I was in Catalonia, walking through a long valley that felt both ancient and post-apocalyptic. Rising from an expanse of dry earth, cracked like shattered pottery, were the remains of several stone buildings, notably two central rectangular structures side by side, perhaps 30m long in total.
Roofless and crumbling, piles of rubble were heaped along their walls like rocky dunes.
Where there were once windows, vacancies now framed views of the pale blue sky streaked with wispy clouds and viciously bright spring sun. It was an incredible – and unlikely – sight.
Built in 1771, in what was once the Sant Sebastià neighbourhood of the town of Sant Llorenç de la Muga, this collection of buildings, as well as a few since reduced to mere outlines of their foundations, was once the Royal Foundry of Sant Sebastià of the Muga.
It has heavy Brigadoon vibes because, akin to the mythical Scottish city that reappears only once every 100 years, this year was the first time people could visit this decaying foundry in more than half a century.
It has been hidden under water since 1969 when the Darnius Boadella dam was completed, flooding the area.
The resulting reservoir usually supplies the nearby city of Figueres and surrounding towns, including Cadaqués, Llançà and Empuriabrava, and helps irrigate local crops and generates hydroelectricity to power the region.
However, beginning in 2021, a severe drought caused Catalonia to declare a state of emergency.
It also dropped the reservoir’s water level to its lowest point ever, making these ruins accessible to anyone willing to make the hike (they were partially unsubmerged during a 2008 drought but were inaccessible on foot).
According to Marià Baig, a local historian who has published several papers on the foundry and is working on a book about its history, the Royal Foundry of Sant Sebastià of the Muga was Catalonia’s first charcoal blast furnace used to make cannonballs.
The site was chosen due to its proximity to three necessary elements: wood for creating charcoal to fuel the furnace, water to power the hydraulic bellows that stoked the fire and iron ore from the nearby Montdavà and Rocacorba mines.
The foundry manufactured munitions until around 1794, when its production capacities were destroyed by the French army during the War of the Pyrenees (also known as the War of Roussillon or War of the Convention), a conflict pitting France against Spain and Portugal.
It was never rebuilt.
Even though locals were aware the buildings were hidden at the bottom of the reservoir, their unveiling was a welcome spectacle.
“Many people have been walking out to the foundry,” said Baig.
“Even though they knew it was there, they didn’t know exactly what it is, and they want to see it for themselves.
Even me, I have all this information and all these maps, but it was difficult to make sense of the site without seeing it in person.
I was surprised when I went, because it’s bigger than I expected.”Â
As I looked around, I found myself almost more surprised by the fact that the valley I was in was once the bottom of a reservoir.
The basin was nearly devoid of water, a desolate landscape of dried mud dotted with patches of browning grasses. Meandering through the centre was a slender stream, looking impotent and insignificant.
Adding insult to injury was a faded yellow paddleboat lying close to the shoreline, beached and broken with nowhere to go.
It was difficult to believe this sprawling reservoir, which plunges 52m at its deepest point and boasts 21km of shoreline, once contained 60 cubic hectometres of water, enough to fill roughly 24,000 Olympic-size swimming pools.
For decades, locals took boats out onto the water and fished here.
Those pastimes are just memories now.
By the time of my visit in March 2024, the reservoir was reduced to a mere 11% of its capacity, according to Carlos Barbero Lartigau, who oversees dams at the Catalan Water Agency.
“Due to climate change, we haven’t had any other important rain events,” he said.
“It has been a very difficult time for the region.”
Even for a traveller passing through, the signs of drought and the ensuing water restrictions were glaringly obvious.
People weren’t watering their lawns, and many cars clearly hadn’t been washed in a long time.
Restaurants didn’t serve water when we sat down.
Water had to be ordered, cost extra, and was always bottled.Â
Despite the devastation and despair, I allowed myself to be swept away by the out-of-time tableau revealed by the drought.
It’s not every day you get to visit a once-submerged 18th-Century cannonball factory.
My hiking companions – my wife, our 11-year-old son, a friend who lives in nearby Albanyà and her young daughter – were equally enthralled.
While the adults took pictures, the kids scampered inside the foundry, playing a loose game blending tag and hide and seek. They moved through the empty rooms, darting through gaping holes in the walls.
In one area, a dead tree with a barren trunk twisted out of the ground and against one wall, like a giant piece of driftwood trying to escape.
According to Baig, the blast furnace is still here, buried in the muck. He hopes to someday excavate it for study.
After eating our lunch on several giant stone blocks closest to where the river once ran, perhaps the remains of a pier, we walked up a gentle rise to Sant Sebastiá, a small stone chapel erected in 1609 whose name inspired that of the foundry.
It, too, was revealed when the waters receded.
The chapel’s nave was narrow, roughly 4m wide and 6m long, the ground a patchwork of green grass punctuated by dirty brown, tinder-dry scrub.
The roof was lost long ago.
Passing under a surviving stone arch, I entered the cramped, cubby-like apse with a domed ceiling, stony debris strewn about the space.
The altar carved into the rock of the wall was empty, but the entire space still seemed to emanate a calming spirituality.
The Darnius Boadella reservoir isn’t the only one unveiling holy ghosts of times past due to the drought.
Barbero Lartigau shared that at the Baells reservoir in central Catalonia, the Romanesque church of Sant Romà de Sau became completely exposed earlier this year; usually only the tip of its belltower is visible.
And at the Sau reservoir near Catalonia’s eastern border, receding waters fully revealed the Sant Salvador de la Vedella, a Romanesque monastery.Â
Conditions at the Darnius Boadella reservoir have slightly improved since my visit.
Recent rainfall helped refill it to roughly 23% of its capacity, though water rationing measures endure in Figueres and the surrounding region according to the Catalan Water Agency.
The water level is still low enough that the foundry, chapel and other buildings are still visible, but they’re only accessible by boat.
Luckily, the nearby Darnius Nautical Club can arrange canoe and kayaking excursions on the reservoir.Â
When the children grew tired of their explorations and the adults felt worn down by the intense heat of the piercingly sunny morning, we began our hike out of the reservoir.
As I trekked away from the foundry and the chapel, I wondered how long they would remain exposed, testaments to the brutality of time and the hardships of the present.
I stopped and looked back, closing my eyes for a moment.
I imagined a giant wave sweeping over their pale stone walls, hiding them deep beneath the surface, locking them away from curious souls, hopefully forever.
Then I opened my eyes and began walking.
