The Mountains of Ronda.
Orange Valleys--Climbing the Mountains--José's Hospitality--El
Burgo--The Gate of the Wind--The Cliff and Cascades of Ronda--The
Mountain Region--Traces of the Moors--Haunts of Robbers--A Stormy
Ride--The Inn at Gaucin--Bad News--A Boyish Auxiliary--Descent from the
Mountains--The Ford of the Guadiaro--Our Fears Relieved--The Cork
Woods--Ride from San Roque to Gibraltar--Parting with José--Travelling
in Spain--Conclusion.
Gibraltar, _Thursday, November_ 25, 1852.
I passed an uncomfortable night at the Venta de Villalon, lying upon a bag
stuffed with equal quantities of wool and fleas. Starting before dawn, we
followed a path which led into the mountains, where herdsmen and boys were
taking out their sheep and goats to pasture; then it descended into the
valley of a stream, bordered with rich bottom-lands. I never saw the
orange in a more flourishing state. We passed several orchards of trees
thirty feet high, and every bough and twig so completely laden with fruit,
that the foliage was hardly to be seen.
At the Venta del Vicario, we found a number of soldiers just setting out
for Ronda. They appeared to be escorting a convoy of goods, for there were
twenty or thirty laden mules gathered at the door. We now ascended a most
difficult and stony path, winding through bleak wastes of gray rock, till
we reached a lofty pass in the mountain range. The wind swept through the
narrow gateway with a force that almost unhorsed us. From the other side,
a sublime but most desolate landscape opened to my view. Opposite, at ten
miles' distance, rose a lofty ridge of naked rock, overhung with clouds.
The country between was a chaotic jumble of stony hills, separated by deep
chasms, with just a green patch here and there, to show that it was not
entirely forsaken by man. Nevertheless as we descended into it, we found
valleys with vineyards and olive groves, which were invisible from above.
As we were both getting hungry, José stopped at a ventorillo and ordered
two cups of wine, for which he insisted on paying. "If I had as many
horses as my master, Napoleon," said he, "I would regale the Señors
whenever I travelled with them. I would have _puros_, and sweetmeats, with
plenty of Malaga or Valdepeñas in the bota, and they should never complain
of their fare." Part of our road was studded with gray cork-trees, at a
distance hardly to be distinguished from olives, and José dismounted to
gather the mast, which was as sweet and palatable as chestnuts, with very
little of the bitter quercine flavor. At eleven o'clock, we reached El
Burgo, so called, probably, from its ancient Moorish fortress. It is a
poor, starved village, built on a barren hill, over a stream which is
still spanned by a lofty Moorish bridge of a single arch.
The remaining three leagues to Ronda were exceedingly rough and difficult.
Climbing a barren ascent of nearly a league in length, we reached the
_Puerto del Viento_, or Gate of the Wind, through which drove such a
current that we were obliged to dismount; and even then it required all my
strength to move against it. The peaks around, far and near, faced with
precipitous cliffs, wore the most savage and forbidding aspect: in fact,
this region is almost a counterpart of the wilderness lying between
Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, Very soon, we touched the skirt of a cloud,
and were enveloped in masses of chill, whirling vapor, through which we
travelled for three or four miles to a similar gate on the western side of
the chain. Descending again, we emerged into a clearer atmosphere, and saw
below us a wide extent of mountain country, but of a more fertile and
cheerful character. Olive orchards and wheat-fields now appeared; and, at
four o'clock, we rode into the streets of Ronda.
No town can surpass this in the grandeur and picturesqueness of its
position. It is built on the edge of a broad shelf of the mountains, which
falls away in a sheer precipice of from six to eight hundred feet in
height, and, from the windows of many of the houses you can look down the
dizzy abyss. This shelf, again, is divided in the centre by a tremendous
chasm, three hundred feet wide, and from four to six hundred feet in
depth, in the bed of which roars the Guadalvin, boiling in foaming
whirlpools or leaping in sparkling cascades, till it reaches the valley
below. The town lies on both sides of the chasm, which is spanned by a
stone bridge of a single arch, with abutments nearly four hundred feet in
height. The view of this wonderful cleft, either from above or below, is
one of the finest of its kind in the world. Honda is as far superior to
Tivoli, as Tivoli is to a Dutch village, on the dead levels of Holland.
The panorama which it commands is on the grandest scale. The valley below
is a garden of fruit and vines; bold yet cultivated hills succeed, and in
the distance rise the lofty summits of another chain of the Serrania de
Honda. Were these sublime cliffs, these charming cascades of the
Guadalvin, and this daring bridge, in Italy instead of in Spain, they
would be sketched and painted every day in the year; but I have yet to
know where a good picture of Ronda may be found.
In the bottom of the chasm are a number of corn-mills as old as the time
of the Moors. The water, gushing out from the arches of one, drives the
wheel of that below, so that a single race supplies them all. I descended
by a very steep zig-zag path nearly to the bottom. On a little point or
promontory overhanging the black depths, there is a Moorish gateway still
standing. The sunset threw a lovely glow over the brown cliffs and the
airy town above; but they were far grander when the cascades glittered in
the moonlight, and the gulf out of which they leap was lost in profound
shadow. The window of my bed-room hung over the chasm.
Honda was wrapped in fog, when José awoke me on the morning of the 22d. As
we had but about twenty-four miles to ride that day, we did not leave
until sunrise. We rode across the bridge, through the old town and down
the hill, passing the triple lines of the Moorish walls by the original
gateways. The road, stony and rugged beyond measure, now took to the
mountains. From the opposite height, there was a fine view of the town,
perched like an eagle's nest on the verge of its tremendous cliffs; but a
curtain of rain soon fell before it, and the dense dark clouds settled
around us, and filled up the gorges on either hand. Hour after hour, we
toiled along the slippery paths, scaling the high ridges by rocky ladders,
up which our horses climbed with the greatest difficulty. The scenery,
whenever I could obtain a misty glimpse of it, was sublime. Lofty mountain
ridges rose on either hand; bleak jagged summits of naked rock pierced
the clouds, and the deep chasms which separated them sank far below us,
dark and indistinct through the rain. Sometimes I caught sight of a little
hamlet, hanging on some almost inaccessible ledge, the home of the
lawless, semi-Moorish mountaineers who inhabit this wild region. The faces
of those we met exhibited marked traces of their Moslem ancestry,
especially in the almond-shaped eye and the dusky olive complexion. Their
dialect retains many Oriental forms of expression, and I was not a little
surprised at finding the Arabic "_eiwa_" (yes) in general use, instead of
the Spanish "_si_."
About eleven o'clock, we reached the rude village of Atajate, where we
procured a very good breakfast of kid, eggs, and white Ronda wine. The
wind and rain increased, but I had no time to lose, as every hour swelled
the mountain floods and made the journey more difficult. This district is
in the worst repute of any in Spain; it is a very nest of robbers and
contrabandistas. At the venta in Atajate, they urged us to take a guard,
but my valiant José declared that he had never taken one, and yet was
never robbed; so I trusted to his good luck. The weather, however, was our
best protection. In such a driving rain, we could bid defiance to the
flint locks of their escopettes, if, indeed, any could be found, so fond
of their trade, as to ply it in a storm
"Wherein the cub-drawn bear would crouch,
The lion and the belly-pinched wolf
Keep their furs dry."
Nevertheless, I noticed that each of the few convoys of laden mules which
we met, had one or more of the _guardia cicia_ accompanying it. Besides
these, the only persons abroad were some wild-looking individuals, armed
to the teeth, and muffled in long cloaks, towards whom, as they passed,
José would give his head a slight toss, and whisper to me: "more
contrabandistas."
We were soon in a condition to defy the weather. The rain beat furiously
in our faces, especially when threading the wind-blown passes between the
higher peaks. I raised my umbrella as a defence, but the first blast
snapped it in twain. The mountain-sides were veined with rills, roaring
downward into the hollows, and smaller rills soon began to trickle down my
own sides. During the last part of our way, the path was notched along
precipitous steeps, where the storm was so thick that we could see nothing
either above or below. It was like riding along the outer edge of the
world, When once you are thoroughly wet, it is a great satisfaction to
know that you can be no wetter; and so José and I went forward in the best
possible humor, finding so much diversion in our plight that the dreary
leagues were considerably shortened.
At the venta of Gaucin, where we stopped, the people received us kindly.
The house consisted of one room--stable, kitchen, and dining-room all in
one. There was a small apartment in a windy loft, where a bed (much too
short) was prepared for me. A fire of dry heather was made in the wide
fire-place, and the ruddy flames, with a change of clothing and a draught
of the amber vintage of Estepona, soon thawed out the chill of the
journey. But I received news which caused me a great deal of anxiety. The
River Guadiaro was so high that nobody could cross, and two forlorn
muleteers had been waiting eight days at the inn, for the waters to
subside. Augmented by the rain which had fallen, and which seemed to
increase as night came on, how could I hope to cross it on the morrow? In
two days, the India steamer would be at Gibraltar; my passage was already
taken, and I _must_ be there. The matter was discussed for some time; it
was pronounced impossible to travel by the usual road, but the landlord
knew a path among the hills which led to a ferry on the Guadiaro, where
there was a boat, and from thence we could make our way to San Roque,
which is in sight of Gibraltar. He demanded rather a large fee for
accompanying me, but there was nothing else to be done. José and I sat
down in great tribulation to our accustomed olla, but neither of us could
do justice to it, and the greater part gladdened the landlord's two
boys--beautiful little imps, with faces like Murillo's cherubs.
Nevertheless, I passed rather a merry evening, chatting with some of the
villagers over a brazier of coals; and one of the aforesaid boys, who,
although only eight years old, already performed the duties of mozo,
lighted me to my loft. When he had put down the lamp, he tried' the door,
and asked me: "Have you the key?" "No," said I, "I don't want one; I am
not afraid." "But," he rejoined, "perhaps you may get afraid in the night;
and if you do, strike on this part of the wall (suiting the action to the
word)--_I_ sleep on that side." I willingly promised to call him to my
aid, if I should get alarmed. I slept but little, for the wind was howling
around the tiles over my head, and I was busy with plans for constructing
rafts and swimming currents with a rope around my waist. Finally, I found
a little oblivion, but it seemed that I had scarcely closed my eyes, when
José pushed open the door. "Thanks be to God, senor!" said he, "it begins
to dawn, and the sky is clear: we shall certainly get to Gibraltar
to-day."
The landlord was ready, so we took some bread and a basket of olives, and
set out at once. Leaving Gaucin, we commenced descending the mountain
staircase by which the Serrania of Ronda is scaled, on the side towards
Gibraltar. "The road," says Mr. Ford, "seems made by the Evil One in a
hanging garden of Eden." After four miles of frightfully rugged descent,
we reached an orange grove on the banks of the Xenar, and then took a wild
path leading along the hills on the right of the stream. We overtook a few
muleteers, who were tempted out by the fine weather, and before long the
_correo_, or mail-rider from Ronda to San Roque, joined us. After eight
miles more of toilsome travel we reached the valley of the Guadiaro. The
river was not more than twenty yards wide, flowing with a deep, strong
current, between high banks. Two ropes were stretched across, and a large,
clumsy boat was moored to the shore. We called to the ferrymen, but they
hesitated, saying that nobody had yet been able to cross. However, we all
got in, with our horses, and two of the men, with much reluctance, drew us
over. The current was very powerful, although the river had fallen a
little during the night, but we reached the opposite bank without
accident.
We had still another river, the Guargante, to pass, but we were cheered by
some peasants whom we met, with the news that the ferry-boat had resumed
operations. After this current lay behind us, and there was now nothing
but firm land all the way to Gibraltar, José declared with much
earnestness that he was quite as glad, for my sake, as if somebody had
given him a million of dollars. Our horses, too, seemed to feel that
something had been achieved, and showed such a fresh spirit that we
loosened the reins and let them gallop to their hearts' content over the
green meadows. The mountains were now behind us, and the Moorish castle of
Gaucin crested a peak blue with the distance. Over hills covered with
broom and heather in blossom, and through hollows grown with oleander,
arbutus and the mastic shrub, we rode to the cork-wood forests of San
Roque, the sporting-ground of Gibraltar officers. The barking of dogs, the
cracking of whips, and now and then a distant halloo, announced that a
hunt was in progress, and soon we came upon a company of thirty or forty
horsemen, in caps, white gloves and top-boots, scattered along the crest
of a hill. I had no desire to stop and witness the sport, for the
Mediterranean now lay before me, and the huge gray mass of "The Rock"
loomed in the distance.
At San Roque, which occupies the summit of a conical hill, about half-way
between Gibraltar and Algeciras, the landlord left us, and immediately
started on his return. Having now exchanged the rugged bridle-paths of
Ronda for a smooth carriage-road, José and I dashed on at full gallop, to
the end of our journey. We were both bespattered with mud from head to
foot, and our jackets and sombreros had lost something of their spruce
air. We met a great many ruddy, cleanly-shaven Englishmen, who reined up
on one side to let us pass, with a look of wonder at our Andalusian
impudence. Nothing diverted José more than to see one of these Englishmen
rising in his stirrups, as he went by on a trot. "Look, look, Señor!" he
exclaimed; "did you ever see the like?" and then broke into a fresh
explosion of laughter. Passing the Spanish Lines, which stretch across the
neck of the sandy little peninsula, connecting Gibraltar with the main
land, we rode under the terrible batteries which snarl at Spain from this
side of the Rock. Row after row of enormous guns bristle the walls, or
look out from the galleries hewn in the sides of inaccessible cliffs An
artificial moat is cut along the base of the Rock, and a simple
bridge-road leads into the fortress and town. After giving up my passport
I was allowed to enter, José having already obtained a permit from the
Spanish authorities.
I clattered up the long street of the town to the Club House, where I
found a company of English friends. In the evening, José made his
appearance, to settle our accounts and take his leave of me. While
scrambling down the rocky stair-way of Gaucin, José had said to me: "Look
you, Señor, I am very fond of English beer, and if I get you to Gibraltar
to day you must give me a glass of it." When, therefore, he came in the
evening, his eyes sparkled at the sight of a bottle of Alsop's Ale, and a
handful of good Gibraltar cigars. "Ah, Señor," said he, after our books
were squared, and he had pocketed his _gratification_, "I am sorry we are
going to part; for we are good friends, are we not, Señor?" "Yes, José,"
said I; "if I ever come to Granada again, I shall take no other guide than
José Garcia; and I will have you for a longer journey than this. We shall
go over all Spain together, _mi amigo_!" "May God grant it!" responded
José, crossing himself; "and now, Señor, I must go. I shall travel back to
Granada, _muy triste_, Señor, _muy triste_" The faithful fellows eyes were
full of tears, and, as he lifted my hand twice to his lips, some warm
drops fell upon it. God bless his honest heart; wherever he goes!
And now a word as to travelling in Spain, which is not attended with half
the difficulties and annoyances I had been led to expect. My experience,
of course, is limited to the provinces of Andalusia, but my route included
some of the roughest roads and most dangerous robber-districts in the
Peninsula. The people with whom I came in contact were invariably friendly
and obliging, and I was dealt with much more honestly than I should have
been in Italy. With every disposition to serve you, there is nothing like
servility among the Spaniards. The native dignity which characterizes
their demeanor prepossesses me very strongly in their favor. There is but
one dialect of courtesy, and the muleteers and common peasants address
each other with the same grave respect as the Dons and Grandees. My friend
José was a model of good-breeding.
I had little trouble either with passport-officers or custom-houses. My
passport, in fact, was never once demanded, although I took the precaution
to have it visèd in all the large cities. In Seville and Malaga, it was
signed by the American Consuls, without the usual fee of two
dollars--almost the only instances which have come under my observation.
The regulations of the American Consular System, which gives the Consuls
no salary, but permits them, instead, to get their pay out of travellers,
is a disgrace to our government. It amounts, in effect, to _a direct tax
on travel_, and falls heavily on the hundreds of young men of limited
means, who annually visit Europe for the purpose of completing their
education. Every American citizen who travels in Italy pays a passport tax
of ten dollars. In all the ports of the Mediterranean, there is an
American Vice-Consul, who does not even get the postage paid on his
dispatches, and to whom the advent of a traveller is of course a welcome
sight. Misled by a false notion of economy, our government is fast
becoming proverbial for its meanness. If those of our own citizens who
represent us abroad only worked as they are paid, and if the foreigners
who act as Vice-Consuls without pay did not derive some petty trading
advantages from their position, we should be almost without protection.
* * * * *
With my departure from Spain closes the record of my journey in the Lands
of the Saracen; for, although I afterwards beheld more perfect types of
Saracenic Art on the banks of the Jumna and the Ganges, they grew up under
the great Empire of the descendants of Tamerlane, and were the creations
of artists foreign to the soil. It would, no doubt, be interesting to
contrast the remains of Oriental civilization and refinement, as they
still exist at the extreme eastern and western limits of the Moslem sway,
and to show how that Art, which had its birth in the capitals of the
Caliphs--Damascus and Baghdad--attained its most perfect development in
Spain and India; but my visit to the latter country connects itself
naturally with my voyage to China, Loo-Choo, and Japan, forming a separate
and distinct field of travel.
On the 27th of November, the Overland Mail Steamer arrived at Gibraltar,
and I embarked in her for Alexandria, entering upon another year of even
more varied, strange, and adventurous experiences, than that which had
closed. I am almost afraid to ask those patient readers, who have
accompanied me thus far, to travel with me through another volume; but
next to the pleasure of seeing the world, comes the pleasure of telling of
it, and I must needs finish my story.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Lands of the Saracen, by Bayard Taylor