The writing room of Papa Luna’s castle is not a place of comfort. The walls are bare stone, thick enough to muffle the outside world, and the ceiling arches just high enough to remind you this was a fortress before it was ever a residence. The air is cool, almost damp, carrying that faint mineral smell of centuries-old limestone. My footsteps echoed in the emptiness, and for a moment I wondered how many cloaked figures had paced these same slabs of floor, quill in hand, thoughts heavier than the castle itself.
At the far end, a narrow slit of a window beckoned. I crossed the room, rested my hands on the cold ledge, and leaned into the light. The world outside exploded in contrast. To the left, the Mediterranean stretched out forever, a canvas of blue broken only by the white froth of waves battering the cliffs below. It was beautiful, yes, but there was a sharp loneliness in it too. I could almost imagine Benedict XIII — Papa Luna — pausing mid-sentence, staring at that same horizon, and feeling the weight of exile pressing back at him.
Then I turned slightly. The view shifted toward Peñíscola itself, where the clustered white houses spilled down the slope, roofs glowing in the sun. From this distance, the town seemed almost like an afterthought, yet it was here that his small circle of loyal supporters lived, the last fragment of his papal court. It struck me then how these two views — the infinite sea and the loyal town — were a perfect mirror of his life: isolated, yet never entirely alone. Inside the room was silence. Outside, two worlds: one that confined him, and one that sustained him. And in between, the writing desk of a man who refused to surrender.
The full travel essay on Papa Luna’s castle — including my journey through the fortress, the writing room, and those breathtaking Mediterranean views — will be published here on September 21. Don’t miss it! Make sure you’ve subscribed to the newsletter to get the essay delivered straight to your inbox as soon as it goes live.