Drifting through the Toledo years

A map is no use; nor is a compass. You might try a ball of twine, but frankly the only reliable way of negotiating Toledo's labyrinthine city centre would be by hand-held Global Positioning System - and even that wouldn't be foolproof.

This cramped medieval city is a maze of high-sided stone streets, narrow alleyways, cobbled lanes and tiny squares. You can't fight it: the best way to see Toledo is to drift.

For 500 years Toledo was the capital of Castile; a wealthy city with a tolerant mix of Christian, Jewish and Moorish cultures. Then, in the 16th century, the capital moved 60 miles north: to Madrid. The Moors and Jews were expelled and Toledo fell into the decline from which, some would say, it has yet to recover. It's a deeply traditional place, with an air of faded grandeur and mystery.

We stayed at the Hostal del Cardenal, an 18th century cardinal's palace next to the gate through which the Castilian nobleman El Cid rode to recapture the city for the Christians in 1085. Public rooms radiated opulence; our bedroom had antique furniture and tiled floors, and looked out over a garden shaded by firs. Fountains trickled into ornamental ponds. Dinner was in the garden: roast suckling pig with local Valdepe"as, eaten on a terrace still warm at midnight.

In the morning we went in search of El Greco. Domenico Theotocopoulos was born in Crete in 1541, and settled in Toledo 30-odd years later, where he lived until his death in 1614. His paintings hang all over town and tracking them down takes you ever further into the heart of Toledo. We negotiated the steep lanes of the Jewish Quarter and gawped at the Church of the Christian Kings, adorned with the shackles of Christian slaves from Moorish times.

We found the occasional street dotted with souvenir shops selling everything from kitchen knives of Toledo steel to suits of armour. Toledo has tourists, mostly from Madrid, but such is the city's dense layout it swallows them up. And it's also perfectly suited to the searing Castilian heat. There is always shade among the tangle of stone, and fountains provide cold drinking water.

The Museum of El Greco is a converted 19th century mansion. Viewing the artist's work is exhilarating and exhausting. Where other painters of the period depict gracious saints and handsome noblemen, El Greco uses anguished, blurred faces, with an underlying unease, paring characters to the bone. His colours - lime, crimson, ghostly yellows - are the colours of Toledo itself, at dawn and sunset. A few hours leaves you with aching eyes and a full, if heavy, heart. Time for refreshment.

The Plaza de Zocodover is the centre of Toledo life, lined with caf?s and mansions with elegant fa?ades. We sat recuperating with grazinado de lim?n - crushed lemon with sugar and ice - as the midday sun burned overhead, then slipped into the darkness of Toledo Cathedral, the spiritual core of the country (the Primate of all Spain has his seat here).

On Sunday morning Toledo's church bells were ringing in unison. We day-tripped to the Royal Palace at Aranjuez, half an hour away by train: an 18th century extravaganza built to resemble Versailles - without quite succeeding. Still, the vast gardens were sublime. We picnicked on chorizo and Manchegan cheese, watching the river flow through the sculpted lawns.

Back in Toledo, the city was honey-coloured in the afternoon sun. Just across the River Tagus, from the spot at which El Greco painted his masterpiece, View and Map of Toledo, we gazed up at the extraordinary city, piled on its outcrop of rock. Then crossed an ancient bridge and entered the walls, to be swallowed up by a cool, now-familiar labyrinth.

Way to go

Paul Mansfield travelled to Toledo with Inntravel (01653 629010). Three nights at the Hostal del Cardenal from £310pp B&B, including flights to Madrid, transfers and day trip to Aranjuez.

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