I am sorry to disappoint you, but far from my intention to emulate Erich von Däniken, the Swiss, not entirely complete, it seems, whose theories about gods and aliens convulsed the West, who still dreamed of the echoes of the chimeras of a luminous horizon, that the can Cerbero de la Historia swallowed without commiseration and that some romantics remember with the name of May of 68.

And yet, believe it or not, I can't help it: every time I drop by Almazán, either involuntarily or with premeditated will - joy, divine treasure - and putting aside those titanic temptations, which are the torrent of Soria and the exquisite sweets of the nuns, there are two places where I feel the imperative need to stop, even the necessary time to continue my path happily, feeling unequivocally possessed by the spirit of reverie, which if I'm not mistaken, must of being something similar to what that strange anthropologist, Carlos Castaneda, called 'the gift of the eagle'.

I would not say that I have gifts, but I would not be disgusted if anyone deigned to knock on my door. But in the lapse that exists in dreaming and wishing, I let myself be tempted by the spirit of speculation, which leads me to look for Sophia's ghost, in those two places that I have been referring to giving more detours than a taxi driver in rush hour.

One of them, long as its noble factory of the twelfth century notes, is the Romanesque church of San Miguel. The other, a little more recent, although not so much as not to deserve also respect for longevity, is the hermitage of Jesus.

Between one and the other, there is a difference, calculated by the eye of a good cubero, of about five hundred years.

Enough, believe it, so that the great alchemist, Mother Earth, replenishes in her extraordinary attachments, those immeasurable mountains that the speculators, the scoundrels and the brains of the world ravage every summer so that the priests of Mamón - farther than Never of the World of the Spirit - fool four fools, who are already wide to the title of snobs.

The point is that every time I contemplate the extraordinary eight-pointed star and unequivocal Mudejar or Islamic influence that forms the central dome of the church of San Miguel, on whose brackets, there is also presence of those divine sneaks that are the angels - said It is, with all my respect- I cannot, at least remember the words of a curious English gentleman, Marsham Adams, when referring to the Great Pyramid, introduced us to the literal aspect of the so-called 'doctrine of Light', under which the sacred words were converted into writing and this, in turn, could be extrapolated to the stone, as an eminently hidden teaching and yet, in view of the whole world.

And the hermitage of Jesus, because, possibly complementing the premise of that no less curious character, Hermes Trismegisto, who said that what is above is equal to what is below, does not show us the eight-pointed star in his dome, but it is guessed in its octagonal plan, although this is part of another story.

The truth is that since ancient times, there was a very special school, which, looking at the most punctual stars of the sky, was recording it in certain places on Earth. There were, then, Star Masters. And like every good Master, his unalterable anonymity, makes us think that perhaps as students, we are not yet ready to meet them.

However, while the meeting takes place, there is no law that forbids us to marvel at their works and incidentally, to let ourselves be carried away by that positive, intuitive and encouraging charge, which is called Dreaming.

NOTICE: Both the text and the accompanying photographs are my exclusive intellectual property.