El Escorial

Feel the air first. It comes down cool from the mountains behind you, even on a summer afternoon. Under your feet, the paving is grey granite, and the walls in front of you are the same grey granite, rising in long, flat planes. There is very little decoration here, and very little colour. The building does not try to charm you. It asks you to slow down, look up, and take in the sheer, quiet scale of it.

This is the Royal Site of San Lorenzo de El Escorial. It is a monastery, a palace, a basilica, a library, and a royal tomb, all inside one rectangle of stone. It sits on the lower slopes of the Guadarrama mountains, northwest of Madrid. Behind it rises the dark shoulder of Mount Abantos. The town around it grew up to serve the building, and you can still feel that relationship today.

The man behind all of this was Philip II, King of Spain in the sixteenth century. In 1557, his forces won a major victory over the French at the Battle of Saint Quentin. The battle fell on the feast day of Saint Lawrence, a Christian martyr from the early church. Philip promised to honour the saint. El Escorial became that promise, built in stone on a scale few kings have ever attempted.

Construction began in 1563. The first architect was Juan Bautista de Toledo, who had worked in Italy. When he died a few years later, his assistant, Juan de Herrera, took over and shaped much of what you see now. The work was finished in 1584 — about twenty years, which is remarkably fast for a project of this size. Herrera's name is now attached to a whole style of Spanish architecture: plain, geometric, and severe.

Look at the overall plan of the building, and you will see a grid of courtyards inside a great rectangle. According to a popular tradition, this grid recalls the gridiron on which Saint Lawrence was said to have been roasted to death. Historians debate whether this was really intended. Either way, the story has stayed with the building for centuries, and many local guides still tell it with a small smile.

Now for the first surprise. This was never meant to be a pleasure palace. Philip II gave the monastery to the Order of Saint Jerome, a community of monks devoted to prayer. The king wanted monks to pray for the souls of his family, day and night. Today the monastery is run by the Augustinian order instead, but it is still a working religious house. Part of this building has never stopped being a place of prayer.

At the heart of the complex stands the basilica. Its dome crowns the whole site, and you can see it from far along the mountain roads. Inside, the space is tall, cool, and filled with filtered light. The high altar rises in tiers of coloured stone and gilded bronze, a rare burst of richness in this sober building. Take a moment here before you move on. Notice how quiet it becomes once your eyes adjust.

Below the altar lies the Pantheon of the Kings. Most Spanish monarchs since the sixteenth century rest here, in stacked marble tombs inside a round, gilded chamber. Here is the second surprise, and it is a little dark. Royal bodies are not placed in the pantheon straight away. They first rest for many years in a separate chamber, known in Spanish as the pudridero, until only bones remain. Only then are they moved to their final tomb.

Nearby is the Pantheon of the Infantes, where royal princes, princesses, and queens who were not mothers of kings are buried. It is a series of white marble rooms, more delicate than the royal crypt. One tomb, shaped like a large white cake of marble, holds royal children who died very young. Many visitors find this the most moving part of the whole site. It is a reminder that this was also a family burial place.

Then comes the library, and it changes the mood completely. The long hall has a barrel-vaulted ceiling painted in bright frescoes, largely the work of the Italian painter Pellegrino Tibaldi. The figures show the liberal arts, such as grammar, music, and astronomy. Look closely at the shelves. The books are stored with their spines facing inward and their gilded page edges facing out. This old practice helped protect the bindings, and it gives the shelves a soft golden glow.

The royal apartments of Philip II are the most surprising rooms of all. For one of the most powerful men in the world, they are small and plain. His bedroom has a window that opens directly onto the basilica. From his bed, the king could see the high altar and follow the Mass. When he was old and very ill, he spent his final weeks in this room. He died here in 1598, within sight of the altar he had built.

As you walk the halls, you will also pass long galleries of paintings and frescoes. The Hall of Battles is covered with painted scenes of Spanish military campaigns, full of tiny soldiers and horses. The collections include works by Titian and El Greco, among others. In 1984, the whole site was named a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. Even so, it rarely feels like a museum. The stone, the silence, and the mountain light keep it closer to a monastery.

When you step back outside, turn around once more. Look at the long rows of identical windows, the grey towers at the corners, and the dome above them all. Listen for the wind coming down from the mountain, and maybe a bell from the basilica. As you walk back into the town, notice how the streets still lean toward this building. More than four centuries later, the town still lives in its shadow.