In the sunlit hills of Benalmádena, Spain, a curious silhouette rises—not from the Middle Ages, but from the twilight of the 20th century. Castillo de Colomares, built between 1987 and 1994, is not a fortress born of war or defense, but a monument in the form of a castle, dedicated to the life and voyages of Christopher Columbus. It covers an impressive 1,500 square meters, making it the largest monument in the world to the explorer. Curiously, it also houses the smallest church in the world, occupying just 1.96 square meters—a chapel that is more poetic than practical, symbolic rather than solemn.

In 1987, Dr. Esteban Martín Martín, a Spanish physician with deep knowledge of art, architecture, and history, embarked on this singular endeavor. With the help of just two masons, he dedicated seven years to building Colomares through purely artisanal methods, working with brick, stone, and cement. Without official backing or grand funding, this self-initiated labor of love became a physical chronicle—what Dr. Martín called a “stone narration” of the Discovery of America. The result is a structure that defies conventional architectural categories, blending Romanesque, Gothic, Byzantine, and Mudejar styles into an eclectic and symbolic composition. The monument is not a faithful replica of any historical fortress, but a visionary reinterpretation of the castle form—a vessel for memory, story, and tribute.

Critics might raise their eyebrows at such hybrid creations, arguing that they risk distorting history or indulging in kitsch. And indeed, for me as an architect and historian, it is a bit strange. I value authenticity, defensive features, and the logic of geometry—this is why my favorite line of research is the bastioned castles of the 17th century, where strategy and form are united in stone. From that perspective, Colomares seems more like a dream than a fort. Yet dreams, too, have their place.

As a photographer and a lover of landscapes with sweeping views, I can’t help but be drawn to it. There is something undeniably compelling about the romantic silhouette it casts, the richness of its textures, and the vistas it opens to the sea and sky. Such monuments may not align with historical rigor, but their power to inspire and to attract is undeniable. The steady stream of visitors who flock to Colomares proves that the desire to connect with the past—however imaginatively—is still very much alive.

So, can castles still be built today? Perhaps not as bastions of defense or royal authority, but as monuments—absolutely. Colomares stands as a poetic reminder that architecture can still be a vessel for storytelling and commemoration. Even in our age of steel and glass, the human soul remains enchanted by towers and battlements, by arches that open onto legends and stone façades that whisper of far-off times.

What can we learn from Colomares? That personal vision still has the power to inspire; that history, when interpreted through the language of architecture, can transcend dates and data to become deeply felt experience. And most importantly, that the past—however remote—can still be built, not just remembered.

Author: Olha Tikhonova

Photos by Olha Tikhonova