For nearly 300 years, the kingdom of Spain held the deed for the great wilderness of what is now Texas. Claiming title to that land meant little, though. Few Spaniards lived in the remote frontier, or cared to do so. As an absentee owner, Spain had no reliable way of knowing when European trespassers were sneaking into the place. The government’s solution was to jump start Spanish civilization in the frontier by building missions, run by the church and funded by the government. Military garrisons, presidios, were built near the missions to afford protection, boost commerce and attract growth. Great care was given to choosing just the right spots to build the missions. The best sites were located close to the Camino Real to aid travel back and forth to the established cities in Mexico. The planners also had in mind avoiding the fearsome Comanche and Apache tribes, who frequently murdered or ran off other indigenous people they encountered, and were no more hospitable to the Spaniards.
The aim of the missions was to establish Catholic farming and ranching communities, imitating those of rural Spain. They were run by trained clerics whose job it was to find local Indians willing to give up their traditional way of life, baptize them into the church, teach them trades and turn them into obedient, tax-paying Spanish subjects. To the Native Americans, the biggest draw to mission life was the safety they provided against hostile tribes. A place 
with stone walls protected by Spanish soldiers with cannons and horses was a good place to hide from the Comanches. In exchange for the security of settling down with the Franciscans and Jesuits at the mission, the indigenous people were expected to provide their labors, forget their old habits, pray three times a day, and hope no Spanish traveler brought into their community one of the European sickness that killed so many. This was an arrangement Spain used throughout its far-flung colonies to subjugate the locals, save souls and make a dollar in the bargain. The Texas missions rarely went exactly as planned. The indigenous people tended to come and go, few soldiers wanted a posting at a remote presidio, and there was never enough money to keep operations running. Whether the Texas missions were successful or did more harm than good to the native people is debated. But what the mission system did in Texas left a deep impression on the culture and flavor of this corner of the world.
The mission outside Goliad in South Texas was named Mission Nuestra Senora del Espiritu Santo de Zuniga, commonly called La Bahia (the Bay). La Bahia was far from the Gulf coast, but it had moved around a bit before the Spanish finally settled on a pretty spot near a peaceful river.
They picked a fantastic place, green and well-watered where livestock and agriculture thrived. It’s more fenced in and developed than it was in the second half of the 18th century, but the area around La Bahia is still strikingly beautiful country. There is a state park there and if you get the chance you should visit. http://www.tpwd.texas.gov/state-parks/goliad
At the heart of the park, is the La Bahia mission chapel. It’s not the original structure, but a 20th century reconstruction of what was built there by the Spanish who ordered native laborers to quarry the rock and put the place together in the 1750s. No photos or drawings 
existed of La Bahia before the complex was abandoned and fell apart (or was hauled away) around the time of the Texas revolution. By the time the state of Texas got around to preserving important bits of its history, most of the La Bahia buildings were in bad shape. By the 1930s, all that was left were a few deteriorated stone walls and outlines of the foundation. An architect was hired to reproduce the old mission. Fortunately he had contemporary resources to work with. The charming old missions in San Antonio were built at around the same time as La Bahia and they were, for the most part, still standing. 
Those structures served as a guide on the dimensions and look of the La Bahia rebuild. The state, with a large assist from the federal government, did a great job on the project. Whether it is completely accurate or not, the reconstructed mission chapel in the Goliad State Park, surrounded by pecan trees and green fields sloping to the river is a sight to see. It must have been so 250 years ago, too. A Spanish emissary, the Marquis de Rubi, had been sent by the king to personally inspect Spain’s dozens of frontier missions and presidios and report back which of them should be closed to save money. Of all Spain’s missions in Texas, Rubi recommended that only two remain open. La Bahia was one of them. Rubi must have been impressed with what he saw there.
For me, the real draw is the chapel’s interior. The heavy wooden doors open into an airy space with a vaulted ceiling large enough for birds and bats to wander in. The thick stucco walls are white washed and the ceiling tinted sky blue like the heavens. The afternoon sun glows through a high window in the choir at the rear. It is remarkable how well lit the space is from only a few small windows.
Most impressive to me is the decorative painting on the white walls. The lower portions are a rich red orange; above that horizontal bands of red, black and pink. Outlining the doorways are colorful flourishes of yellow and red, all of it clearly applied by eye and hand and without alot of fancy equipment. An interpretive exhibit there explains that the original chapel walls were believed to have similar designs, created with paint made on the spot using crushed mineral pigments that were easy to find
in the area. There was no pre-mixed paint back then. The overall effect makes the entire space resonate with life, made with human hands. For me, it is easy to imagine a Spanish padre with an artistic bent
overseeing the work, mixing the paint just the right color and drawing out for the neophyte painter exactly how he wanted the design to look on the chapel wall. The Marquis de Rubi was coming and the padre wanted the chapel looking its best for the king’s inspector. That’s the historical fiction I amused myself with, anyway.
I brought my paints and wanted to capture what I saw there, matching the colors, the warm light and the old energy of the interior. I put up my tripod and sketched the open door on 
the opposite wall using a small 6 x 8 inch panel. Some other visitors took a peek as I worked and the park staff kindly let me do my thing. The vaulted ceiling and brick floor created a nice echo effect. When I was alone in the big room, the sounds of a rodeo across the highway lilted through the open doors, cowbells and cheers. It sounded exciting but I was far into the painting zone. After about an hour and 45 minutes, I was done. I wished that time could have gone on much longer. With plein air painting, one must know when to stop.
