COVADONGA AND EASTERN ASTURIAS
Far be it from me to disparage Vizcaya or Galicia, but the prize "for
the fairest" must be awarded to Asturias. No other province in
Spain--few even in Italy--can show such wealth of natural beauty; and it
is the district around the Picos de Europa that is the crowning glory of
the whole.
The stranger pays his homage to its scenery, but for the Spaniard it has
a more sentimental appeal. This great mountain citadel is his Isle of
Athelney, the last refuge of the little band of stalwarts who never
bowed the knee to the dominion of Mahound. Here the first gleam of
victory broke the long darkness of disaster; and seven years after the
downfall of Roderic, Pelayo began the redemption of Spain. It still
remains a place of pilgrimage; for Our Lady herself fought from Heaven
against the infidel upon that momentous day. Her miraculous image, in
its extravagant tinsel nimbus and stiff brocaded gown, holds its state
over the High Altar in the _Colegiata_,[3] and its picture adorns the
walls of half the cottages in Asturias. Decidedly no tour would be
complete without a visit to Covadonga.
I had lingered sketching in the rocky labyrinth of the Deva till the
failing light would no longer serve my turn. Darkness would be upon me
ere I could emerge from its recesses; but I had not been caught unaware,
for the gully can boast an occasional _venta_, and I had resolved to
trust the resources of the little inn at Urdon.
Urdon consists of a single house, and that, to be strictly accurate, is
only half a house, for it abuts straight upon the vertical face of the
precipice, and the naked rock is its inner wall. If anything disturbed
that rock (quoth mine hostess airily, as she handed me my candlestick),
Urdon would become an omelet. And perhaps that fate is in store for it
eventually, for the rocks do drop an occasional sugar-plum into the
valley at their feet.
Urdon looks up a bend of the river, and faces southerly; yet for six
months in the year no ray of direct sunshine falls upon that little red
roof. It is only from near the zenith that the sun can peer into so
deep a well. The traveller plumps upon it suddenly round an abrupt
corner, and "here," thinks he, "is the most secluded nook in all the
habitable globe." Yet Urdon is the hub of the universe to Tresviso--its
inn, its post-office, its commercial emporium, the one link that unites
it with the balance of mankind. The pathway to Tresviso struggles up the
tiny gully which debouches upon the main gorge at Urdon; but Tresviso
itself lies high above the cloud wreaths, a good hard three-hours climb.
The Tresvisans aver that there is another village, Sontres, some hours
above them. Perhaps there is something above Sontres;--but this
imagination boggles at.
The little shop was thronged with a company of Tresvisan women. They had
been to the market at Potes to sell their cheeses,--a sort of
gorgonzola, and excellent feeding for a zoophagist,--and had paused at
the stair-foot of their Nephelococcygia to wipe something off the slate
before returning home. Sturdy active figures, clad in patched and
weather-stained garments which had once been bright-coloured, they
formed a striking group which would have attracted attention anywhere.
Their features were hard yet not ill-favoured, and their skins as
brown as mahogany; but there was not a grey hair nor a wrinkle among
them all. Perhaps they were younger than they looked, but they are a
long-lived race in the mountains; and even their octogenarians are
capable of running errands to Urdon.
[Illustration: THE DEVA GORGE
Urdon.]
"'Try not the path,' the old man said." And the path in question was
steep and narrow and stony, wriggling up along the brink of the torrent
and the brow of the precipice; the little party had done some nine
hours' journeying already, and the shades of night had fallen. Yet for
them and their beasts it was but the fag end of their regular Monday
tramp, and they made naught of it. Evidently when the "blue-eyed youth"
flourishes off with his banner a-climbing the Picos, the maiden of
Tresviso is not likely to be vastly impressed. She takes that walk with
her grandfather on Sunday afternoons.
The inn at Urdon may be small, but at least it is commendably early.
They sped their parting guest with the twilight, and I was well clear of
the gorge before I caught my first glimpse of the sun. The mists had not
yet bestirred themselves to gather on the sides of the mountains; and
the whole line of peaks stood out sharp and clear as I crossed the
bridge at Abándames and headed westward up the left bank of the Cares,
which joins the Deva at the waters-meet below the gorge.
Just beyond the gash that marks the exit of the Deva, a prominent peak,
like a small cousin of the Matterhorn, stands out boldly into the centre
of the valley. The river circles round from behind it, and the road once
more plunges in among the roots of the hills.
But that the Deva cliffs still towered overwhelmingly in the memory, one
would have declared it impossible for any ravine to be finer than this.
Indeed, in many respects the Cares is complementary of its rival. Its
rocks may be less terrific, but its slopes are more generously wooded,
and its pale sea-green waters seem of ampler volume than the
sister-stream. The river boils along beside the road in a deep, rocky
trench--a series of rapids and pot-holes--a dangerous river for a swim;
and every turn that it takes opens some new and wonderful vista--huge
buttresses of precipitous limestone, and shaggy floods of pinewood
pouring out of the gaps between.
The Cares gorge is hardly so long as the Deva's; but it ekes out its
interest in an appendix which is not much inferior to the text. The road
begins to heave itself slowly upward along the face of the mountain
towards the saddle at the head of the valley; and every foot that it
rises seems to magnify the grandeur of the opposing heights. Now at last
the upper slopes of the Picos surge into sight above their terraced
pedestal; and far away into the distance behind us ridge after ridge in
endless series radiates out from the great central chaos which towers
close and high across the vale. This final view from the culminating
point of the roadway is one of the most striking of all.
In Spain it seems never permissible to travel entirely for pleasure. The
gossips provide you a business if you have none ready to hand. In the
Rioja district you are branded as a wine-bibber. In the Asturias you are
promptly consigned to the mines. Such was my fate at Carreño, the little
hamlet which sits astride the watershed. An aged crone was squatting on
the hearth in the _Venta_, performing the functions of a meat-jack over
the smouldering embers of the fire. She unhesitatingly diagnosed my
profession, and at once began to reel off the local directory--Don
Jorge, and Don Juan, and Don Jaime and his wife and family--all English
mining engineers in the various villages around. Everybody seems to know
everybody else in Asturias and to speak of them familiarly by their
Christian names. But this latter custom is practically universal in the
Peninsula; and I have surprised myself figuring as Don Edgar on the
strength of a second day's stay.
However, rather to "mine aunt's" bewilderment, I did not linger at
Carreño. The descent to Cángas lay before me, and I was soon speeding on
the way. This valley is of a less daring type of beauty than that which
debouches at Abándames. It is wider, shallower, and shadier, and moulded
in gentler curves. The Picos are still upon the left, but they are now
growing more distant; and the most prominent feature is the parallel
range upon the right, between them and the sea; a fine bold line of
hills some four thousand feet high known as the Sierra de Cuera.
Presently I became conscious of an ox-cart. It was grinding along the
road in front of me. I overhauled it rapidly, and was close up when it
arrived at the turn. But when the road straightened, behold! it was
entirely empty; and a second glance showed the cart-wheels peeping over
the margin, and the driver gathering himself together out of the bushes
beyond. The oxen, maddened by flies, had made a dash for a pool at the
roadside, and the whole equipage had incontinently turned turtle.
The accident was entirely the fault of the beasts, and one would not
have been surprised if the man had been angry. But this rough-looking
fellow took his mishap with admirable equanimity, and thanked me most
impressively for my help in righting his cart. "_Gracias a Dios_ that I
was thrown clear!" said he, crossing himself, as I approached him. And
he even spared some sympathy for his oxen, "Ah! but they annoy them
greatly--the flies." The Spanish peasant is not usually of a surly
temper, and even a double back somersault may leave his manners in
working trim. Once before it had been my lot to witness a similar
accident in England, where the driver, just extricated from beneath his
vehicle, was indignantly demanding his hat. The incident was not without
humour, and was gratifying to a student of Dickens; but it struck me
that "_Gracias a Dios_" was distinctly a happier phrase.
Cángas de Onis, the little town which was the goal of my day's journey,
boasts that it was once the capital of Spain. And so it was--in the
sense that Caerleon was of England--for here Pelayo first established
his modest court when all the rest of the Peninsula was Mahommedan. The
days of its greatness, however, are too remote to have left much trace.
It still retains its lovely situation; but a few rude monastic fragments
are the only relics left by its early kings. It boasts, however, one
striking monument (more modern than Pelayo), in the grand old mediæval
bridge; one of those lofty gable-shaped structures that are so typical
of Southern countries, and perhaps, next to Orense, the finest example
of its kind in Spain. Like most of its class, it is now little used, for
the modern bridge is but a few yards distant. And, indeed, none of them
could ever have accommodated wheel traffic, for they are steep and
narrow, and frequently innocent of parapets. Bar archery, one can well
believe that Diego Garcia de Paredes with his two-handed sword might
have held such a pass against a host; though (in justice to that doughty
warrior's modesty, so highly commended by the curate) I believe his
autobiography never states that he actually did.
[Illustration: CÁNGAS DE ONIS
The Bridge over the Sella.]
A most attractive-looking road leads up the Sella valley, inviting the
traveller to adventure himself for Sahagun; and the view frames itself
delightfully into the great arch of the bridge. It was obviously
impossible to do it justice on a sketching block, and exceedingly
probable that one would get sunstroke in the attempt; but there was no
deferring to the promptings of prudence, and the clouds charitably came
to my rescue before I was quite melted away. The natives at first
watched me in horror from a distance; but they crowded in around me as
soon as the sun retired, and began to volunteer information concerning
the annals of the dale. "One morning in '85," said an old peasant,
tapping the roadway impressively with his cudgel, "the water was over
here!" _Car-r-ramba_, my brother! But that must have been an anxious day
for Cángas de Onis! A twenty-five-foot spate must have wrought pretty
havoc in the valley! It was no mere vaulting ambition that induced the
old architects to build their bridge so high!
Covadonga itself lies at the head of a little lateral valley some seven
miles above Cángas de Onis. The spot is a veritable _cul-de-sac_. The
steep wooded slopes are battlemented with a fringe of _aiguilles_, and
over their tops one catches an occasional glimpse of the pathless Pikes
beyond, their steel-grey summits streaked with wreaths of snow. A huge
semi-detached rock stands out boldly in the centre of this natural
auditorium, and the valley curling around its foot finishes in a hook
against the isthmus which connects it to the hillside. Upon its summit
is the Church of Our Lady of Covadonga, with its attendant buildings,
and behind it, at the end of the hook, is a broad beetling precipice,
coving itself out over its own base--the famous "Cave," sacred for ever
in the legendary annals of Spain.
Here it was that Pelayo and his dauntless 300 made their stand against
the 300,000 who had been sent against them by the Moor; and sallying out
smote them with very great slaughter, in so much that 126,000 were left
dead upon the field and about half as many more killed in the course of
the pursuit! Truly we deal with gorgeous round figures in these early
battles against the infidel! But why should the Spanish chroniclers have
modestly stopped short at 188,000? A full quarter of a million is their
standard casualty list.
It is a pity that the legend should have got so fantastically attired in
buckram, for the facts upon which it is founded are indubitably
historical, and, stripped of extravagances, they reveal a gallant
episode enough.
The Moorish invasion of the Peninsula seemed at the moment invincible,
and the first rush of conquest had carried them even to Gijon. But the
northern provinces were as yet rather overrun than subjugated; and many
bands of broken men had taken refuge in the mountains, where they were
carrying on a _guerilla_ warfare according to the immemorial habit of
Spain. One of the most formidable of these bands was captained by
Pelayo, whose stronghold was the rock of Covadonga, an ideal natural
citadel for a bandit chief. Him it was resolved to suppress; and a
"punitive column"--shall we say ten thousand strong?--was despatched
from Gijon under command of Alxaman for that purpose. What force Pelayo
had at his disposal it is impossible to guess; certainly more than three
hundred, yet far too few to admit of encountering his foe in the open
field. Cornered at last with his back to the wall at the head of the
Covadonga valley, he drew his followers together into his rocky eyrie
and prepared to fight to the death. The nucleus of his force would no
doubt have been posted upon the rock itself and the neck by which it is
approached; others would be scattered along the hillside, lest the foe
should endeavour to crown the heights and deliver the attack from above.
This last, indeed, was the only move to be dreaded. Against a _coup de
main_ the position was practically impregnable. Yet the attempt was
made. Some of the Moors would perhaps have pushed straight ahead to
storm the neck from the valley; but the main column circled around the
base of the rock to take the position in reverse. It was upon these that
the great destruction fell. Their ranks were disordered by the steep and
broken ground, their flanks exposed to the great rock batteries which
the Asturians had prepared upon the slopes above, and a well-timed sally
by the party in ambush in the cave completed their discomfiture. From
such a rout there was no possibility of rally. The whole army, deeply
committed in the intricate recesses of the mountains, was overwhelmed in
irremediable disaster; and on the little _Campo del Rey_ at the foot of
the crag, all cumbered with the bodies of the infidels, the enthusiastic
victors saluted their chieftain with the title of King.
The victory was indeed even more decisive than its magnitude appeared to
warrant. The destruction of Alxaman rendered it impossible for Munuza to
maintain himself at Gijon, and the forces of Pelayo, rapidly increasing
with the prestige of success, overwhelmed his army also in the Pass of
Pajáres as he was attempting to regain Leon. The Moors made no further
attempt to establish themselves beyond the mountains. Their Emirs were
intent upon the invasion of Aquitania; and the civil wars which
succeeded their great defeat at Tours allowed ample time for the
consolidation of the infant kingdom of Asturias, until it finally grew
strong enough to cope with them upon equal terms.
Covadonga has always been sacred to Asturians, but of late some attempt
has been made to excite a more national cult. The new memorial church is
one symptom of this ambition, but it is to be hoped the design will
never develop sufficiently to mar the quiet retirement of this solitary
glen. The church itself is a graceful little building enough, but
contains nothing of antiquarian interest except the miraculous image
before alluded to; and I regret to say that the feature which sticks
most resolutely in my memory is an engraved bronze plate over the
western door, of which the following is a literal translation:--"Out of
respect for the House of God, and the Principles of Hygiene, you are
requested not to enter in wooden shoes, nor to expectorate in this
Sacred Edifice."
At Arriondas, a little below Cángas de Onis, the Sella receives a strong
reinforcement from the Pilona; and thence to the sea it is a fine
copious river--broad swift shallows alternating with deep calm pools in
the very best salmon-stream style. It has the repute of being an
excellent fishing river, as, indeed, its appearance would warrant. Yet I
fear it gets but scurvily treated; for the local piscatorial methods
cannot strictly be classified as "Sport." Once upon a time, saith
tradition, there came a "little Englishman" to Arriondas, and sallied
forth to inveigle the _truchas_ with fragments of feather and wool. "And
he caught some! Yes, he actually did! He even tried to induce us to do
likewise. But we of Arriondas know better. We go angling with shot-guns
and bombs."
It seems characteristic of Asturian rivers that they should keep
persistently running into mountains instead of away from them, and the
Sella below Arriondas is no exception to the rule. The stormy hills of
the Sierra de Cuera throng tumultuously across its pathway and appear to
prohibit all egress. But the river slips like an eel through the tangle,
and its agile windings map out a passage for the road. No one looking
downstream at the view which I sketched from the banks of it would
imagine that the sea was within six miles of him and the river tidal up
to his feet. But at least those six miles through the glens are
picturesque enough for a dozen; and they reach no unworthy conclusion
when they finish at Rivadesella on the little hill-girt harbour where
the Sella meets the sea.
[Illustration: THE SELLA VALLEY
Below Arrióndas.]
All roads are charming in Cantabria: but where there are two to select
from, it is generally best to bear inland in preference to following the
coast. This is rather a cruel observation in connection with so pretty a
ride as that from Rivadesella to Unquera; but nothing short of the
Corniche road should pit itself against the route from Cángas to
Abándames.
If the coast-line could be adequately seen, there might be more doubt
about the verdict: for the bold black limestone cliffs which front the
Biscay rollers would supply as fine a spectacle as anyone need desire.
But it is only here and there that the road allows us a peep at some
sandy beach ensconced between its jagged breakwaters, or some more
distant prospect of cliff and headland where the coast trends forward
beyond the general line. For the greater part of the way the view is
entirely one-sided--the high, steep slopes of the Sierra de Cuera, and
the idyllic villages nestling in the meadows at their feet. How
Goldsmith would have rejoiced in this series of sweet Auburns, with
their rustic shrines and _Pergolas_, their skittle-alleys, and their
little _Alamedas_![4] How he would have loved to haunt the road at
eventide where the village athletes scatter the ninepins with their
great wooden discus, and the maidens dance together under the shadow of
the trees! The Corydon and Phyllis of the Eclogues still survive in
these odd corners of the globe.
The little town of Llanes cannot boast nearly so good a harbour as that
of Rivadesella. It is but a creek in the coast-line through which a
mountain burn makes its exit to the sea. The town is, however, larger
and busier, and full of quaint balconied houses overhanging the harbour
and the stream. Half a dozen fishing boats were unloading their catch
upon the quay in the evening. Some rigged with short masts and long
cross yards carrying square sails; others with two tall spars carrying
lateen sails. The latter are the larger in size and more picturesque in
appearance, but both types are common along the whole Atlantic coast.
They carry large crews, and beside their sails they have sweeps for use
in calm weather. When these are being worked the spars are lowered
into a crutch above the heads of the crew.
[Illustration: PASANA
An Asturian Mountain Village.]
Their catch consisted principally of the ubiquitous hake which forms
such a persistent feature in Spanish bills of fare; but there were also
a few squid, which at first I regarded as wastage, but which proved to
have practical value in the _Fonda_ at _Comida_ time. They were served
up complete, beak and all, with their tentacles drawn up inside
themselves, and looking exactly like boiled parsnips. I tackled one on
principle, having a well-broken palate, and being ambitious to do in
Rome as the Romans: but it tasted of nothing in particular so far as I
was able to make out. They are better stewed, however; and in this guise
a gastronomical companion has pronounced them rather a delicacy; so
perhaps they are yet destined to obtain recognition at Prince's and the
_Maison Chevet_.
There is a mail-coach which works the road between Llanes and San
Vicente de la Barquera--one of those miraculous rattle-traps wherein no
sane person would dream of risking his neck if he were at home. They ply
in all districts whither the railway has not yet penetrated; but an
extensive nodding acquaintance among the tribe has introduced me to few
crazier specimens than this. The fact that its hind wheels are
considerably larger than the front gives a vague resemblance to a
kangaroo; and as it whoops along bounding and lurching behind its five
disjointed mules, it always seems just on the point of resolving into
its ultimate sparables like the deacon's one-horse shay. At our first
meeting I watched it out of sight with some anxiety; but it was still
holding together three years later, and so, no doubt, it is doing still.
Nevertheless its days are numbered. A light railway is being constructed
along the coast to link up the two dead ends at Cabezon and Arriondas,
and soon the visitor to the Picos will be able to reach Unquera by
train.
This last stage has completed our circle and brought us again to the
Deva. Our late-travelled road to Abándames turns off from the end of the
wooden bridge, and again guides us through the gorges into the secluded
vale of Liebana, sheltering behind its Alpine shield. At nightfall we
crept into Potes like a couple of mice from the mountains, and baited at
the little balconied _Fonda_, the first stage on the road to the
south.
[Illustration: LLÁNES
The Harbour.]