Mexico’s tourist office created a list of "Pueblos Magicos," special towns, often ignored, bypassed or unknown to the tourist but favored by some special factor. Parras de la Fuente is one of the northern Magic Towns. Its magic is found in vineyards and orchards: walnut, pecan, avocado and fig. From the mirador, atop the outcrop above Parras, the valley below looks like green-checkered velvet carpet, a Magic Carpet.

Parras is 100 miles east of Saltillo, halfway to Torreon via a four-lane toll road. There is such light traffic that you feel like it is your own private highway. Parras was founded in 1578, and the first vineyard in the Americas was planted in 1593.

Parras is an oasis watered by springs, a town for rest and relaxation, for recreation, wine tasting, for a swim or a hike. Here are family resorts, converted haciendas, and getaway retreats. Parents can lounge by a pool or enjoy a round of golf or a game of tennis. Children can swim, skate, bike, and horseback ride.

The casual visitor is encouraged to stroll downtown, visit the market, and walk across the plazas and along the alameda. It’s a short hike to the top of "La Peña" (the peak). Here you can stand on the mirador, just below the summit and the small chapel which is dedicated to San Madero, and gaze at the town and the valley below. It makes one think of a Magic Green Carpet.

Francisco Madero, Mexico's intellectual president, whose assassination sparked the Mexican Revolution, was born in Parras. I was told that the Madero Winery is still family owned.

I parked the Grand Marquis and walked the town under a bright sun that could have been the inspiration for a Van Gogh painting. I ducked under a shaded archway and entered a large commercial patio. It was lined with shops that had fresh vegetables and fruits and inexpensive clothes displayed on hangers. Sides of beef were also hanging, a butcher offering fresh cuts, kidneys, hearts and livers. There were flowers and bright pottery, baskets and children's toys for sale.

I picked up a map at the Municipal. I followed the numbers and directions to the old stone-arched aqueduct. Like the arches of the Marin County California Courthouse, which was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, the aqueduct connected two rolling hills. Under the arches, I first thought a lady had hung a multicolored laundry to dry, but as I approached I saw she was selling clothing. This was her store, and the arches were her display window. She was seated under the shade of a cypress tree. Between customers she filled her time by crocheting small table doilies.

I walked down Francisco Madero Street and entered hotel Santa Isabela, once a hacienda. Off to the left was an attractive dining room. Hanging on the walls was a collection of oil paintings of nuns. The dining room looked out onto the patio and the guests rooms.

Further down the street I found Bodegas El Vesusio, a small family winery. Edwardo Ramirez Vargas, a descendent of the Italian founder, invited me into the wine tasting room. He asked if I'd like to see the vats and press. "It's small," he said, "all our sales are right here. We specialize in dessert wines."

I accepted his offer. We walked across the arched breezeway, and Edwardo took out an iron key and opened the door to the winery. We entered the wine aging room where huge barrels were stacked; the fragrance filled me with pure pleasure. Everything was clean and old. The press looked ancient but Edwardo said, "It's about 30 years old. We made it here.” He said that the annual production was about 15,000 liters, about 5000 gallons. I asked, "Do you grow your own grapes?" "No longer, we're too small. We buy our grapes from local vineyards."

We returned to the tasting room. A regular client was waiting. He bought a case. I tried the sherry-flavored-with-walnuts wine. It was smooth, very sweet, like drinking light syrup. I thought it would be perfect poured over vanilla ice cream. I bought two bottles.

Then I left the winery and headed uphill. I could see the Church of Santo Madero perched on the near vertical outcropping that overlooked Parras and the valley. I was out of breath just getting to the base of the peak. Three young boys stopped me and asked if I'd like to hear the history of Santo Madero. "Is this a recitation?” I asked. "Yes," the youngest boy answered. "How much?" The boy wouldn't say; he just requested a tip.

We agreed and the boy, about 10, with a shank of brown hair falling over his forehead, reeled off his memorized history. He spoke quickly, without expression in his voice. I offered him money for a soda or an instant photo, a Polaroid. His friends insisted he take the picture.

The recitation gave me a rest before starting the climb. A path marked by whitewashed stones wound steeply up the mountain. My legs protested. Every step was a strain. I thought that instead of a church, I'd need a first-aid center at the top.

Under the church, beneath the foundation where the trail ended and a stone staircase began, there was a shallow cave that offered shade and rest. I took the final steps up to the mirador and to a modest chapel. I entered the chapel in the dim light. As my eyes adjusted, like the Polaroid print that I had given the boy, there appeared a lady. She was kneeling, fingering her rosary in prayer.

I left the chapel and walked around the mirador, identifing various places on my map. Ready to start my descent, I returned to the top of the stone staircase. A young boy, 5 or 6 years old, and his mother were making their final ascent. They were exhausted. The mother was encouraging her son; he wanted to quit.

"Cuánto más? (How much further?)," he asked.

I said in Spanish, "If you rest on that step, it will take about 2 hours to reach the top. But if you run like a cat you'll be there in 15 seconds."

The boy was puzzled.

"Puedes contar a quince (Can you count to 15?)?" I asked.

"En inglés or español (In English or Spanish?)?" His reply surprised me.

I switched to English. "Well, both," I said. "I'll count in Spanish and you in English. Uno, take a step and count."

"One," he said, and took a step.

"Dos."

"Two."

"Tres."

I continued to count in Spanish, and the boy echoed in English. With each count he climbed a step. Coincidentally, I had picked the perfect number. When I said, "Quince," the boy replied, "Fifteen" and stood on the mirador. He ran over to the railing for a view.

I started down the staircase. The boy rushed back and hollered down the stairway to me. I stopped and looked up. "Es un gringo (Are you a gringo?)?" the boy asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Yo también. (Me too.)," he said. "Tengo un dólar! (I have a dollar.)."