Andalucia's Most Intimate Inn – La Casa Grande

First off, welcome to the Hotel Junkie's hub. I've got a growing roster of sweet hotels, inns and places to stay — in Spain, Italy, Colorado, NYC, Ecuador, Belize — and I'll be writing about them here. Feel free to contact me or comment with your own hotel recs...

The Facts

Location: Arcos de la Frontera, Andalucia, Spain.

Web: http://www.lacasagrande.net/

The Cost: $$ out of $$$$$

The Story

First up is one of my Top 3 places: La Casa Grande, located in the white-washed hill city of Arcos de la Frontera in southern Spain.

It's been said that Arcos looks like a wedding veil draped over a collapsed hill. White-washed homes tenuously cling to a sheer, brown, limestone cliff. The stark brightness of the buildings is only interrupted by two rival churches — San Pedro and Santa Maria — which rise from the crest of the broken hill in rustic tones of gray. Between the churches, down what passes for a street in the ancient city (I'd prefer to call it an alleyway) lies the unassuming front door of La Casa Grande.

The inn is really an ancient home, and a giant one at that. Through the front door you enter a courtyard, which is very typical of Moorish Spain, of Andalucia. They serve remarkable breakfasts in this mellow environment. We were led to our room up a narrow staircase and out onto the rooftop patio where the white-washed light is intense. From here, however, is one of the most magnificent views in Spain (more on that later).

I told Hailey — in a rather romaticized way — that I could visualize Ernest Hemingway writing a short story from the small wooden desk in our room. In truth, I was saying that I could visualize myself writing a novel here. Everything about the room was in line with spawning creativity. Close quarters without being crowded or suffocating. Shelter from the midday sun, a comfy bed for catnaps and dreaming, and an insolated atmosphere that inspired inward reflection. I loved it in there.

At dusk, we lounged on the patio for hours and slowly drank a bottle of wine — Gibalbin, a local red — that the innkeeper named Ferrán brought for us. Swallows swirled all around the crisp sky while a small falcon circled among them, perhaps waiting for the right moment to pick one off. A cat lay perched on the nearby roof, watching intently for hours at the spinning spectacle in the sky. It was probably a daily ritual for him.

There was also the memorable volley of bells between the churches. First San Pedro, the one with an inferiority complex (our guide book said that Santa Maria was chosen by the Vatican as Arcos' official church). It would toll a few times and fall silent, usually a minute before the hour. Then Santa Maria tolled a good six or seven times. Then San Pedro would clang insistantly — the last laugh every time — for a good 20 to 30 times it seemed.

The true magic of La Casa Grande came on the second evening, just after dark. San Pedro lit up each night and glowed like a candle on the crest of the hill. As I was taking pictures and setting up my tripod, something caught the corner of my eye. A flock of flamingos — their long necks elongated, their smashed in faces pressed into the still crispness of night — passed directly over the church, the lights revealing their garish pink feathers. The moment lasted 6 or 7 seconds and would stand as probably the most heart-stopping sight of the whole trip.