It was a castle all right. A villa to be precise. The mysterious place that caught our imaginations as kids and wouldn’t let go. Its presence made as much of an impact on us as any of the other places we’d hear about regularly in the early 1970s. There are any number of stories that have been written about Florida’s lost roadside attractions, but the tourism economy during the era in which they were rapidly disappearing is still bustling and is an integral part of the Florida experience.
Up through the late ’70s, a family traveling south by car on U.S. Route 301 could stop north of Starke and be served orange juice in very small cone-shaped paper cups.
“The orange juice is free,” the attendant would say, “but the cup costs 50 cents.”
For an additional $3 each, kids and adults could pet a baby elephant in an enclosure behind the gift shop. Family snapshots next to two painted concrete dinosaurs were also free but access to the primitive woodland park where the dinosaurs were located was $4 per person. The fees would often vary with the season, and they had a habit of changing without notice. Novelty was opportunity, and that too was part of the Florida experience. “It’s a small world after all.”
But this building that captured our imagination, this castle, this villa, stood out from that specific type of automobile-centric entertainment that was waning in the ’70s. And because this building stood apart, it survived and became a testament to endurance since it was designed and constructed by Franklin Smith in 1883 to serve as his winter residence. The story has always been told publicly with many layers of intrigue and enchantment that rightfully amplify its legacy through provenance and with grace.
For some kids, its history was more fascinating than the Old Fort. Castillo de San Marcos was a straightforward relic, something we learned about as part of Florida history. The castle’s lineage, however, was always held in private hands and, using traditional St. Augustine standards, its story dovetails well with the city’s stewardship of the leisure economy. In fact, its construction affected real changes in architecture and construction methodologies. Its archives and permanent collection now preserve something that was nearly lost entirely, if it wasn’t for one family, one idea, one vision and a generational commitment to community where so many others suffered collapse under the weight of similar burdens.
Did a princess really live in the tower? Did her sisters really escape? Was the story Washington Irving penned in 1832 real? Why does the word “Alhambra” land with such vocal confidence? Villa Zorayda takes from Irving’s story its exotic essence and distills it at scale.
Impressions of the boards used to cast its poured concrete walls are part of the exterior aesthetic. They are the same impressions Henry Flagler would have invariably noticed upon examination. The building was created, then reimagined, then restored; protected and preserved by Abraham Mussallem, who bought it from Franklin Smith. Eventually, the protecting and preserving became sharing when Mr. Mussallem turned it into a museum during a time when the economy was at its worst, over 10 years before Otto C. Lightner purchased the Hotel Alcazar to showcase his collection of Victorian-era art and antiques.
Enchantment comes in many forms in St. Augustine, and for a time, its greatest allure clustered around King Street and was developed with ingenuity and innovation, “inspired by Spain’s Alhambra Palace.”
For kids growing up in Ponte Vedra Beach in the 1970s this wasn’t an oversimplification. It wasn’t the loss of Storyland that drew our attention, but it was the actual, the tangible and the real that sat only a short drive south of us that held our focus. If we were in the car with our parents or grandparents and were on U.S. 1, coming down from Jacksonville or east to St. Augustine from Palatka, it was the billboards, and the exotic Moorish Revival aesthetic that attracted our attention. Few of us knew the meaning of Moorish Revival. But it was something beautiful, successful and impressive. The billboard’s message was simple, “See Zorayda Castle: Enchanted Palace of the Moors.”
From the street, the ivy-covered tower confirmed the mysteries even more completely. We knew it was different. It was arabesque with stained-glass windows, integrated metal work, cast arched details; and up close, shells were embedded in its walls. What else was hidden in the grey concrete? This was not stucco. It was never intended to be covered, or painted, or concealed from view in any way.
Villa Zorayda was a well-established St. Augustine attraction by the ’60s and in the 1970s, it was outliving the waning Florida roadside attraction culture by having pivoted to a private museum experience offering tours of its collections and its well-deserved architectural history.
In an era before the internet, few readily knew about the 1910 letter from Thomas Edison to Franklin Smith’s son that reflected on legacy and the forward-thinking approaches to concrete construction at the Villa.
“I remember your father and his remarkable work,” the inventor and industrialist wrote. “He was the first man to my knowledge to erect any important building by methods now used all over the world.”
The formula? It was simple: Portland cement mixed with locally sourced crushed coquina shells. The process caught the eye of Henry Flagler, and the walls of Villa Zorayda tell the story: “This method of construction and architectural style went on to set an architectural precedent in St. Augustine and forever shaped the city’s built environment.” The villa has stood the test of time, and its importance is well documented and archived.
Legends, legacies and stories are the hallmark of the First Coast, and in the 1970s they were calling and Ponte Vedrans responded. Several times a year, the Ponte Vedra Club would host youth trips to St. Augustine as a club amenity and youth activity. Sometimes, as many as 10 of us at a time would all ride in a club van while some club moms joined as chaperones following us in their own carpool down to Vilano Beach, across the bridge and then left on Magnolia Avenue to the Fountain of Youth.
This was always the first stop on the tour, and it set the tone for the day. The club staff would enhance the trip down with stories of Ponce De Leon and the first settlers. They’d keep our attention by keeping the conversation moving. This wasn’t a field trip. It was an amenity. We were left to form our own conclusions about where the arc of history curved towards entertainment. We were kids and we were there for the experience. The City of St. Augustine would always deliver.
The tour continued and we were suddenly in sight of the fort from the edges of Mission Nombre de Dios founded in 1587.
The oyster beds in the flats around Matanzas Bay at low tide in the summer hosted flocks of white birds. We would walk up towards the Old City Gates. We were told ahead of time by Mrs. Veal and Mrs. Bowers to wear comfortable shoes. Some of us would cross the road there to visit St. George Street with some of the moms while others of us would head to Castillo de San Marcos with other moms and the youth director. Everything was kept on schedule. Some would look for gifts and mementos and watch the cigar rolling in a shop in the Colonial Quarter filled with the aroma of fresh tobacco leaves, while others would explore the fort with its views, bay breeze, cool interior corridors, cannons and occasional plumes of black powder smoke. The allure and satisfaction of St. Augustine is hidden in plain sight.
Lunch was at the Santa Maria Restaurant where we’d feed fish through small hatches below the windows by our tables. After lunch, we’d discover the club van and the moms’ carpool had been moved and were now parked in front of the Wax Museum.
The tour continued down the square, literally through the Government House to the Lightner Museum, then across to the Old Ponce De Leon Hotel. Where was Hotel Alcazar, again? It was all hidden in plain sight.
When the pieces began falling into place, encouraged by the club staff, it became apparent to each of us, moms included, that what we were seeing had always been intended to be the foundation of something bigger. It was just taking time. None of it emerged fully developed and it was still a work in progress. That was 50 years ago and very few can visit today and not experience this sense of the importance of authentic continuity when standing in the same spot.
“Zorayda Castle, the Enchanted Palace of the Moors,” the Mussallem family project since 1913, rounded out the Ponte Vedra Club’s tours in the 1970s. It sat across the street from the heavy mace-like iron chains that made up the perimeter and leading edge of Flagler College. The club’s van and moms’ carpool would be sitting in its parking lot when we arrived on foot. It wasn’t the end of the tour, but this stop seemed to synthesize everything the day represented by concentrating it into one attraction. It was a youth activity and Ponte Vedra Club amenity for members and guests, but it was also available to everyone. It wasn’t nostalgia for the past or a memorial to a disappearing roadside attraction, but very much part of a story that was still unfolding in real time as it is today.
Each memory of Ponte Vedra Beach, by those acquainted with its day-to-day rhythms, that allows the St. Johns County community and its history to take center stage, reinforces why PV has come so far in such a relatively short amount of time. Enchantment is an experience and it’s important to take the long view from time to time to gain perspective in this smartly casual place of all places, Ponte Vedra Beach. Visit the Villa Zorayda Museum and you’ll discover the root of it all.
