The Drassanes Reials, Barcelona’s royal shipyards, sit at the foot of La Rambla where it runs into the sea, though these days it’s the Museu Marítim de Barcelona. Built in the 13th century, they were more than barns for boats—they were integral to the city’s defense. Towers rise at the corners, and crenelated walls wrap around the workshops’ vaulted stone halls that stretch out like a Gothic train station, but holding entire fleets instead of locomotives.
When these halls were active, the waters of the Balearic Sea lapped at their doors so finished ships could slide straight into the water the moment they were ready. Today, the shoreline is farther out, filled in over centuries, but it’s easy to picture the building’s primary function—to make ships of war, push them into the harbor, repeat.
Before you even get inside the museum, the architecture tells you Barcelona was a major Mediterranean naval power at one point—not just a pretty city of guilds and Gothic façades. The Crown of Aragon fought its wars and ran its trade on the backs of these shipyards—hence the ‘royal’ stamp of approval. The Drassanes outlasted dynasties, plagues, and whoever was running things badly enough they had to turn them into barracks.
The museum’s star attraction is the Royal Galley, a full-scale replica of a 16th-century Spanish galley. Replicas usually earn an eye roll from me—like blowing up a snow globe and calling it Versailles. But wooden boats destined for a life in saltwater don’t come with 700-year warranties, so if you want to see what a galley really looked like, you need one built fresh.
The original was Don John of Austria’s flagship when he led the Holy League to victory against the Ottoman Empire at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571. Lepanto looms large in the Catalan imagination and still holds the record as the largest galley battle in history. More than 400 ships, tens of thousands of men, oars thrashing in the Gulf of Patras. The Christians won, the Turks lost, and Europe had a rapturous fit about its own greatness. Cervantes fought there, lost his left hand, and called it ‘the greatest occasion past, present, or future centuries would ever see.’ Painters painted, poets gushed, and kings proclaimed God ordained their victory.
Don John of Austria was the illegitimate but acknowledged son of Emperor Charles V, half-brother to Philip II, and a proven commander by the time of Lepanto. He’d already fought Barbary corsairs and led campaigns in Granada under orders from his brother. Being the emperor’s “extracurricular” son didn’t stop him from collecting ships and victories. His galley (this one) was grand, covered with carved panels and allegorical paintings of Greek and Roman gods, with Mars, Mercury, and Diana sitting alongside virtues like Justice and Prudence. Neptune himself appeared to be steering the ship. The stern rose into the “poop deck,” Don John’s noble quarters fitted out with more carvings, paintings, and princely comforts—the 16th-century version of a luxury suite, minus the all-you-can-eat buffet.
A few meters forward on the main deck, nearly 300 rowers—convicts, slaves, and free men desperate for cash to support their families—sat shackled on benches just 15 inches wide. They didn’t get up—ever. They had to sit there around the clock, rowing, eating, and doing their business, giving the ship a second, wholly different kind of poop deck. They were shaved bald for hygiene and control and beaten for disobedience.
Ships like this one employed perfumiers to douse the deck with, well, perfumes, to mask the stench. But the odor carried so far out to sea that enemies often smelled galleys before they saw them. Meaning surprise attacks were impossible, the stench announced them long before the dip of the oars did. Overseers kept the rowing rhythm with a drum and a whip. The average rower lasted two years before disease, exhaustion, or worse caught up with him. Ain’t nobody painting allegories about that.
That contrast is the point of the replica. You walk the length of the ship and get the whole story—the ornate stern conveying divine victory and princely power, the benches broadcasting sweat and misery. Replica or not, it’s truer than a lone artifact behind glass.
The museum doesn’t stop at the Royal Galley, though. Out front sits the Ictíneo I, Narcís Monturiol’s 19th-century submarine. Monturiol was a socialist idealist who believed technology could save lives—that Barcelona could conquer the sea with brains instead of chains. Unfortunately, investors couldn’t have cared less, and the navy just laughed. But you can’t help admiring someone who thought that achieving utopia might start with a giant brass fish with a double hull.
The museum also keeps a 1918 schooner a block away at Port Vell, the Santa Eulàlia. They pitch it as a proud survivor, a link to Barcelona’s trading past. You can climb aboard and walk around. If you do, you’ll quickly realize it’s, well, an old cargo ship. A decent one, sure—but compared to the fortress shipyards, the giant galley, or even the brass fish submarine, it feels like waving a flashlight around and calling it a fireworks show. The deck smells of fresh paint, the timbers creak, but the only thing that stirs your imagination is how quickly you can climb back down the gangplank. Not every artifact has charm.
But it’s the building that really lingers. Those stone vaults once rang with hammer blows and overseer drums. Today, they echo with children and tourists, but the mood is different from most of Barcelona’s museums. There’s no gaudy mosaic, no grand façade. Just a reminder that this city’s fortunes were forged as much in saltwater and tar as in marble and glass—and occasionally on a poop deck you’d really rather forget.
Write a comment