources. The Crown coordinated the project, but much of the funding came from regional revenues and local communities. In Valencia, part of the money came from taxes linked to the thriving silk industry, whose trade enriched the region during the same period.

Over time the chain extended along much of the Valencian shoreline. Later maps from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries still show more than fifty towers, demonstrating how long the system remained important.

Today many of these towers survive, scattered between modern resorts, pine forests and rocky headlands. Some have been restored, others stand as weathered fragments above the sea.

Seen from the cliffs today they may look like lonely monuments. In reality they were once the eyes and ears of an entire coastline — silent sentinels guarding a Mediterranean that was, for centuries, a pirate frontier.

The Giant Clay Jars of Valdepeñas (Spain)

Rows of traditional clay tinajas in an underground cellar in Valdepeñas.

If you descend into one of the old wine cellars of Valdepeñas, you may find yourself walking through a silent forest of giant clay vessels. These monumental jars, called tinajas, once formed the heart of the region’s winemaking tradition. Some are taller than a person and can hold thousands of litres of wine.

Wine has been produced in this part of La Mancha for a very long time. Archaeological evidence suggests that vines were already cultivated here by Iberian peoples and later by the Romans. The written history of the town itself begins in 1243, when several small settlements in the “Valley of Stones” were united under the name Valdepeñas—a place already known for its wine culture.

By the early modern period, the region had become one of the major wine suppliers of central Spain. When Madrid became the royal capital in the 16th century, demand for wine increased dramatically, and the vineyards around Valdepeñas expanded to meet the needs of the growing city.

In those centuries, the wine was not stored in small oak barrels as we often imagine today. Instead, it was kept in enormous earthenware vats like the tinajas seen in the photo. Some traditional vessels held more than a thousand litres and were sometimes partly buried in the ground to keep the temperature stable during fermentation and storage.

The cellars themselves were often carved into the soft limestone beneath the town. In the cool darkness, rows of these giant jars stored the harvest of the surrounding vineyards. Wine could ferment slowly, settle naturally, and remain stable for long periods before being transported to other cities.

In the 19th century Valdepeñas entered a new phase. Railways connected the town to the rest of Spain, and large quantities of wine were shipped across the country and even overseas. The town became one of Spain’s best-known wine centres, a reputation that continues today with its protected designation of origin (D.O. Valdepeñas).

Modern wineries now rely mostly on stainless-steel tanks and smaller oak barrels. Yet many historic bodegas still preserve their old tinajas. Walking between them is like stepping back into an earlier chapter of European wine history—when wine was produced and stored on a monumental scale beneath the streets of Valdepeñas.

When Farming Reached Iberia - the Neolithic transition

Neolithic decorated clay vessel (c. 5500–3500 BC) from the Cueva del Higuerón near Rincón de la Victoria (Málaga), now displayed in the Museo de Málaga. Hand-made and decorated with impressed patterns, pots like this belong to the earliest farming communities of the Iberian Peninsula.

Around 7,500–5,500 years ago, life on the Iberian Peninsula began to change in a profound way. For thousands of years people had lived as hunter-gatherers, moving through landscapes rich in animals, plants and marine resources. But during the sixth millennium BC, new communities appeared along the Mediterranean coast bringing something revolutionary: farming and herding.

Archaeologists call this moment the Neolithic transition.

The Arrival of the First Farmers

The first Neolithic communities of Iberia cultivated crops such as wheat and barley and kept sheep and goats. They used polished stone tools, flint sickles for harvesting, and—perhaps most visibly—ceramic vessels. These early farming groups did not appear everywhere at once. The earliest sites are often found along the Mediterranean coast, especially in caves and rock shelters. From these coastal footholds, farming gradually spread inland.

Archaeologists believe these communities likely arrived by sea from other parts of the western Mediterranean, possibly from the Italian or Ligurian coasts. Another possibility, still debated, is that some groups reached southern Iberia from North Africa across the Strait of Gibraltar. Wherever they came from, their arrival created one of the most important cultural encounters in European prehistory: the meeting between incoming farmers and local hunter-gatherers.

A Landscape of Caves and Coasts

Southern Iberia—especially the coast of Málaga and Granada—is rich in caves that preserve traces of this transition. These caves were often occupied repeatedly for thousands of years.

At sites along the Andalusian coast, archaeological layers show the gradual shift from Mesolithic hunter-gatherers to Early Neolithic farmers, including pottery fragments, stone tools, shell ornaments, and remains of domesticated animals.

Even after farming arrived, people continued to exploit the sea. Shellfish, fish, and other marine resources remained important in daily life along the Mediterranean coast.

In other words, the Neolithic did not replace earlier traditions overnight—it blended with them.

A Pot from the Beginning of Farming

A quiet witness to this transformation can be seen today in the Museo de Málaga. The clay vessel shown here was found in the Cueva del Higuerón, a cave near Rincón de la Victoria, just east of Málaga. It dates to the Neolithic period between about 7,500 and 5,500 years ago. At first glance it may look simple: a hand-made clay pot with decorative impressions along its rim. But this object tells an important story. Pottery like this is one of the clearest signs that a community had entered the Neolithic world. Clay vessels allowed people to store grain, cook food, and transport liquids, making them closely connected to farming life.

Unlike modern ceramics, Neolithic pots were made without a potter’s wheel. The clay was shaped by hand, decorated with simple impressions or incised patterns, and fired in basic kilns or open hearths. Each pot was therefore unique. The decorative band around the rim of this vessel—made by pressing tools or cords into the wet clay—was not strictly necessary. It was a human touch: a moment where utility became design.

A Quiet Revolution

When we look at objects like this pot, we are seeing the material traces of one of the biggest revolutions in human history.

The introduction of farming meant:

  • more permanent settlements

  • new technologies such as pottery

  • domesticated animals and crops

  • new social structures and ways of organizing land.

Within a few centuries, these early farmers transformed landscapes across the Iberian Peninsula.

Yet the people who made this vessel were still close to older traditions. They lived in caves near the sea, gathered shellfish, hunted animals, and moved through familiar territories that had been used by hunter-gatherers long before them.

This clay pot, now resting in a museum display case, therefore stands at the meeting point of two worlds: the last hunter-gatherers and the first farmers of Iberia.

The Four Troublesome Heads by Georges Méliès

While visiting the Museo Picasso Málaga, we unexpectedly encountered a small piece of film history: Un Homme de Tête (1898) by the French filmmaker and magician Georges Méliès.

The film lasts barely a minute. Méliès sits at a table, removes his own head, places it on the table, and then calmly grows a new one. Soon several identical heads are singing and moving next to each other like a strange little choir.

For audiences in 1898, this must have looked like pure magic. In reality Méliès used simple but ingenious techniques such as multiple exposures and stop-camera editing—methods that made the camera itself a magician’s tool.

Seeing this playful experiment in the Picasso Museum makes sense in an unexpected way. Artists of the early twentieth century were fascinated by new ways of showing reality. Just as Méliès multiplied his own head on screen, Pablo Picasso would later fragment faces and perspectives in his paintings.

Different media, but the same spirit: curiosity, experimentation, and the joy of discovering what images can do.

And all of it captured in a film that lasts barely a minute.

Cancho Roano: A Sacred Complex in Iron Age Spain

An artist impression of Cancho Roano.

In the quiet countryside of Extremadura, far from Spain’s main tourist routes, lies one of the most intriguing archaeological sites of the Iberian Peninsula: Cancho Roano.

At first glance the place looks modest—low walls, foundations, and a protective structure over the excavation. Yet beneath this calm landscape lies the story of a sophisticated Iron Age society that was deeply connected to the wider Mediterranean world.

Cancho Roano is not just an archaeological site. It is one of the most fascinating puzzles of prehistoric Spain.

An Accidental Discovery

The site came to light almost by accident.

For a long time a low mound near the town of Zalamea de la Serena was believed to be nothing more than the remains of an old agricultural structure. In the 1970s, when the landowner tried to level the mound for farming, workers encountered thick walls of adobe and stone, together with ancient objects.

Archaeologists quickly realized that the mound concealed something extraordinary. Excavations began in 1978 and soon revealed a large and carefully planned building hidden inside the hill.

A Monument from the Iron Age

The complex dates roughly between the 6th and 4th centuries BCE, during the Iron Age, centuries before the Romans arrived in Spain.

At that time the Iberian Peninsula was home to many different cultures. Communities in the southwest were linked through trade to Phoenician merchants from the eastern Mediterranean and later to Greek traders. Through these contacts luxury goods, new technologies, and religious ideas spread far inland.

Cancho Roano seems to belong to this world of exchange and cultural mixing.

The archeological site of Cancho Roana.

Palace, Sanctuary, or Both?

The building itself is surprisingly sophisticated.

Constructed on a stone platform and surrounded by a wide moat, the complex is organized around a central courtyard. Rows of small rooms line the sides of the building. Archaeologists found storage spaces, working areas, and rooms that appear to have had ritual functions.

The objects discovered there are remarkable: bronze vessels, imported Greek pottery, ivory pieces, jewelry, and tools related to textile production.

Because of this mixture of finds, archaeologists still debate the exact function of the site. Some see it as a sanctuary, a sacred place where rituals and offerings were made. Others interpret it as the residence of a local elite, a rural center of power that controlled agricultural production and trade.

Many scholars today think it may have been both: a palace-sanctuary, where political authority and religious practice were closely linked.

A Mediterranean World in Western Spain

One of the most fascinating aspects of Cancho Roano is how strongly it reflects connections with the wider Mediterranean.

The architecture shows similarities with sacred buildings found in places such as Etruria in Italy or Phoenician sites around the Mediterranean. Imported ceramics and luxury goods confirm that the community living here was not isolated. Instead, it was part of a network of exchange stretching across the ancient world.

Even in this rural corner of Extremadura, people were connected to distant cultures and ideas.

A Deliberate End

The story of Cancho Roano ends in a mysterious way.

Around the late 5th century BCE the building was deliberately destroyed. Before abandoning the site, its occupants carefully burned parts of the complex and then sealed the structure beneath layers of earth.

This does not appear to have been the result of war or accident. Instead, archaeologists believe it was a ritual closure—a symbolic act marking the end of the sanctuary’s life.

Why this happened remains unknown.

Why Cancho Roano Matters

Cancho Roano is unique in western Europe. Few places offer such a clear glimpse into the complex societies that existed in Iberia before the Roman conquest.

The site shows that these communities built monumental architecture, accumulated wealth, and maintained connections with the Mediterranean world. It reveals a society where religion, politics, and trade were closely intertwined.

Standing among the quiet ruins today, it is easy to forget how vibrant this place once was. Yet Cancho Roano reminds us that long before Rome arrived, southwestern Spain was already part of a dynamic and interconnected ancient world.

Further Reading

Sebastián Celestino Pérez & Javier Jiménez Ávila — El Palacio-Santuario de Cancho Roano
José María Blázquez Martínez — El Santuario de Cancho Roano
Javier Jiménez Ávila — Cancho Roano y la Protohistoria de Extremadura
Manuel Bendala Galán — Protohistoria de la Península Ibérica

A Necklace from 5000 Years Ago

Shell necklace from the Early Copper Age (c. 3000 BC), made from pierced seashells and discovered in the dolmen of Cuesta de los Almendrillos near Alozaina (Málaga). Now displayed in the Museo de Málaga.

In a quiet display case in the Museo de Málaga lies something unexpectedly familiar: a necklace made entirely of small seashells. At first glance it looks almost modern — the kind of necklace you might see today in a seaside market.

Yet this one is about 5,000 years old.

The necklace was found in the dolmen of Cuesta de los Almendrillos, near Alozaina, and dates to the Early Copper Age. Each shell was carefully pierced and strung together into a long loop. Some are smooth, some still show their fine natural ridges, but together they form something unmistakable: jewelry.

And that is the first surprise.

When we look at this necklace, we are not looking at something strange from a distant prehistoric world. We are looking at something that would not feel out of place today. Walk through a coastal market anywhere around the Mediterranean and you will find shell necklaces that look remarkably similar.

Five thousand years have passed — yet the idea is exactly the same.

A Necklace Worn in Life

Objects like this often come from megalithic tombs, collective burial monuments built by early farming communities across Iberia. The dolmen at Cuesta de los Almendrillos was one such place. People were buried there together with objects that mattered to them: tools, pottery, and sometimes personal ornaments.

But a necklace like this was almost certainly not made for the tomb. It was worn in life.

Someone once gathered these shells, pierced them one by one, and threaded them onto a cord. Someone wore this around their neck — perhaps daily, perhaps on special occasions. Shells also hint at connections: they come from the sea, and inland communities often valued them precisely because they traveled from elsewhere.

The Familiarity of the Past

Standing in front of the display in the Museo de Málaga, the realization slowly settles in.

Humans still collect beautiful things from the sea.
We still pierce them.
We still string them together.
We still wear them.

Materials change — gold, silver, glass, plastic — but the impulse is identical. Jewelry is one of the most persistent human habits, appearing in cultures across the world and deep in the archaeological record.

This simple necklace reminds us that the people of the Copper Age were not so different from us.

Five thousand years ago, somewhere in southern Iberia, someone held a handful of shells and had the same simple thought many people have had since:

These would make a beautiful necklace.