Once is not enough for otherworldly Nasrid Palace

I once knew a man who was a firm believer in reincarnation, and was convinced that the passions of your current life reflected what you wanted most … but had been deprived of … in your last. I can't comment on my cosmic rebirth, but I do know there’s nothing like denial to sharpen my appetite, be it for high-fat foods or high culture.

Which is pretty much how we ended up touring the Alhambra's famous interiors twice in 36 hours.

Keen readers of this blog will remember that, last year, my long-anticipated pilgrimage to Granada's masterpiece of Moorish style was thwarted by my ignorance of its popularity. Attempting to source tickets three weeks in advance was laughable; three months is wise. I satisfied myself with some gorgeous secondary sites but the Nasrid Palace … what everyone wants to see … hovered tantalisingly beyond my reach.

The need to complete that sight-seeing mission plagued me, and no doubt drove my suggestion that our 18th annual Northwestern Girls’ Trip head for Granada. Fortunately, the other three travelers were enthusiastic, too. Thus, a year after my first attempt, I finally made my way into this fairy tale of arabesques and arches, shadow and light, water and air.

It deserves every accolade it's collected over the centuries. The building is encrusted with decorative detail. Tiles gleam. Arabic script dances. Vines and flowers twine. Plaster stalactites drip from the ceiling. Scallops edge arches. It should be a train wreck of conflicting pattern, and yet all this lavish detail comes together in such harmony that the whole building feels like a series of soothing, meditative spaces. That's surprising, given the crowds that surge through. And ironic, given the back-stabbing, internecine scheming that characterised the Nasrid rulers. But the Spanish have, thankfully, avoided greed and limited crowd numbers to a level that gives you a chance to find quiet moments and, if you pace your visit between bus tours, the occasional people-free photo. 

The palace is technically three complexes, built successively by a father, son and grandson in the 14th century. Each is anchored by an open courtyard with adjacent reception rooms, all very much built for outdoor living and filled with the sound of running water from the fountains in each courtyard. Even 500 years after their move to Spain, the Moors couldn't put aside their origins as a desert people and their extreme veneration for water.

You enter through the oldest bit, and while there are beautiful spaces here, it's no more than an amuse bouche for what's to come. The central complex spreads out from the stately Courtyard of the Myrtles, where a long, elegant reflecting pool bordered by austere clipped hedges and plain walls is a rare bit of austerity. This forms an effective counterpoint to the ornate ante-rooms through which you pass in to a throne room of epic proportions.

The Hall of the Ambassadors' 12 metre-square footprint isn't particularly large by palatial standards, but the height is extraordinary. Walls dense with complex pattern extend up through the full 23 metre height of the tower above. (Interestingly, this is not only beautiful but practical. In the blazing summers, the tower functions as a giant extractor fan, sucking hot air up through the windows placed around its top.)  The ceiling is an intricate patchwork multi-coloured wooden parquetry intended to represent the journey through Islam's seven heavens. What the average tourist is most likely to notice ... beyond its rare beauty ... is that there's a long historic precedent for all those inlaid wooden trinkets in the gift shops here.

But even the Hall of the Ambassadors fades in comparison the glory of the Courtyard of the Lions and its adjacent halls. If you've ever seen a picture of the Nasrid Palace, it was probably this: a courtyard of pristine white marble; a circle of 12 near life-sized white lions spouting water from their mouths and holding a huge bowl fountain on their backs, channels of water running away from them to the centre of each side of the courtyard, a cloister of delicate columns and arches dripping with decoration around and pavilions behind with pointed roofs to mimic desert tents. On a hot, sunny day you step from the dark, narrow, winding passageway between palaces into this, and you are almost blinded by the glare of vivid white. (Those small, zig-zagging halls separate each palace, and you'd be forgiven for thinking they're a design trick to boost your awe when you get to the "reveal" of the next grand space. In part, yes. But they're also defensive. Nasrid history rivals Game of Thrones and the Wars of the Roses for familial brutality.)

The rooms on every side of the Courtyard are exquisite, but it's the ceilings in the Halls of the Abencerrajes and the Two Sisters that will have you forgetting to breathe. These are the famous stalactite domes, densely encrusted with pinnacles that hang down into the void below. It's hard to believe they are man made; it seems more likely you've stumbled onto some planet where giant wasps or bees have expanded their architectural repertoire. They are some of the most beautiful, and completely unique, structures I've ever seen.

There's more to the Nasrid Palaces, including the baths and some lovely courtyard gardens, but once you've seen these highlights and their densely-packed decorative schemes your brain probably won't be able to cope with much more. It's one of the reasons I thought a second, nighttime visit would make sense. Such complexity demands repeated attention. What I hadn't appreciated is that the change of light creates an entirely new and different palace.

It may seem a lot to ask of your average tourist, but you simply haven't seen the Alhambra unless you've visited it both in the daylight and in dark.

This isn't just a scheme to extend opening hours. The curators have clearly thought through the experience, changing the route and carefully placing lights in places that pump up the drama and highlight particular features. Designers use the dark as well as the light, creating a mysterious journey though the blackness into puddles of illumination.

During the day, the stunning vista of river valley, old town and distant mountains draws your eye out the windows. At night all of your attention is constrained within the walls.  Illumination pulls the patterns in the walls into high relief and reveals just how much of the colour is intact. The day before, I would have told you that most of the interiors were white. How wrong I was! These walls blaze with colour. I found myself spending far more time in individual rooms at night than I had during the day, drinking in details that were now distinct and appreciating vast variety.

Once again, the most dramatic space is the Courtyard of the Lions and its side pavilions. The lions now stand in an isolated pool of light, the rest of the courtyard plunged into total darkness. Figures walking the cloisters recede to ghostly shadows. In the pavilions, walls and ceilings glow with jewel tones.

You have entered a fairy tale. It would be no surprise for Scheherazade to turn up and start spinning tales, or an old man to slide out of an alcove and offer you a strange lamp. At night, this is one of the most atmospheric and magical tourist attractions I've ever visited. Do your best to see it both ways but if you only have time for one ... embrace the darkness.