Departure from Astorga—The Venta—The By-path—Narrow Escape—The Cup of
Water—Sun and Shade—Bembibre—Convent of the
Rocks—Sunset—Cacabelos—Midnight Adventure—Villafranca.
It was four o’clock of a beautiful morning when we sallied from Astorga,
or rather from its suburbs, in which we had been lodged: we directed our
course to the north, in the direction of Galicia. Leaving the mountain
Telleno on our left, we passed along the eastern skirts of the land of
the Maragatos, over broken uneven ground, enlivened here and there by
small green valleys and runnels of water. Several of the Maragatan
women, mounted on donkeys, passed us on their way to Astorga, whither
they were carrying vegetables. We saw others in the fields handling
their rude ploughs, drawn by lean oxen. We likewise passed through a
small village, in which we, however, saw no living soul. Near this
village we entered the high-road which leads direct from Madrid to
Corunna, and at last, having travelled near four leagues, we came to a
species of pass, formed on our left by a huge lumpish hill (one of those
which descend from the great mountain Telleno), and on our right by one
of much less altitude. In the middle of this pass, which was of
considerable breadth, a noble view opened itself to us. Before us, at
the distance of about a league and a half, rose the mighty frontier
chain, of which I have spoken before; its blue sides and broken and
picturesque peaks still wearing a thin veil of the morning mist, which
the fierce rays of the sun were fast dispelling. It seemed an enormous
barrier, threatening to oppose our further progress, and it reminded me
of the fables respecting the children of Magog, {327a} who are said to
reside in remotest Tartary, behind a gigantic wall of rocks, which can
only be passed by a gate of steel a thousand cubits in height.
We shortly after arrived at Manzanal, {327b} a village consisting of
wretched huts, and exhibiting every sign of poverty and misery. It was
now time to refresh ourselves and horses, and we accordingly put up at a
_venta_, the last habitation in the village, where, though we found
barley for the animals, we had much difficulty in procuring anything for
ourselves. I was at length fortunate enough to obtain a large jug of
milk, for there were plenty of cows in the neighbourhood, feeding in a
picturesque valley which we had passed by, where was abundance of grass,
and trees, and a rivulet broken by tiny cascades. The jug might contain
about half a gallon, but I emptied it in a few minutes, for the thirst of
fever was still burning within me, though I was destitute of appetite.
The _venta_ had something the appearance of a German baiting-house. It
consisted of an immense stable, from which was partitioned a kind of
kitchen and a place where the family slept. The master, a robust young
man, lolled on a large solid stone bench, which stood within the door.
He was very inquisitive respecting news, but I could afford him none,
whereupon he became communicative, and gave me the history of his life,
the sum of which was, that he had been a courier in the Basque provinces,
but about a year since had been dispatched to this village, where he kept
the post-house. He was an enthusiastic liberal, and spoke in bitter
terms of the surrounding population, who, he said, were all Carlists and
friends of the friars. I paid little attention to his discourse, for I
was looking at a Maragato lad of about fourteen, who served in the house
as a kind of ostler. I asked the master if we were still in the land of
the Maragatos; but he told me that we had left it behind nearly a league,
and that the lad was an orphan, and was serving until he could rake up
sufficient capital to become an _arriero_. I addressed several questions
to the boy, but the urchin looked sullenly in my face, and either
answered by monosyllables or was doggedly silent. I asked him if he
could read. “Yes,” said he, “as much as that brute of yours which is
tearing down the manger.”
Quitting Manzanal, we continued our course. We soon arrived at the verge
of a deep valley amongst mountains—not those of the chain which we had
seen before us, and which we now left to the right, but those of the
Telleno range, just before they unite with that chain. Round the sides
of this valley, which exhibited something of the appearance of a
horse-shoe, wound the road in a circuitous manner; just before us,
however, and diverging from the road, lay a footpath, which seemed, by a
gradual descent, to lead across the valley, and to rejoin the road on the
other side, at the distance of about a furlong, and into this we struck,
in order to avoid the circuit.
We had not gone far before we met two Galicians on their way to cut the
harvests of Castile. One of them shouted, “Cavalier, {329} turn back: in
a moment you will be amongst precipices, where your horses will break
their necks, for we ourselves could scarcely climb them on foot.” The
other cried, “Cavalier, proceed, but be careful, and your horses, if
surefooted, will run no great danger: my comrade is a fool.” A violent
dispute instantly ensued between the two mountaineers, each supporting
his opinion with loud oaths and curses; but without stopping to see the
result, I passed on. But the path was now filled with stones and huge
slaty rocks, on which my horse was continually slipping. I likewise
heard the sound of water in a deep gorge, which I had hitherto not
perceived, and I soon saw that it would be worse than madness to proceed.
I turned my horse, and was hastening to regain the path which I had left,
when Antonio, my faithful Greek, pointed out to me a meadow by which, he
said, we might regain the highroad much lower down than if we returned on
our steps. The meadow was brilliant with short green grass, and in the
middle there was a small rivulet of water. I spurred my horse on,
expecting to be in the high-road in a moment; the horse, however, snorted
and stared wildly, and was evidently unwilling to cross the seemingly
inviting spot. I thought that the scent of a wolf or some other wild
animal might have disturbed him, but was soon undeceived by his sinking
up to the knees in a bog. The animal uttered a shrill sharp neigh, and
exhibited every sign of the greatest terror, making at the same time
great efforts to extricate himself, and plunging forward, but every
moment sinking deeper. At last he arrived where a small vein of rock
showed itself: on this he placed his fore feet, and with one tremendous
exertion freed himself from the deceitful soil, springing over the
rivulet and alighting on comparatively firm ground, where he stood
panting, his heaving sides covered with a foamy sweat. Antonio, who had
observed the whole scene, afraid to venture forward, returned by the path
by which we came, and shortly afterwards rejoined me. This adventure
brought to my recollection the meadow with its footpath which tempted
Christian from the straight road to heaven, and finally conducted him to
the dominions of the giant Despair.
We now began to descend the valley by a broad and excellent _carretera_
or carriage-road, which was cut out of the steep side of the mountain on
our right. On our left was the gorge, down which tumbled the runnel of
water which I have before mentioned. The road was tortuous, and at every
turn the scene became more picturesque. The gorge gradually widened, and
the brook at its bottom, fed by a multitude of springs, increased in
volume and in sound; but it was soon far beneath us, pursuing its
headlong course till it reached level ground, where it flowed in the
midst of a beautiful but confined prairie. There was something sylvan
and savage in the mountains on the farther side, clad from foot to
pinnacle with trees, so closely growing that the eye was unable to obtain
a glimpse of the hillsides, which were uneven with ravines and gulleys,
the haunts of the wolf, the wild boar, and the _corso_, {331a} or
mountain stag; the latter of which, as I was informed by a peasant who
was driving a car of oxen, frequently descended to feed in the prairie,
and were there shot for the sake of their skins, for the flesh, being
strong and disagreeable, is held in no account.
But notwithstanding the wildness of these regions, the handiworks of man
were visible. The sides of the gorge, though precipitous, were yellow
with little fields of barley, and we saw a hamlet and church down in the
prairie below, whilst merry songs ascended to our ears from where the
mowers were toiling with their scythes, cutting the luxuriant and
abundant grass. I could scarcely believe that I was in Spain, in general
so brown, so arid and cheerless, and I almost fancied myself in Greece,
in that land of ancient glory, whose mountain and forest scenery
Theocritus {331b} has so well described.
At the bottom of the valley we entered a small village, washed by the
brook, which had now swelled almost to a stream. A more romantic
situation I had never witnessed. It was surrounded, and almost overhung,
by mountains, and embowered in trees of various kinds; waters sounded,
nightingales sang, and the cuckoo’s full note boomed from the distant
branches, but the village was miserable. The huts were built of slate
stones, of which the neighbouring hills seemed to be principally
composed, and roofed with the same, but not in the neat tidy manner of
English houses, for the slates were of all sizes and seemed to be flung
on in confusion. We were spent with heat and thirst, and sitting down on
a stone bench, I entreated a woman to give me a little water. The woman
said she would, but added that she expected to be paid for it. Antonio,
on hearing this, became highly incensed, and speaking Greek, Turkish, and
Spanish, invoked the vengeance of the _Panhagia_ on the heartless woman,
saying, “If I were to offer a Mahometan gold for a draught of water he
would dash it in my face; and you are a Catholic, with the stream running
at your door.” I told him to be silent, and giving the woman two
_cuartos_, repeated my request, whereupon she took a pitcher, and going
to the stream, filled it with water. It tasted muddy and disagreeable,
but it drowned the fever which was devouring me.
We again remounted and proceeded on our way, which, for a considerable
distance, lay along the margin of the stream, which now fell in small
cataracts, now brawled over stones, and at other times ran dark and
silent through deep pools overhung with tall willows,—pools which seemed
to abound with the finny tribe, for large trout frequently sprang from
the water, catching the brilliant fly which skimmed along its deceitful
surface. The scene was delightful. The sun was rolling high in the
firmament, casting from its orb of fire the most glorious rays, so that
the atmosphere was flickering with their splendour; but their fierceness
was either warded off by the shadow of the trees, or rendered innocuous
by the refreshing coolness which rose from the waters, or by the gentle
breezes which murmured at intervals over the meadows, “fanning the cheek
or raising the hair” of the wanderer. The hills gradually receded, till
at last we entered a plain where tall grass was waving, and mighty
chestnut trees, in full blossom, spread out their giant and umbrageous
boughs. Beneath many stood cars, the tired oxen prostrate on the ground,
the cross-bar of the pole which they support pressing heavily on their
heads, whilst their drivers were either employed in cooking, or were
enjoying a delicious _siesta_ in the grass and shade. I went up to one
of the largest of these groups and demanded of the individuals whether
they were in need of the Testament of Jesus Christ. They stared at one
another, and then at me, till at last a young man, who was dangling a
long gun in his hands as he reclined, demanded of me what it was, at the
same time inquiring whether I was a Catalan, “for you speak hoarse,” said
he, “and are tall and fair like that family.” I sat down amongst them,
and said that I was no Catalan, but that I came from a spot in the
Western Sea, many leagues distant, to sell that book at half the price it
cost; and that their souls’ welfare depended on their being acquainted
with it. I then explained to them the nature of the New Testament, and
read to them the parable of the Sower. They stared at each other again,
but said that they were poor, and could not buy books. I rose, mounted,
and was going away, saying to them, “Peace bide with you.” Whereupon the
young man with the gun rose, and saying, “_Caspita_! this is odd,”
snatched the book from my hand, and gave me the price I had demanded.
Perhaps the whole world might be searched in vain for a spot whose
natural charms could rival those of this plain or valley of Bembibre,
{333} as it is called, with its wall of mighty mountains, its spreading
chestnut trees, and its groves of oaks and willows, which clothe the
banks of its stream, a tributary to the Minho. True it is, that when I
passed through it the candle of heaven was blazing in full splendour, and
everything lighted by its rays looked gay, glad, and blessed. Whether it
would have filled me with the same feelings of admiration if viewed
beneath another sky, I will not pretend to determine; but it certainly
possesses advantages which at no time could fail to delight, for it
exhibits all the peaceful beauties of an English landscape blended with
something wild and grand, and I thought within myself that he must be a
restless, dissatisfied man, who, born amongst those scenes, would wish to
quit them. At the time I would have desired no better fate than that of
a shepherd on the prairies, or a hunter on the hills of Bembibre.
Three hours passed away, and we were in another situation. We had halted
and refreshed ourselves and horses at Bembibre, a village of mud and
slate, and which possessed little to attract attention. We were now
ascending, for the road was over one of the extreme ledges of those
frontier hills which I have before so often mentioned; but the aspect of
heaven had blackened, clouds were rolling rapidly from the west over the
mountains, and a cold wind was moaning dismally. “There is a storm
travelling through the air,” said a peasant, whom we overtook mounted on
a wretched mule, “and the Asturians had better be on the look-out, for it
is speeding in their direction.” He had scarce spoken when a light, so
vivid and dazzling that it seemed as if the whole lustre of the fiery
element were concentrated in it, broke around us, filling the whole
atmosphere, and covering rock, tree, and mountain with a glare not to be
described. The mule of the peasant tumbled prostrate, while the horse I
rode reared himself perpendicularly, and, turning round, dashed down the
hill at headlong speed, which for some time it was impossible to check.
The lightning was followed by a peal almost as terrible, but distant, for
it sounded hollow and deep; the hills, however, caught up its voice,
seemingly repeating it from summit to summit, till it was lost in
interminable space. Other flashes and peals succeeded, but slight in
comparison, and a few drops of rain descended. The body of the tempest
seemed to be over another region. “A hundred families are weeping where
that bolt fell,” said the peasant when I rejoined him, “for its blaze has
blinded my mule at six leagues’ distance.” He was leading the animal by
the bridle, as its sight was evidently affected. “Were the friars still
in their nest above there,” he continued, “I should say that this was
their doing, for they are the cause of all the miseries of the land.”
I raised my eyes in the direction in which he pointed. Halfway up the
mountain, over whose foot we were wending, jutted forth a black
frightful, crag, which, at an immense altitude, overhung the road, and
seemed to threaten destruction. It resembled one of those ledges of the
rocky mountains in the picture of the Deluge, up to which the terrified
fugitives have scrambled from the eager pursuit of the savage and
tremendous billows, and from whence they gaze down in horror, whilst
above them rise still higher and giddier heights, to which they seem
unable to climb. Built on the very edge of this crag stood an edifice,
seemingly devoted to the purposes of religion, as I could discern the
spire of a church rearing itself high over wall and roof. “That is the
house of the Virgin of the Rocks,” said the peasant, “and it was lately
full of friars, but they have been thrust out, and the only inmates now
are owls and ravens.” I replied, that their life in such a bleak,
exposed abode could not have been very enviable, as in winter they must
have incurred great risk of perishing with cold. “By no means,” said he;
“they had the best of wood for their _braseros_ and chimneys, and the
best of wine to warm them at their meals, which were not the most
sparing. Moreover, they had another convent down in the vale yonder, to
which they could retire at their pleasure.” On my asking him the reason
of his antipathy to the friars, he replied, that he had been their
vassal, and that they had deprived him every year of the flower of what
he possessed. Discoursing in this manner, we reached a village just
below the convent, where he left me, having first pointed out to me a
house of stone, with an image over the door, which, he said, once
belonged to the _canalla_ {337a} above.
The sun was setting fast, and, eager to reach Villafranca, {337b} where I
had determined on resting, and which was still distant three leagues and
a half, I made no halt at this place. The road was now down a rapid and
crooked descent, which terminated in a valley, at the bottom of which was
a long and narrow bridge; beneath it rolled a river, descending from a
wide pass between two mountains, for the chain was here cleft, probably
by some convulsion of nature. I looked up the pass, and on the hills on
both sides. Far above on my right, but standing forth bold and clear,
and catching the last rays of the sun, was the Convent of the Precipices,
whilst directly over against it, on the farther side of the valley, rose
the perpendicular side of the rival hill, which, to a considerable extent
intercepting the light, flung its black shadow over the upper end of the
pass, involving it in mysterious darkness. Emerging from the centre of
this gloom, with thundering sound, dashed a river, white with foam, and
bearing along with it huge stones and branches of trees, for it was the
wild Sil hurrying to the ocean from its cradle in the heart of the
Asturian hills, and probably swollen by the recent rains.
Hours again passed away. It was now night, and we were in the midst of
woodlands, feeling our way, for the darkness was so great that I could
scarcely see the length of a yard before my horse’s head. The animal
seemed uneasy, and would frequently stop short, prick up his ears, and
utter a low mournful whine. Flashes of sheet lightning frequently
illumined the black sky, and flung a momentary glare over our path. No
sound interrupted the stillness of the night, except the slow tramp of
the horses’ hoofs, and occasionally the croaking of frogs from some pool
or morass. I now bethought me that I was in Spain, the chosen land of
the two fiends—assassination and plunder—and how easily two tired and
unarmed wanderers might become their victims.
We at last cleared the woodlands, and, after proceeding a short distance,
the horse gave a joyous neigh, and broke into a smart trot. A barking of
dogs speedily reached my ears, and we seemed to be approaching some town
or village. In effect we were close to Cacabelos, a town about five
miles distant from Villafranca.
It was near eleven at night, and I reflected that it would be far more
expedient to tarry in this place till the morning than to attempt at
present to reach Villafranca, exposing ourselves to all the horrors of
darkness in a lonely and unknown road. My mind was soon made up on this
point; but I reckoned without my host, for at the first _posada_ which I
attempted to enter I was told that we could not be accommodated, and
still less our horses, as the stable was full of water. At the second,
and there were but two, I was answered from the window by a gruff voice,
nearly in the words of Scripture: “Trouble me not: the door is now shut,
and my children are with me in bed; I cannot arise to let you in.”
Indeed, we had no particular desire to enter, as it appeared a wretched
hovel, though the poor horses pawed piteously against the door, and
seemed to crave admittance.
We had now no choice but to resume our doleful way to Villafranca, which
we were told was a short league distant, though it proved a league and a
half. We found it no easy matter to quit the town, for we were
bewildered amongst its labyrinths, and could not find the outlet. A lad
about eighteen was, however, persuaded, by the promise of a _peseta_, to
guide us: whereupon he led us by many turnings to a bridge, which he told
us to cross, and to follow the road, which was that of Villafranca; he
then, having received his fee, hastened from us.
We followed his directions, not, however, without a suspicion that he
might be deceiving us. The night had settled darker down upon us, so
that it was impossible to distinguish any object, however nigh. The
lightning had become more faint and rare. We heard the rustling of
trees, and occasionally the barking of dogs, which last sound, however,
soon ceased, and we were in the midst of night and silence. My horse,
either from weariness or the badness of the road, frequently stumbled;
whereupon I dismounted, and leading him by the bridle, soon left Antonio
far in the rear.
I had proceeded in this manner a considerable way, when a circumstance
occurred of a character well suited to the time and place.
I was again amidst trees and bushes, when the horse, stopping short,
nearly pulled me back. I know not how it was, but fear suddenly came
over me, which, though in darkness and in solitude, I had not felt
before. I was about to urge the animal forward, when I heard a noise at
my right hand, and listened attentively. It seemed to be that of a
person or persons forcing their way through branches and brushwood. It
soon ceased, and I heard feet on the road. It was the short staggering
kind of tread of people carrying a very heavy substance, nearly too much
for their strength, and I thought I heard the hurried breathing of men
over-fatigued. There was a short pause, during which I conceived they
were resting in the middle of the road; then the stamping recommenced,
until it reached the other side, when I again heard a similar rustling
amidst branches; it continued for some time, and died gradually away.
I continued my road, musing on what had just occurred, and forming
conjectures as to the cause. The lightning resumed its flashing, and I
saw that I was approaching tall black mountains.
This nocturnal journey endured so long that I almost lost all hope of
reaching the town, and had closed my eyes in a doze, though I still
trudged on mechanically, leading the horse. Suddenly a voice at a slight
distance before me roared out, “_Quien vive_?” for I had at last found my
way to Villafranca. It proceeded from the sentry in the suburb, one of
those singular half soldiers, half _guerillas_, {340} called Miguelets,
who are in general employed by the Spanish government to clear the roads
of robbers. I gave the usual answer, “_España_,” and went up to the
place where he stood. After a little conversation, I sat down on a
stone, awaiting the arrival of Antonio, who was long in making his
appearance. On his arrival, I asked if any one had passed him on the
road, but he replied that he had seen nothing. The night, or rather the
morning, was still very dark, though a small corner of the moon was
occasionally visible. On our inquiring the way to the gate, the Miguelet
directed us down a street to the left, which we followed. The street was
steep, we could see no gate, and our progress was soon stopped by houses
and wall. We knocked at the gates of two or three of these houses (in
the upper stories of which lights were burning), for the purpose of being
set right, but we were either disregarded or not heard. A horrid
squalling of cats, from the tops of the houses and dark corners, saluted
our ears, and I thought of the night arrival of Don Quixote and his
squire at Toboso, and their vain search amongst the deserted streets for
the palace of Dulcinea. {341} At length we saw light and heard voices in
a cottage at the other side of a kind of ditch. Leading the horses over,
we called at the door, which was opened by an aged man, who appeared by
his dress to be a baker, as indeed he proved, which accounted for his
being up at so late an hour. On begging him to show us the way into the
town, he led us up a very narrow alley at the end of his cottage, saying
that he would likewise conduct us to the _posada_.
The alley led directly to what appeared to be the market-place, at a
corner house of which our guide stopped and knocked. After a long pause
an upper window was opened, and a female voice demanded who we were. The
old man replied, that two travellers had arrived who were in need of
lodgings. “I cannot be disturbed at this time of night,” said the woman;
“they will be wanting supper, and there is nothing in the house; they
must go elsewhere.” She was going to shut the window, but I cried that
we wanted no supper, but merely a resting-place for ourselves and
horses—that we had come that day from Astorga, and were dying with
fatigue. “Who is that speaking?” cried the woman. “Surely that is the
voice of Gil, the German clockmaker from Pontevedra. Welcome, old
companion; you are come at the right time, for my own is out of order. I
am sorry I have kept you waiting, but I will admit you in a moment.”
The window was slammed to, presently a light shone through the crevices
of the door, a key turned in the lock, and we were admitted.