CHAPTER II

VIGO BAY AND HILLS

Iron cliffs confront you when you first behold Galicia, for the earliest glimpse of North-West Spain, when the Biscay has been crossed, is Cape Villano, rising, stern and rugged, north of Finisterre. The coast looks grim and cheerless, yet it is the gate to one of Europe's warm and most romantic regions. Every mile of it is linked with history, and, hidden in what look like gloomy fastnesses of the Atlantic, are sun-bathed, landlocked bays, of which the best known are Vigo and Arosa, forming two of the finest natural harbours in the world.

The _Ambrose_ slipped past the Cies Islands, at the seaward side of Vigo Bay, in the darkness of an early autumn morning, and steamed up the placid inland sea as day was breaking. In Galicia the dawn and twilight are briefer and more splendid than in England. The Cies Islands are some fifteen miles from Vigo, and the _Ambrose_, steaming steadily, will do the distance in an hour. Her masthead and side lights were burning brightly as she passed the lonely lumps of land which jut up like ragged teeth on Galicia's seaboard; yet when her cable rattled and her anchor dropped within a stone's-throw of the jetty the sun was shining and the day had fully broken. Through my porthole I had seen the flashing light on the islands, and I had hurried up on deck to watch the sun rise in the east, beyond the church-topped hill which forms one of the Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters are hills in the neighbourhood of Vigo, each being crowned with a church and bearing a special name, such as Nuestra Señora de Alba.

Vigo is Galicia's chief portal, and offers ready means of access to the other parts of the province. The town affords wonderful contrasts between the old and new worlds which jostle up against each other in every part of North-West Spain. You are in a quaint, strange world as soon as you have stepped ashore and are clear of the Customs and free to roam. In the steep and narrow streets of the old town people lead the primitive life of many generations or centuries ago. Amongst them are men clad in brigand fashion, with sombreros, and shawls thrown over their shoulders--shawls so showy and highly coloured that they might well do duty as table-cloths. You may pass from such a sight into the thoroughly modern technical school, which, founded by private and philanthropic enterprise, is equal to any institution of its size in any corresponding English town, and is helped by the municipality to the extent of three thousand pounds a year. In the afternoon the _señoritas_ may learn dressmaking and millinery and modelling in clay; in the evening the _caballeros_ may grapple with appropriate subjects, under competent guidance. The working classes are educated free of charge, and the better-to-do pay ten pesetas--equal to eight shillings--a year for mental culture.

Just outside Vigo ploughs may be seen which are as crude as those the conquering Romans used, yet in the town there is a new flour-mill worked by electric power, where the product of the plough is turned into flour, and only a few men are needed to attend to the machinery. Vigo offers many of the contradictions between the very old and the essentially new which are to be found in Galicia.

There is not much to see in the way of public buildings; but there is the fish market, best visited early in the morning, when the building is crowded with women who are buying, selling, and handling the catches which have been brought in from the bay and the Atlantic; and the vegetable market, where also the women are the principal attendants. These two places give evidence of the marvellous fecundity of land and sea. There is abundance of fish and a bewildering display of fruits and vegetables. Many of the creatures of the sea are strange to English eyes, and not agreeable to English palates. There is the revolting devil-fish, and the more repulsive ink-fish; yet both, when properly cooked, are far from unappetising, and the tourist, by way of experiment, may have the fortitude to try them. The sword-fish makes an excellent course; and there is a plentiful supply of oysters and other shell-fish. The commonest fish of all, however, is the sardine. It is larger and coarser than the sardine with which English people are familiar, being the size of a small herring, but it makes a very good dish, and the finest specimens, when cooked in oil or tomatoes, and packed in tins, are delicious. In Vigo, for breakfast, you may have a dish of big sardines, cooked to your liking, which have formed part of the previous night's catch.

Vigo's Alameda skirts the glorious bay, and is a fine promenade along which one may stroll and enjoy the scenery and study something of the local life. The road is smooth and asphalted, purely modern, yet on its perfect surface an ancient bullock-cart will come, slowly drawn by oxen. I watched one of these vehicles going towards the Custom-house, pursued by an enterprising Spanish child, who watched her chance for a cheap ride. It is no hard matter, even for an infant, to overtake a bullock-cart, and the girl clambered up and experienced the fearful joy of a stolen passage. The driver was somnolent, and the journey looked promising, until he was roused to action by the raising of the Galician equivalent to the English alarm of "Whip behind!" For a moment the infant defied him, and apparently reflected unfavourably on the driver's origin; but a swish of his long driving-stick made her tumble off precipitately. But her spirit was unchecked, and, pulling herself together, she accompanied him at a safe distance and continued her taunting criticism. I took a snapshot of the fractious juvenile just before she regained the asphalt, and while she was telling her compatriot what she thought of him; but an incompetent developer spoiled the exposure, as he ruined many others. It is a comforting reflection now--such is the mellowing effect of time--that though he was unable to appreciate the technical advice I gave him in English, yet he also did not realise the force of my additional remarks when I criticised his work--indeed, when I left he raised his hat, and in the politest and most polished manner wished me, so I gathered, continued health and prosperity. The Galician who has wronged you has a wondrous gift for making you understand that you are the offender.

A noble view of the surrounding scenery is obtainable from the Castillo del Castro, whose old fortifications are more than four hundred feet above the level of the bay. As the castle is in the nature of a fortress and sentries are on duty, admission is not given to the public, but the visitor may wander about freely, and the climb is worth the trouble for the sake of the panorama.

Vigo has a strong and enterprising municipality, and the city is giving evidence of what can be done by earnest and united enterprise. On the opposite side of the bay, for example, is a prosperous community called Moyna. Eight or nine years ago the place consisted of only a few houses; yet to-day the green hill-side is dotted with white buildings, due to the development of the fishing industry. Near it is a little village nestling in a hollow at the foot of the mountains which rise from the bay in a fertile sweep; so sheltered is the spot and so balmy is the atmosphere, so continuous and beneficent is the sunshine, that from the water's edge to the summit of the range, palm-trees, which are rare in Galicia, flourish and orange-trees abound.

On every side there are majestic views, and at the head of the bay, rising beautifully from the calm blue water, is the island of San Simon. In ordinary times this is the lazaretto, or quarantine station, but for fifteen years it has not been necessary for the buildings to be used for sickness or suspected cases. San Simon is one of Spain's three quarantine stations, the other two being at Santander, on the Biscay coast, and at Port Mahón, in the island of Minorca, in the Mediterranean. The little island overlooks the inlet in which treasure-ships were sunk two centuries ago, and the buildings upon it are being modernised and equipped with scientific apparatus at a cost of £4000. The island is State property, but it is administered from Vigo by the Director of Public Health, with the co-operation of the mayor and corporation. At the end of the war in Cuba eight thousand repatriated soldiers were treated on the island, and it speaks well for the healthiness of the place, and the devotion of the Sisters of Mercy and the skill of the doctors, that only sixty died. There is a delightful avenue of boxwood-trees, spoiled, unfortunately, by the foolishness of a former housekeeper; excellent boating is to be had; and just by the island there are first-rate oyster-beds and plentiful fishing. In the sand a small fish is found which has a habit of burying itself, and at low water the women go forth and dig the creature out of its burrow.

Nothing can be more peaceful and beautiful than the sail down Vigo Bay at eventide, after spending a few hours on the island; for the sun is setting in the Western Ocean and flooding Vigo Bay with golden light, against which the seaward hills and Cies Islands stand outlined in a solemn purple.

Treasure from galleons of Spain lies buried in Vigo Bay. The story goes that at the beginning of the seventeenth century allied British and Dutch ships, under Admirals Rooke and Stanhope, attacked the famous Silver Fleet, which was lying at anchor, and captured much of the gold and silver. Some of the vessels which were not taken were sunk, and their precious cargoes foundered with them. For more than two hundred years the galleons have rested at the bottom of the bay. Many efforts have been made to recover the treasure, but Vigo Bay is deep, and so far the attempts have not succeeded. But the story is not strictly true, nor is it correct to say that the treasure-ships were destroyed just at the entrance of the bay. The actual place of their ill-fortune was at the head of the bay, towards San Simon's Island, where there is a narrow channel. Two centuries ago there were fortifications on each side of the channel, which is called the Strait of Rande, and the ruins may still be seen at the foot of the hills. At that time Cadiz had the sole right to receive treasure from Spain's foreign possessions, and to that port a fleet of galleons laden with precious freight was bound. But there was war with England and Holland, and the treasure-ships, which were merchantmen, and of lighter draught than the opposing ships of war, were ordered to seek shelter at the head of Vigo Bay; and thither they scurried, finding refuge in the shallower water behind the entrance of Rande. A chain was drawn across the strait as an additional protection. For several weeks the hunted vessels lay securely at their anchorage, and meanwhile much of the treasure was taken ashore for conveyance to Madrid.

Fifteen hundred treasure-laden waggons, drawn by oxen, started for the capital. There is a saying in Spain that he who handles butter will get greasy, and by the time Madrid was reached the fifteen hundred waggon-loads of gold and silver had dwindled to five hundred; so that two-thirds of the precious cargoes, having escaped the clutches of the English and Dutch, had fallen into the not less rapacious hands of Spaniards. The missing treasure does not appear to have been recovered, but in Vigo until quite lately walking-sticks and other articles could be bought which had been made from wood raised from the sunken galleons. I asked if they were still to be purchased, and was told that the supply had run out, though I gathered that I should have no difficulty in getting such a relic made to order, after the style, I suppose, of momentoes of our own _Royal George_.

The hills surrounding Vigo Bay command most glorious and extensive views. On one of them is the Castle Mos, a summer residence of the Marquis de la Vega de Armijo, the head of one of the noblest families in Spain. As castles go, it is not large, but by reason of its history and association the building is amongst the most famous in Galicia. The late King of Spain, Alfonso XII., visited it three times, as a record in the castle testifies, during the residence of the late Marquis, who was Spain's Prime Minister, and died in Madrid in 1908. He was taken from the capital to the castle, where he was buried beneath the floor of the tiny private chapel in which he had so often worshipped. The chapel is part of the interior. Outside, within the walls, is a miniature theatre, in which performers and audience were either members of the family or visitors. There is a keep which was built six hundred years ago. It forms the oldest part of the castle, and the walls are so enormously thick that to look through one of the narrow windows is like gazing down a corridor. The main room is a small armoury, beneath which is a dark apartment, reached by a ladder from a trap-door in the floor. This basement, now used as a wine-cellar, was formerly a dungeon, and at one time held a bishop prisoner. The castle has been modernised inside, and in recent years restorations have been made to the exterior; but neither within nor without has anything been done to make it hard for the visitor to picture accurately the former house of a grandee of Spain. The old keep is in perfect repair, and the inner and outer walls stand as they were when wars raged fiercely in Galicia. The muzzles of some small old guns stick out of the embrasures, and you can raise and lower them slightly, for their trunnions are fixed in iron rings let into the walls, and one can realise what a slow business artillery firing was in the days when these quaint, open-breached ordnance were used for fighting. I was told that the guns were captured from the English in the days of Elizabeth. The castle grounds are beautiful and extensive, and full of charm and romance. There are some magnificent eucalyptus-trees; fine examples of the arbutus, whose fruit, something like strawberries, is rich and delicious; orange-trees, from which, in glorious November sunshine, I plucked sweet tangerines; and the botanical curiosity popularly known as the monkey-puzzler. Chestnuts abound here, as in Galicia generally.

Across Vigo Bay, looking like a white streak at the foot of the hills, which are bare and bleak at the tops, but fresh and green at their bases, lies the little fishing town of Cangas. A small steamboat which plies regularly between the two places makes the journey across the blue water in half an hour, and on stepping ashore at the primitive pier you can realise what Vigo was like not many generations ago. There is no plan in the arrangement of Cangas; the houses are placed where they fit best, and the streets follow the houses. Oil-lamps give illumination to the straggling thoroughfares, yet inside the quaint dwellings there is electric light. Cangas has its old church, whose dimensions are out of all proportion to the size of the town to the English way of thinking, and smaller places of worship, one on the sands, built in 1711.

The church, which is named after St. James, is dark and bleak inside. I visited it the morning after All Souls' Day, and saw in the middle of the floor a high structure covered with black cloth and ornamented on four sides with skulls and cross-bones in white. Rising from the gloom, after entering the church from the brilliant sunshine, the reminder of the grave looked ghastly. The air was heavy with the smell of incense, and peasants were kneeling and praying. One old man was wiping away his tears and gazing at some object in the semi-darkness which I could not clearly see. I walked up to it, and saw that a bier, black-cloth-covered, with the skull and cross-bones in white, was resting on the floor. On the bier was an open black coffin, and at the head of the rude, oblong box were two pillows covered with dark velvet. On the top pillow was a grinning skull; in the coffin was a khaki-coloured coarse robe, like a friar's habit, and from the sleeves peeped the bones that had once been arms. The grave-clothes and the side of the bier were thick with spots of candle-grease. A child came up as I bent over the coffin, and she waggled the skull to and fro with hideous effect, for it seemed to nod. She looked at me and smiled. Here was all the ghastliness of death without its glorious hope and promise, a spectacle that was meant to awe and overpower, yet a little girl was unaffected by the grim reminder of her own end. Near me was a door through which the sunshine slanted, and I walked out into the free, refreshing air, and listened to the song of another small maid who was nursing a child. She was one of the prettiest children I saw in Galicia, and was singing a song which I was told was an urgent prayer to her lover to come across the seas and rejoin her.

Most of the men of Cangas are engaged in the sardine fisheries, and on the beach and afloat were many of their fine open craft, which are rowed by sixteen, eighteen, or twenty oars, and can be propelled very rapidly.

At times the fishermen will contract to sell their catch, whatever it may be, at a certain price, in which case they are assured of some return for their labour; at other times they will dispose of the fish in the ordinary way, at market prices. On the north side of Vigo Bay, as on the south, there are factories where sardines and other fish are prepared and packed for home and foreign use. One of the most popular and interesting sights of Vigo is the sardine factory of Messrs. Barreras, beautifully situated at the edge of the bay, to the east of the town. It is fascinating to watch the treatment of the myriads of fishes from the time they are brought in from the sea to the moment when the soldered box is ready for packing. Only a few hours elapse, sometimes, between the catching of the fish and the exportation of the finished product. Messrs. Barreras build their own steam fishing-boats entirely, catch their own sardines, and carry out the various processes of cleaning, cooking, tinning, and packing them for home and foreign use. The sardine trade is one of the most important of Vigo's industries, and no visitor to Galicia should fail to inspect one of these busy factories.

Sunday is the brightest day in the week in Vigo, for then the band plays at noon and evening in the Alameda, and the people promenade and laugh and talk incessantly; the places of amusement are open, and the theatre provides a satisfactory finish for the day's enjoyment. So excellent is the climate of the town that the band performances take place in the open air even in the winter months. For those who do not care for the public entertainments there are two or three good clubs. When ships of war visit Vigo the officers are made honorary members of clubs, and find the institutions very useful for seeing their country's newspapers.

I spent many interesting days in Vigo. Often, in the darkness of the early morning, from the balcony outside my bedroom at the Hotel Continental, a stone's-throw from the bay, I watched the mail-boats, tramps, and sailing-ships come in from the sea, or the day break. A constant charm about the watching was the impossibility of foreseeing what would happen. One morning I saw a Russian cruiser squadron, grey and silent, steam up to its anchorage, and frequently afterwards, at eight o'clock, I heard the strains of the Russian National Anthem as the ensigns were hoisted. The familiar music, used sometimes in England as a hymn tune, mingled with the shore noises of bullock-carts and timber-shifting and the cries of men and women.

While the Russian squadron was in Vigo Bay a seaman was killed by the explosion of some acetylene on board his ship. On the following afternoon he was buried with all the solemn rites of his Church. At the head of the procession walked a sailor carrying a basket, from which he scattered flowers on the roadway; following him were Russian priests in their white silk vestments, chaplains from the squadron, and brass eikons were borne aloft; the bandsmen from the squadron played a funeral march, and alternating with their music was the playing of a solemn dirge by the band of the 37th Regiment of the Line of Spain; there was the firing party, with fixed bayonets, the admiral and the officers from the ships and the ships' companies, and the white coffin in the white funeral car, drawn by four horses, and surmounted by a figure of the Virgin. It was all very touching and impressive--another of the unexpected sights of this corner of Spain which is so old and yet so very new.

Vigo is the port from which most of the emigrants who leave Galicia sail, and at which they land on returning to their native country. Crowds of them may be seen frequently, with their baggage and household belongings, waiting on the quay for their ship to enter the bay, or going off in barges or tenders to get on board. The emigrants, mostly young men, are bound for South America, where some of them do very well, and come back to Galicia with capital enough to buy land and settle as comfortable farmers.

A most enjoyable journey can be made from Vigo to Redondela, eight miles away. In situation the town is considered one of the finest in Spain, and it would be hard to picture anything more beautiful and striking than its aspect at night, as seen from either of the tall railway viaducts. The larger of these is 118 feet high and 348 yards long. The electric lamps give the place the look of an enchanted city. You can glance down the shore to Vigo itself, outlined by lamps, high on the hill-side, whilst Redondela nestles in a dike scores of feet below you as you rumble over the viaduct, thankful for once that the speed of the train is so slow. Redondela is on the road from Vigo to Mondariz. Pretty women, portly priests, and tales of war and treasure have been long associated with the lively town.

Also within easy reach of Vigo is Puenteareas, a small town which is celebrated mostly for its very fine old bridge. During a brief halt at this place in the evening I entered the church in the public square just as service was beginning, and was surprised to find the interior almost crowded with worshippers, mostly women. After the manner of the country, they carried all sorts of articles with them.

Vigo has an enterprising and resourceful daily press, and Galicia has its interests well represented by an admirable illustrated monthly magazine. This is the _Vida Gallega_, which gives to the matters of the province that attention which at home is bestowed upon current events by the London and provincial weeklies. One morning, leaving early for Orense, I observed a man at the first stopping-place alight and promenade the platform with copies of the _Faro de Vigo_, and at each station, during a period of five hours, he jumped down and disposed of his numbers. The train corresponded to our own newspaper specials, and the method of distribution, crude though it may be, is the beginning of a system which in time may equal ours. The journals were eagerly bought, the purchasers opening them at once on the platform, and either standing to read the news or absorbing the contents of the columns as they walked away. The journey from Vigo to Orense occupied five hours; and there was the same time spent on the return, which the newsvendor made. He started at six, and arrived at Vigo late at night. That, I was told, was his daily task; yet he seemed perfectly cheerful and contented.

Vigo fascinated Borrow, who described it as a small, compact place, surrounded with low walls, with narrow, steep, and winding streets, and a rather extensive faubourg stretching along the shore of the bay. Vigo, he added, seemed to be crowded, and resounded with noise and merriment. In that respect there is little difference between the town then and now; but in other directions there have been vast changes. It can no longer be said that Vigo has only a wretched _posada_ to offer to travellers, for it has the up-to-date and thoroughly equipped Hotel Continental, facing the bay, an establishment from whose balconies you may watch the sun rise gorgeously above the hills, and see it set in a blaze of colour behind the Cies Islands.