My ground-to-floor windows, each with a tidy balcony, look over the main square of Jerez, in the province of Cádiz.

The pigeons are cleaning up from last night as the first café sets out its furniture, methodically, to the sound of the Town Hall bells. It is 8am, and the city has yet to slip on its girdle and face the day.

I do not mistake quietude for sleepiness. After all, there was a time when the people of Jerez fought for the soul of Spain.

And, before the day is out, I would learn that its frontier fighting spirit is not yet extinguished.

***

In 1264, a couple of kilometres out the road, King Alfonso X’s army engaged in a skirmish with the Moors, frustrating the aspirations of the Muslim Kingdom of Granada and asserting Castilian authority.

Jerez became an essential part of the Reconquista story, and was renamed Jerez de la Frontera in 1380, to mark its delineating role.

Carthusian monks later chose these sacred fields of victory to found a monastery and invented ways to praise the lord, the Spanish throne and the coffers in order to place stone upon stone; carve saint upon saint.

My intention in booking a monastery tour was to take sight of the famous Carthusian horses, bred by the monks for the royals of Europe.

Alas, a disinterest in the small print brought me surprise on two counts: there were no horses, and there were no tourists.

I would be led on a tour, alone.

***

Carolina was a demure guide from the town, who was proud, methodical in delivery and concerned with detail.

We bonded over the translation of woods: mahogany, cypress, walnut and oak – used across the vast monastery to fashion its Trojan gates, its humble furniture and the ever-present statues of Saint Bruno.

‘What is the Spanish for acorns?’, I enquired, intending to discuss how great oaks from acorns grow.

The monastery, it seemed to me, was a Russian doll onto which the latest invader painted a new face.

‘Bellotas’, she responded, smiling. ‘We fatten pigs with them’.

***

The monks dressed in white and did what monks do: eat, pray, and love the Bible.

The horse breeding arose as a practical extension of their labour – to carry their loads and defend their domain.

Intuitively, and long before Darwin could substantiate their instincts, they selected breeding pairs on physical and temperamental attributes. Over the centuries, an equine marvel emerged: compact, arched of neck, strong in combat and highly intelligent.

The silent, celibate men had produced life to outlive them all. Although this breeding continues, it has long been out of their weathered hands.

***

The sculpted emblem I noticed most as we drifted through this empty, living work of art was that of a cross with the instruments of crucifixion at its base: pillar, whip, ladder, hammer, crown.

The absence of the Christ had poignancy, like a crime scene survey, after the body had been removed. In theology, this is known as ‘Arma Christi’, wherein the weapons of persecution are transformed into instruments of victory.

Each monk (there were 27 in all) was accorded quarters on two levels: one hundred square metres of living space, replete with an elevated balcony overlooking a private garden and the river beyond. Their day was structured and punishing, rising at 00h30(sic), and ending at 18h30.

Punishing, that is, until you consider the accommodating fringe benefits.

At the entrance to each monk’s private quarters, a Friday choice awaited: would he eat half a loaf, or nothing at all? This public declaration, by way of a rotating marker, suggests that virtue signalling has a long, human past.

As we ended the tour, Carolina expressed a wish that the Spanish state might take more interest in La Cartuja, given its beauty and excellent state of conservation.

We took leave with a gentle handshake, and she made a suggestion.

‘Tell more people about us. We easily get forgotten’.

***

Later that evening, the day’s raw heat tamed by the beckoning night, I walked through the Plaza del Arenal, the principal square of Jerez de la Frontera.

A family crowd had gathered, chanting slogans, holding banners high, with many wrapped in the flags of Spain, and some unknown place with black-and-white pinwheel signage.

I chatted with a local, who explained that it was a demonstration in support of Ceuta and against a government which, in his view, had allowed such a serious incursion into Spanish territory.

‘The government has betrayed the people!’, one banner read, aloft outside the City Hall.

The atmosphere, I judged, was more concerned than angry. Here and there, West African immigrants passed by, and a Palestinian flag was furled away and stored by some others.

Issues of border and the meaning of Spain are never far from the mind of Jerez.

With that, the bells rang out for 9pm and the crowd dispersed, ordering a local beer or sherry with a side of almonds as the affairs of state were discussed.

As their chatter unfolded, I returned to my quarters noting, as I meandered through bar furniture, that tomorrow’s pigeons might need an early start.