Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. No
attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling or
anglicization of non-English words. Some typographical errors have been
corrected; a list follows the text. Some illustrations have been moved
from mid-paragraph for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note)
NORTHERN
SPAIN
_PAINTED AND DESCRIBED_
BY
EDGAR T. A. WIGRAM
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK
1906
"There is, Sir, a good deal of Spain which has not been
perambulated. I would have you go thither."
DR JOHNSON.
"And so you travel on foot?" said Leon. "How romantic! How
courageous!"
* * * * *
"Yes," returned the undergraduate, "it's rather nice than
otherwise, when once you're used to it; only it's devilish
difficult to get washed. I like the fresh air and these stars and
things."
"Aha!" said Leon, "Monsieur is an artist."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried the Englishman. "A fellow may admire the
stars and be anything he likes."
R. L. STEVENSON.
[Illustration: SEGÓVIA
The Aqueduct.]
TO
W. A. W.
SAEPE MECUM TEMPUS IN ULTIMUM
DEDUCTO
PREFACE
It is ill gleaning for a necessitous author when Ford and Borrow have
been before him in the field, and I may not attempt to justify the
appearance of these pages by the pretence that I have any fresh story to
tell. Yet, if my theme be old, it is at least still unhackneyed. The
pioneers have done their work with unapproachable thoroughness, but the
rank and file of the travelling public are following but slackly in
their train.
Year after year our horde of pleasure-seekers are marshalled by
companies for the invasion of Europe: yet it would seem that there are
but few in the total who have any real inkling of how to play the game.
Some seem to migrate by instinct, and to make themselves miserable in
the process. These ought to be restrained by their families, or
compelled to hire substitutes in their stead. Others can indeed relish a
flitting; but cannot find it in their hearts to divorce themselves from
their dinner-table and their toilet-battery, their newspaper, their
small-talk and their golf. To them all petty annoyances and
inconveniences assume disproportionate dimensions, and they are well
advised in checking their _razzias_ at San Sebástien, Pau, or Biarritz.
But, to the elect, the very root of the pleasure of travel lies in the
fact that their ordinary habits may be frankly laid aside. It is a mild
method of "going _Fanti_" which rejoices their primitive instincts: and
they will find both the land and the people just temperately primitive
in Spain.
Many of us have felt the fascination of Italy. But those who have "heard
the East a-calling" tell us that her call is stronger still;--and Spain
is the echo of the East. "Lofty and sour to them that love her not, but
to those men that seek her sweet as summer." Even Italy, with all its
charm, tastes flat to a Spanish enthusiast. He craves no other nor no
better land.
* * * * *
It has been said of Spain, that none who have not been there are
particularly desirous of going, and none who have been there once can
refrain from going again. The author has not found himself exempt from
this common fatality; and his notes and sketches, as embodied in this
volume, are the fruit of four successive bicycle tours, undertaken
sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with a kindred spirit. Of
their shortcomings he believes that no one can be so conscious as
himself. But in the hope that they may prove of interest to sympathisers
he ventures to expose them to the public gaze.
NOTE
ALL Spanish names ending in vowels are pronounced with the stress on the
penultimate; and those ending in consonants with the stress on the final
syllable. Any exception is indicated by an accent.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
THE NORTH COAST OF CASTILE 1
CHAPTER II
COVADONGA AND EASTERN ASTÚRIAS 24
CHAPTER III
ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS TO LEON 43
CHAPTER IV
THE PILGRIM ROAD 64
CHAPTER V
THE CIRCUIT OF GALÍCIA 89
CHAPTER VI
WESTERN ASTÚRIAS 113
CHAPTER VII
BENAVENTE, ZAMORA, AND TORO 132
CHAPTER VIII
SALAMANCA 152
CHAPTER IX
BÉJAR, ÁVILA, AND ESCORIAL 171
CHAPTER X
TOLEDO 192
CHAPTER XI
A RAID INTO ESTREMADURA 215
CHAPTER XII
SEGÓVIA 237
CHAPTER XIII
BÚRGOS 256
CHAPTER XIV
ACROSS NAVARRE 278
INDEX 301
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Segóvia. The Aqueduct _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. Castro Urdiáles. The Bilbao Coastline 6
3. Castro Urdiáles. The Harbour 10
4. Santoña 12
5. San Vicente de la Barquera 20
6. The Deva Gorge. La Hérmida 22
7. The Deva Gorge. Urdon 26
8. Cángas de Onís. The Bridge over the Sella 32
9. The Sella Valley. Below Arrióndas 38
10. Pasana. An Asturian Mountain Village 40
11. Llánes. The Harbour 42
12. Leon. An Old Palace Doorway 50
13. Leon. From the Pajáres Road 58
14. Leon. Church of San Isidoro 60
15. Leon. The Market Place, and Casa del Ayuntamiento 62
16. Astorga. From the South-east 68
17. The Vierzo. From Ponferrada, looking towards
the Pass of Piedrafita 72
18. Lugo. The Santiago Gate 78
19. Lugo. Fuente de San Vicente 80
20. Santiago de Compostela. From the Lugo Road 82
21. Santiago de Compostela. The Cathedral from the North-east 86
22. Orense. The Bridge over the Miño 92
23. Tuy and Valencia. The Frontier Towns on the Miño 96
24. Vigo Bay. The Inner Harbour, looking out towards the Sea 100
25. Nuestra Señora de la Esclavitud 104
26. Betánzos. A Colonnaded Calle 108
27. The Masma Valley. Near Mondoñedo 110
28. Rivadeo. An Approach to the Harbour 114
29. The Návia Valley 116
30. Cudillero. The Harbour 120
31. Oviedo. A Street near the Cathedral 124
32. In the Pass of Pajáres. Near Pola de Gordon 130
33. Benavente. From above the Bridge of Castro Gonzalo 134
34. Zamora. From the banks of the Duero 140
35. Zamora. Church of Sta Maria de la Horta 144
36. A Spanish Patio 148
37. Toro. From the banks of the Duero 150
38. Salamanca. Arcades in the Plaza de la Verdura 156
39. Salamanca. Church of San Martin 160
40. Salamanca. From the left bank of the Tormes 164
41. Salamanca. The Puerta del Rio, with the Cathedral Tower 168
42. Béjar. An Approach to the Town 174
43. Béjar. A Corner in the Market-place 176
44. Ávila. From the North-west 180
45. Ávila. A Posada Patio 184
46. Escorial. From the East 188
47. Toledo. Bridge of Alcántara, from the Illescas Road 194
48. Toledo. The Bridge of Alcántara 198
49. Toledo. Puerta del Sol 200
50. Toledo. Calle del Comércio, with the Cathedral Tower 204
51. Toledo. The Gorge of the Tagus 208
52. Talavera de la Reina. From the banks of the Tagus 212
53. Plaséncia. Puente San Lazaro 216
54. Plaséncia. The Town Walls and Cathedral 218
55. Cáceres. Within the old Town Walls 222
56. Cáceres. Calle de la Cuesta de Aldana 226
57. Mérida. "Los Milagros," the ruins of the Great Aqueduct 228
58. Alcántara 232
59. Segóvia. Church of San Miguel 238
60. Segóvia. Arco San Estéban 244
61. Segóvia. The Alcázar 248
62. Segóvia. Arco Santiago 252
63. Segóvia. Church of San Estéban 254
64. Búrgos. Arco San Martin 260
65. Dueñas 264
66. Búrgos. Hospital del Rey 266
67. Búrgos. Arco Sta Maria 268
68. Búrgos. Patio of the Casa de Miranda 272
69. Búrgos. From the East 276
70. The Gorge of Pancorvo 282
71. La Rioja Alavesa. Looking Northwards across the Ebro 284
72. Miranda del Ebro. A Corner in the Town 288
73. Pamplona. From the Road to the Frontier 290
74. Olite. The Castle 292
75. Pamplona. A Patio near the Cathedral 296
_Map at end of Volume._
_The design of the Cover is adapted from the façade of the Casa de
las Conchas (House of the Shells) at Salamanca._
_The device on the Title Page is taken from a wrought-iron knocker
of the Cathedral at Toledo._
_The illustrations in this volume have been engraved and printed
in England by Messrs Carl Hentschel, Ltd._
NORTHERN SPAIN
CHAPTER I
THE NORTH COAST OF CASTILE
DEAR E.,--Can you manage to get off some time in May and go bicycling
with me in Norway? Blank's have offered me a passage to Bergen.
* * * * *
DEAR W.,--I can manage your date, but don't quite feel drawn to your
country. Norway is all mountains, and I want a little archæology. I had
been thinking of Provence.
* * * * *
DEAR E.,--No objection to Provence. Blank's will give us a passage in
one of their colliers to Bilbao, and we can ride in across the Pyrenees.
You must allow me some mountains.
* * * * *
DEAR W.,--It's awfully good of Blank's. But once at Bilbao, why not
stick to Spain? Toledo is no further than Toulouse, and Cantabria as
mountainous as the Pyrenees.
* * * * *
DEAR E.,--Very good! Spain first; and Provence second string if
necessary. There's a boat sailing about May 20th.
* * * * *
The casting vote was indisputably the collier's; but our plans were not
quite so inconsequent as this conclusion might lead one to infer. Some
nebulous notion of a Spanish expedition had been miraging itself before
our eyes for several seasons previously; and it is the nature of such
nebulous notions to materialise accidentally at the last. Hitherto we
had been awed by the drawbacks; for Spain had been pictured to us as
positively alive with bugbears. Travelling was difficult--nay, even
dangerous; the people were Anglophobists, the country a desert, and the
cities dens of pestilence. The roads were unridable, and the heat
unbearable. We should be eaten of fleas, and choked with garlic; and to
crown all our other tribulations, we should have to learn a new and
unknown tongue. The knight who plunged into the lake of pitch had hardly
a more inviting prospect; and the fairy palaces beneath it did not
yield him an ampler reward. Provence still waits unvisited; neither have
we now any immediate intention of going there. We still keep going to
Spain.
* * * * *
The owners said she would sail on Thursday; but Wednesday brought down
the captain in a highly energetic condition, and confident of catching
the midnight tide. We had to make a bolt for the docks by the last train
of the evening, and groped our way to the _Amadeo_ through a haze of
coal dust, only to be met by the intelligence that the captain had gone
home to bed! There was nothing for it but to camp in the cabin, where
night was made constantly hideous by the coal roaring into the
after-hold: and next morning found us out in the middle of the dock,
sitting on our tail with our bows pointing to heaven. The coal for the
fore-hold had failed us, and a luckier rival had ousted us from our
berth at the staithes. The morning was occupied in resolving a general
tangle; for every ship in the basin seemed to fall foul of all the
others in turn. Soon a second tide was lost. And when we regained the
staithes there came another break in our procession of coal trucks.
"Oh! the little cargo boats that clear with _every_ tide!"
We flung ashore in despair. But a more hopeful sight saluted us when we
returned. The _Amadeo_ lay out by the dock gates, long and low, with her
main deck but eighteen inches above the water. At last she was fully
laden; and we sailed on the Friday morn.
So long as we remained in Tyne Dock we had not judged ourselves
conspicuously dirty; but we showed as a crying scandal when out in the
clean blue sea. The mate even bewailed the calm weather. If we "took it
green" once we should be clean immediately. But such heroic methods of
labour-saving we very contentedly excused. Meanwhile we made leisurely
progress, for the _Amadeo_ was no greyhound. "She never yet caught
anything with steam in her" according to her despondent engineer.
Saturday's sun set behind Dover--the great cliffs looming darkly over
us, and the town lights showing like pin-holes pricked through the
blackness to the glowing sky beyond. Sunday showed us the grim teeth of
the Caskets; and the weird natural dolmens of Ushant were passed the
following day. But Providence still continued to temper the wind to that
very shorn lamb the _Amadeo_, and the dreaded Bay was as smooth as a
sheet of rippled glass.
About Wednesday evening the captain began to wax very bitter concerning
Spanish lighthouses, and we went below better satisfied that deep water
should last us till dawn! But the first rays of light showed us a long
line of blue peaks high on the horizon to the southward, and within an
hour our voyage was over. "In we came--and time enough--'cross Bilbao
bar."
It was from the sea that I had my first view of Genoa and the Italian
Riviera, and the seaward approach to Bilbao deserves no meaner
comparison than this. The romantic hills reared themselves from the
water's edge, unwinding their veils at the touch of the early sunshine;
and the sparkling villages clinging to the cliffs round the shell-shaped
harbour of Portugalete made a picture which might have been borrowed
from Lugano or Lucerne. A tumult of tossing peaks was piled in disorder
to the eastward, above the smoke of the iron furnaces in the winding
valley of the Nervion; and far away to the westward, ridge upon ridge
fell sloping down into the blue waters of the Atlantic; sometimes
breaking off so sheer at the finish that the ore ships could actually
moor alongside to load. The beauty of the Spanish coast is a favourite
theme of visitors to San Sebástien, but they know not a tithe of the
truth which they are so eager to proclaim. The whole Atlantic littoral
from the Bidassoa to the Miño is teeming with equal attractions, and the
immediate vicinity of Bilbao is a stretch which is second to none.
Neither were our first impressions of the people less favourable than
those of the country. And that though they were formed in the Custom
House, which is scarcely a promising beat. These hospitable officials
were if anything over-considerate; for we were only anxious to pay and
have done with it, while they were all intent on excusing us, if they
could find any justification under the code. At last, however, we were
allowed to purchase our freedom; fled to our machines amid a haze of
reciprocal compliments; and a few minutes later were drifting along the
road to the westward, with no more care for the morrow than flotsam on
uncharted seas.
[Illustration: CASTRO URDIÁLES
The Bilbao Coastline.]
The busy industries of Bilbao have unfortunately gone some way towards
marring its lovely situation. Its valley is choked with smoky factories;
and its mountains are one vast red scar from base to summit, the
entire face having been flayed away for ironstone, and ladled out into
the ore ships along the aërial railways to feed the blast furnaces of
Sheffield and Middlesborough. Our uglier trades seem to take malicious
delight in ruining the prettiest landscapes. But their dominion is but
for a season, and the land will enjoy its Sabbaths in the end. We only
scratch Nature skin-deep, and her wealds will devour our black
countries. "After a thousand years," say the Spaniards, "the river
returns to his bed."
Beyond the blight of the quarries, the scenery is of the type of our own
Welsh highlands--steep, rocky ridges and gullies, thickly clothed with
bracken and scrub oak. Even the railway has a most charming ramble,
hunting its own tail up and down the long, steep, corkscrew gradients of
the inland valleys. But the road clambers along the deeply fissured
coast line, and no free agent will elect to follow the rail. Our first
stage, however, was but a short one, for it was evening when we quitted
Bilbao. Castro Urdiales gaped for us with its cavernous little _calle_,
and we dived in to seek quarters for the night.
Surely a town so close to Bilbao might have been expected to be inured
to visitors! Yet our modest progress through the streets of Castro
created as great a sensation as though we had been "Corsica" Boswell in
his costume of scarlet and gold. The children formed up in procession
behind us. Their elders turned out to take stock of us from the
balconies. And a voluble old pilot (whose knowledge of English was about
equal to our Spanish) came bustling out of a café to conduct us to the
primitive little inn.
It is a fortunate thing that a traveller's needs can be guessed without
much vocabulary; for our first task was to order our supper, and
mistakes may be serious when you have to eat the result. The enterprise,
however, is not so hazardous as one imagines. Like Sancho Panza, you may
ask for what you will;--but what you get is "the pair of cow heels
dressed with chick peas, onions and bacon which are just now done to a
turn." After all, we did not fare badly; mine hostess was a damsel of
resources, and our old pilot prompted us vigorously from the rear. It
was he who suggested the "lamp-post"--a threat at which we jibbed
somewhat visibly. But the girl plunged promptly into the kitchen behind
her and returned displaying the "lamp-post"--which was a lobster. As to
the three weird courses which followed him, our conclusions were not
equally positive. They appeared in cryptic disguises;--_carne_, "meat"
which defied identification. There is no declaration of origin in most
of the dishes of Spain. Yet the traveller need not be nervous. He can
generally trust Maritornes. Let him eat what is set before him, asking
no questions for conscience sake.
One might travel a long way along any coast line before finding a
prettier haven than Castro Urdiales. The nucleus of the town, with the
church and castle, is perched upon a rocky promontory, whose cliffs drop
sheer into the deep water, and whose outlying pinnacles have been linked
up to the mainland by irregular arches so as to form natural wharves. A
little harbour for fishing-craft nestles under the cliff to the
eastward; looking back along the coast to Bilbao, and the bold conical
hill with the watch-tower (reminiscent of Barbary pirates), which guards
the entrance to the harbour of Portugalete. Yet all this fair exterior
hides a hideous secret, and at last we surprised it unaware.
We were well acquainted with sardines in England, and it had not escaped
our cognisance that sardines were commonly bereft of heads. Had it ever
occurred to us that all those heads were somewhere? Well, the dreadful
truth must be acknowledged; they were here. Yes, here at Castro
Urdiales--a mountain of gibbous eyes and a smell to poison the
heavens--awaiting the kindly wave which would eventually garner them in
from the ledge upon which they were stewing, and deliver them over to
the "lamp-posts" in the crevices of the rock below.
Castro Urdiales is a city of ambitions. It is keeping pace with the era,
and in 1901 its most antiquated alley had been already dignified by the
title of "Twentieth Century Street." Since then it has developed a
ponderous steel bridge in the harbour, and thrown out a massive concrete
break-water from the end of the modest jetty. But its progress is not to
be deprecated where it does not interfere with its beauty; and now a
comfortable _Fonda_ has supplanted the humble _Venta_ which was our
first lodging on Spanish soil.
[Illustration: CASTRO URDIÁLES
The Harbour.]
Our road next day still followed the mountainous coast line, and we
descended at noon upon the roofs of Laredo, a delightful little town,
climbing up the steep hillside above its tiny anchorage, and facing the
great mass of Santoña, the "Gibraltar of the North." This imposing
fortress lies across the mouth of an immense land-locked lagoon,
and in size, shape, and situation is almost a replica of the famous
Rock. It has no such strategical value, but is probably equally
impregnable; for it was the only northern city where the French flag was
still waving at the close of that "War of Liberation" which we style the
Peninsular War.
At Laredo we dined, and as Spanish meals are the subject of much
needless apprehension, perhaps we may pause to say a word in their
defence before proceeding further upon our way. We begin with _Desayuno_
or _petit déjeuner_, and here, in a genuinely Spanish _ménage_,
chocolate will generally take the place of the Frenchman's _café au
lait_. It is served in tiny cups, very hot and very thick. It is really
a substitute for butter, and you eat it by dipping your bread in it,
washing it down with a glass of cold water, which you are expected to
"sugar to taste." The peasants, however, eschew this fashion as
new-fangled, and content themselves with a draught of wine or a
thimbleful of "the craythur." This is not recommended by the faculty,
but travellers have sometimes to be content.
[Illustration: SANTONA]
Dinner, or _Comida_, is served about mid-day; the nominal time varies,
but it is always half an hour late. In many districts, however, this
title is transferred to the supper, and then the luncheon is known as
_Almuerzo_--_Déjeuner_. It is a very substantial banquet of some
half-dozen courses, inaugurated (in strictly classical fashion) by an
egg. Next comes a dish of haricot beans, or chick peas, or rice
garnished with _pimientos_, closely pursued by another containing boiled
meat, bacon, and sausages, all which you may tackle separately or
simultaneously, according to your greatness of soul. Then comes a
stew--the celebrated _Olla Podrida_; and then (to the great astonishment
of the stranger) the belated fish. Fish seems to have methods of
penetrating to all spots which are accessible by railway. Hake is the
general stand-by, but in the mountains you get most excellent little
trout. The solid portion of the meal is concluded by a "biftek" and
salad, but there is still an appendix in case you are not satisfied yet.
On Sundays, in superior _Fondas_ you will get caramel pudding, and
always and everywhere cheese, accompanied by a sort of quince jelly
known as _membrillo_, a very excellent institution indeed. Finally
(again classically) comes the fruit; but this is usually rather
inferior, considering how very cheap and excellent it is in the markets
outside. Wine is, of course, supplied _ad lib._ to every diner, and
water in porous earthenware bottles which evaporation keeps deliciously
cool. Olives are eaten steadily at all intervals; and if you have long
to wait between courses, you fill up the intervals with cigarettes! The
evening meal--_cena_--is generally very similar to the mid-day, except
that soup takes the place of the egg.
The cooking is by no means deserving of all the strictures that have
been showered upon it; for most nations know how to cook their own
dishes, and only come seriously to grief when they try to imitate
French. The dreaded garlic is used but sparingly; oil is a much more
dominating feature. But then oil has a double debt to pay, because
Spaniards make no butter. At all events the food is plentiful, and "St
Bernard's sauce" will cover a multitude of deficiencies; for appetite is
a blessing that is seldom lacking to the traveller in Spain!
After dinner, the Café. And a Spanish café is a most noteworthy
assemblage. It is comparatively empty in the evenings, for the
Spaniard's homing instincts are much more strongly developed than the
Frenchman's, and he seldom quits his house and his family circle after
dark. But in the early afternoon it is thronged to repletion with all
sorts and conditions of customers, from the general in command of the
garrison to the ragged vine-dresser and muleteer. Here they sit through
the long, sultry hours of siesta-tide in a roomful of shuttered
twilight, chattering like a mill-wheel in flood-time, sipping their
coffee and aniseed brandy,[1] and steadily consuming cigarettes. It
often seems mild dissipation for such very truculent-looking
desperadoes. Fancy an English navvy regaling his carnal appetites on
black coffee and dominoes! Not but that dominoes (as played in a Spanish
café) is an exciting, even an athletic, pastime. It entails alarming
vociferation; and every piece that you play must be slammed down on the
marble table top with all the force at your command. The domino volleys
echo through the café like musketry on a field-day on Salisbury Plain,
and if you feel at all dubious as to your direction when you chance to
be seeking that edifice, you may readily succeed in locating it by
listening in the street for the din.
But the heat of the day is now passing, and the traveller must answer
the call. His road is at least more level than hitherto; for the coast
hills westward of Laredo are gradually losing their mountainous
character, and over their heads to the southward we begin to catch
glimpses of the great rock walls of the Cantabrian Sierras, which grow
ever higher and grander as we near the Asturian march. The environs of
Santander are again disfigured by quarrying; and the soil, where
disturbed, is of a deep red ferruginous hue. Truly "a land whose stones
are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig brass"; though "rivers
and fountains of water" are not quite so common as we might desire.
Santander itself, however, we will avoid altogether. Like Bilbao, it is
quite a modern city; and the direct road through the mountain glens
behind it brings us down to the sea again at Torrelavega by a very much
pleasanter line.
Meanwhile we pursued our career to an intermittent orchestral
accompaniment--a tune in two keys, like M'Alpin's drone and small pipes,
but far more powerful and piercing than the most brazen-lunged piper
could blow. Occasionally we met the musician. He is only an ordinary
ox-cart--a pair of wheels, a pole, and a plank or two, actuated by a
pair of sleepy kine.
In Galicia the yoke is fastened round the necks of the oxen; but more
generally it is bound with thongs to their horns and finished off with a
bonnet of goat-skin, or in Asturias with a fleecy busby of most imposing
size. The wheels have often only a single spoke, or sometimes three
arranged in the form of the letter H. Altogether it is probably the
simplest, slowest, and most vociferous affair on wheels.
For the amount of lamentation that can be extracted from one dry axle is
a thing that is scarcely credible even when it is heard. The natives
encourage it. They have one theory that it pleases the oxen, and another
(far more probable) that it scares the Fiend. But at any rate it has no
apparent effect upon the Spanish teamster, who lounges along in front
waving his goad like a drum-major's baton; or sleeps--yes, sleeps--on
the summit of his yelling load. Verily the man who first invented sleep
must have been a waggoner! This evening, as we were crossing the ridge
between two parallel valleys, our ears were saluted by the unmistakable
long-drawn scream of an impatient locomotive. Our map showed no railway,
however; and we were just beginning to plume ourselves on an important
geographical discovery, when we caught sight of a single ox-cart--200
feet below and half a mile away! The hill sloped away straight and
smooth before us, and we fled! We felt no shame at the time; yet perhaps
it was rather faint-hearted to shirk the chance of a personal interview
with the most musical axle in the world.
But the bicyclist has one grievance in Spain which is not so easily
avoided as ox-carts, and it is about the end of the second day that the
iron of it begins to enter his soul. Thenceforward for ever he cherishes
a deadly and undying rancour against the Spanish dogs. We had been
partly prepared for the infliction beforehand. The captain had mentioned
them, and had talked of ammonia pistols; but we spurned the suggestion
with humane horror. We knew quite well that all foreign dogs were
brutes, but we were confident in our own benignity and scornful of
"methods of barbarism." And in these noble sentiments we persisted--for
about a day and a half. Next morning we were awakened out of our beauty
sleep by the yellings of some miserable cur in the _Fonda
patio_;--"Hurrah! there's a dog getting hurt," was our simultaneous
comment; and ere we recrossed the frontier we had registered a grim
resolve that next time we would bring revolvers, and strew our path
with carcases from Fuenterrabia to Cadiz. So much for the deterioration
of moral fibre under the strain of Spanish dog.
Well, we are not the first (nor the last) whose amiability has been
ruined by "dogs barking at us as we pass by"; and when every brute in
the countryside, from the toy mongrel to the wolf-hound as big as an
ass-colt, dances yelling and snapping at your heels for half a mile
together, it is not entirely surprising that patience should wear thin.
Of course there are stones. The Guadarrama district in particular
produces a beautiful white quartzose,--hard and heavy, with many sharp
angles,--an excellent article to throw at a dog. But what is a pocketful
among so many? Besides, you often miss them, and never hurt them enough.
Truly I could feel no sure confidence in anything short of a loaded
revolver. But only a very even-tempered man could trust himself with
that _ultima ratio_ within reach of his fingers; and I cherish a rooted
objection to "going heeled" in a civilised land. Perhaps a lion-tamer's
whip with a loaded butt and a bullet at the end of the lash may prove
effective enough to compromise upon.
Meanwhile there is some silver lining to the cloud. There are already
some convertites among the dogs of Spain. The majority pour themselves
upon the cyclist, clamorous and open-mouthed, like the demons in
Malebolge; but a remnant clap their tails between their legs and make a
bee-line for the horizon. We humbly hope that our own modest assiduity
will have effected a small but perceptible increase in the latter class.
Beyond Torrelavega there is again a parting of roadways. One passes
along the coast by Santillana, the birthplace of Gil Blas; and the other
through Cabezon, threading the mountain glens. They reunite at San
Vicente de la Barquera, another minor seaport of Cantabria, less
progressive than Castro, but quite as attractive after its style. The
town lies at the extremity of a tongue of land between two wide
estuaries. It is the meeting-place of the two long bridges which cross
them, and its precipitous acropolis and arcaded market-place afford
endless studies to the lover of the picturesque.
San Vicente had got a hideous secret of its own as well as Castro, only
at San Vicente it was hardly a secret--in fact, they were rather booming
it as a show. An old sunken coasting vessel had recently been recovered
and beached in the estuary, and its hold was positively teeming with
lobsters, like Sir Thomas Ingoldsby's pockets with eels. Truly it was a
gruesome sight; and a novelist in search of an appropriate ending for a
really desperate villain could hardly do better than have him pincered
to death in that crawly inferno by the black clanking monsters which
inhabited it!
The Cantabrian Sierras, already sufficiently majestic, now reach their
culmination in the acknowledged monarchs of the range--the Picos de
Europa, the landmark of all the old navigators who once steered their
Mexican argosies into Gijon or Santander. This vast mass of snow-crowned
peaks forms a most imposing spectacle. They are great "cloud
compellers," and are seldom entirely clear. But they are sometimes seen
unveiled in the calm of the early morning, an apparently impassable
barrier filling half the horizon towards the south.
[Illustration: SAN VICENTE DE LA BARQUERA]
Yet the road which we have taken to guide us aims right at the very
heart of them, and at the little village of Unquera it bears up square
to the left. A copious sea-green river (officially known as the Tina
Mayor, but invariably styled the Deva by the inhabitants) comes hurrying
down at this point from the mountains, and charges the great ridge of
limestone which edges the coast-line like a natural sea-wall. We look in
vain for the outlet: the barrier seems absolutely unbroken. But a
stream that has pierced the Picos recks little of minor obstacles, and
the waves are booming to welcome it but half a mile beyond.
Turning our backs on the sea, we enter a noble valley, walled in by
crags of Alpine grandeur, and populated by families of Imperial eagles
swinging to and fro their eyries, high amid the cornices of rock; but
the pastures at the foot of the steeps are everywhere level and placid,
and from Unquera up to Abándames can scarcely be called an ascent.
There is a waters-meet just above Abándames, and the traveller as he
approaches it begins to experience considerable misgivings concerning
the future of his road. If it will but condescend to follow the valley,
there seems just a chance that it may emerge as a staircase; but when it
bears resolutely to the left to knock its head against the precipices of
the Picos, he resignedly concludes that now there's nothing for it but a
lift. A deep notch in the crags lets out the river, and here the road
slips in. There seems every prospect that it will be promptly confronted
by a precipice and a waterfall; but beyond the first notch is a second,
and beyond the second a third. At every turn the passage grows narrower
and deeper, and the way is never clear before us for more than a few
score yards. Yet the unhoped-for outlet is invariably forthcoming, and
at last we cease to marvel at the unfailing surprise. It is the great
cañon of the Deva, one of the finest passes in the world.
It is but a few miles since we quitted sea level, and we have risen but
little on the way. Yet the cliffs that edge the roadway make but one
leap of it to the clouds, and their tops are streaked with snow. Here
rises a staircase of gigantic terraces; here a fringe of crooked
fingers, black and jagged against the sky; here a range of sheer bluff
bastions, like the _cubos_[2] of a titanic wall; and from time to time
the glittering crest of some remoter peak peers over their shoulders
into the depths of the gulf below. The mountain limestone is as hard as
granite, and has shed but few screes or boulders to obstruct the passage
of the stream, and the road squeezes itself along whichever bank happens
to be widest at the moment, crossing and recrossing as occasion
requires. At one point a magnificent osprey, looking twice as large as
life, came sailing slowly down the chasm, and passed but a few feet
above our heads, regally indifferent to the presence of trespassers in
his domain. But apart from him the passage was practically
solitary--mile after mile of the same stupendous scenery, till our necks
ached from craning up the precipices, and our minds seemed oppressed
with a sort of hopelessness of escape.
[Illustration: THE DEVA GORGE
La Hérmida.]
At the hamlet of la Hermida the valley makes a momentary attempt to
widen; but this little ebullition is promptly squashed in the grip of
the mountains, and the great beetling cliffs once more shoulder in upon
the defile. The effects seemed finer than ever, for the clouds of a
gathering tempest were tearing themselves to ribbons among the jagged
_aiguilles_, and their streamers were pierced and illuminated by the
level rays of the setting sun. Not till we had burrowed our way for some
fifteen miles through the roots of the mountains did we escape at last
into the upland vale of Liebana; and looking back on the snow-wreathed
fangs behind us, wondered (like Ali Baba before his cavern) what had
become of the crevice from which we had just emerged.