The Capilla de San Bartolomé sits quietly within what is now Córdoba's Faculty of Philosophy and Letters, and honestly, it's one of those places that many visitors overlook completely. I stumbled upon it almost by accident during my wanderings through the old Jewish quarter, and I'm glad I did.

Built between 1399 and 1410, this small mudéjar chapel emerged from a turbulent period in Córdoba's history. After the anti-Jewish riots of 1391, the area needed repopulating, and a new parish was established under Saint Bartholomew's patronage. What makes this place particularly intriguing is its founder – likely Diego Fernández Abencaçin, a Jewish convert who served as an envoy to Granada. His travels to the Nasrid kingdom probably influenced the chapel's distinctly Islamic-inspired decorative elements.

The building never got finished, which you'll notice immediately. There's something oddly compelling about this incompleteness – the absent roof, the single nave where two were planned. They used whatever materials they could find, including Roman and Islamic columns and capitals salvaged from earlier structures.

Inside, the mudéjar craftsmanship is genuinely impressive. The walls are covered with intricate plasterwork featuring geometric patterns, Arabic calligraphy, and heraldic shields of the Order of the Band. The Arabic inscriptions, written in both Kufic and Nasrid scripts, include phrases like "eternity for Allah" and "glory for Allah" – purely decorative rather than religious in this Christian context.

The chapel's history took a dark turn when Diego's son, Gómez Fernández, was posthumously declared a secret Jew by the Inquisition. His remains were exhumed and burned in 1499, a grim reminder of the religious tensions that shaped medieval Córdoba.

After centuries of neglect, the chapel reopened to visitors in 2010 following extensive restoration. The original 14th-century floor tiles were uncovered, and the polychrome plasterwork was carefully restored. Some of the most beautiful pieces – thirty-five golden luster tiles that once decorated the altar steps – are now in Córdoba's Archaeological Museum.

The chapel feels intimate, almost secretive, tucked away in its university courtyard. An audio guide helps decode the complex symbolism and historical layers, though sometimes I think the atmosphere speaks for itself. It's a place where Córdoba's complex medieval identity – Christian, Muslim, and Jewish – crystallizes into something tangible and surprisingly moving.