Agost

“El afilador! El afilador!” The cries of the knife sharpener followed me around Agost. He was there when I arrived; a rickety old moped parked up in the street with the tools of his trade strapped to the back of it.

“El afilador!”

After each shout came a few notes from his mouth organ, which sounded like an enchanted flute.

Later, as I wandered across the Plaza de España he appeared again, calling up to the open windows of the town houses. But no one came out brandishing blunted culinary utensils to take him up on his offer.

Then, as I climbed to the castle on high, short blasts of music floated up at intervals from different parts of the town, charting the ‘afilador’s’ progress around the streets. He appeared to be moving quickly, suggesting there wasn’t much business to be had from the citizens of Agost that morning.

In a region that is changing at a fierce pace, there is something reassuring about Agost. The town appears to have one foot set firmly in the past. It is more old Spain than new. Traditions that are fast disappearing from other communities are still going strong. The ancient game of hand tennis – Pelota Valenciana – remains popular amongst the locals. They play it in the streets on Saturday afternoons, as crowds look on.

During the local festivals groups play the dolçaina – an instrument that sounds like a squeaky trumpet. In the Serenading of the Virgin of the Peace in January, ancient songs are sung accompanied by dolçaina tunes, which are said to originate from the times of the Moors. The verses are adapted by the singers who ask for help and favours from the Virgin. Later in the year on the day of the ‘Vella’ (old in Valenciano), residents place large dolls outside their houses that have been fashioned through the year. The figures are dressed up with a sign hung round their necks, which is often an ironic reflection or social criticism of events in the town

A pottery route around the town shows off a trade that began in the 18^th century in Agost.
Small artisan workshops based inside homes and larger potteries, which have houses built onto the side, are still in use.
The potters use local clays and fire the ware in wood ovens.
All the jars that are made in the town are turned by hand with the most celebrated pottery called ‘botija blanca’.
The manufacturing process can be seen in the museum in Calle Monteforte.

Walking around the town I found that Agost has a ramshackle quality about it.
Buildings are crumbling and others need a lick of pain and more.
On a hill in the middle of the old quarter stands the Sant Pere Hermitage, which has lost most of its roof.
Exposed wooden beams support sections of crumbling masonry and chirping birds next under the parts that remain intact.
Sharing the same knoll are the walls of what was once a castle.
These have received more attention in recent years but only the shell of he fortress remains.

In the skirts of the hill under the nose of the castle, box houses with flat roofs replete with tubs of flowers,
plastic tables and washing lines vie for space with the more often seen terra cotta tiled Valencian homes.
On the edge of he old town, the 150-foot-high bell tower of the 500-year-old church rises up proudly,
although the tiles that decorate it have seen better days.

The suburbs fan out to a bone-dry plain where occasional patches of green stand out against the chalk-white earth.
These flats end abruptly at the Sierra de Maigmó, where twisted peaks rise to over 4,500 feet.

Agost has the feeling of a community that has evolved over centuries
and not a development that was drawn up on the back of a fag packet in a second-rate architect’s office.
The village may have been founded by the Romans, and was certainly lived in by the Moors,
creating a fascinating jumble of history.

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