Part 2

However we must not judge of all this in the light of serious northern church festivals. This would only lead us to drawing both severe and wrong conclusions. Perhaps this manner may be an historical development. Has not our Teutonic Christianity also wedded itself to much that is ancient heathenism? For instance Christmas and the winter solstice festival. Much that is Moorish obtains in Spain to this day. Perhaps even--unconsciously--the conception of the purpose of a place of worship. Was not the mosque often enough a secular place of meeting for the Moslems, and at the same time a university? However, enough of conjectures. It is a fact that the worship of the Lord and the Virgin Mary is for the Spaniard a service of love. Whether the occasion be Trinity or Passion week, it is one of joyful praise of Heaven.

I shall always remember one quiet hour permeated with the holy spirit of Easter among these joyful and yet pious Easter days.--I had mounted the Giralda, that jewel of erstwhile Moorish minaret architecture, the cathedral tower. At my feet lay the white sea of houses. The town was bathed in sunshine. The beautiful blue dome of heaven spread its mighty arch over the holiday-making land as though protecting and blessing it. The faint music of the mass far below was wafted up to me, when suddenly a booming vibration filled the air, and all the tower bells, which had been silent so long, peeled out across the sunlit country: Christ is arisen! The sister bells of all the other towers echoed the message across the spring clad country.

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=The Patio= (40, 42-49). It is a favourite expression to call Seville the town of bright court-yards. Those court-yards which light and fill the house with sunshine. The Sevillian house, or rather the Andalusian house, is not a building such as our houses, fronting on the street, but one that fronts to an inner court, turning its back on the street. The outsides of the houses are bare of ornament, almost windowless; a secret to the passer-by. All their beauty is displayed yardwards. There wealth obtains in all its pomp, and poverty unfolds its modest ornaments. The narrow passage--the Zaguan--leading from the street to the court is closed by a railed gate. The gallery--to which access is gained by steps leading from the court--is supported by columns. The rooms of the upper stories lead to the gallery. To cool the air there is a fountain in the middle of the court surrounded by palms, araucarias, laurels, orange-trees, oleanders and flowers in pots. The walls are covered with multi-coloured tiles. Against them brightly up-holstered furniture, chairs, and sometimes even a piano; the inevitable guitar is in a corner. Climbing plants festoon the court.

Practically this is the centre of the whole family life. Friends are received here, hours passed in argument, singing, music and dancing--whether in company or alone, dreaming away the hours, listening to the plashing of the fountain, it is in the court--the soul of the house--that most time is spent.

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There is nothing commonplace about Spanish houses. They still retain their peculiarity impressed on them by the patina of age. Many have tumbled down under the burden of years. Many are dead; but they “died in beauty". The period of their prosperity still lingers on in the churches and ornate façades of deserted squares.

Toledo is the most Spanish of towns. It was once the heart of the country, pulsating with the great rhythm of epic history. But its heart no longer beats.

Resting on steep granite hills above the deep Tajo valley stands the yellow-grey heap of houses as though rooted in the rocks. Two gigantic bridges span the river. Narrow alleys lead up hill and down dale; many-cornered and dark. The whole town seems in a fighting mood. Huge gateways and towers, the houses fort-like, the doors studded with heavy nails. Indeed, there is hardly a town that has seen so many battles rounds its walls. Spain’s history has passed over it with heavy steps. And to-day? Rent walls, ruin and silence: the town the accumulated wreckage of a thousand years (139-148).

Segovia, Toledo’s sister city is situated similarly on rocks arising abruptly from the plain. It is dominated by a great cathedral tower, and guarded by the well-proportioned Alcazar which stands forth like a fairy castle. A miraculous building, erected one would say to brave eternity in the days when Christ was born. But otherwise Segovia is different to Toledo. It is the Nuremberg of Spain, gay in its leafy setting (157-164).

There are other brave old companions-in-arms of these two veterans, dating from ancient war days: circumvallated Avila (165-169), Cuenca and Albarracin with their swallow-nest houses clinging to lofty crags (120, 121, 192-194), Daroca protected by two mountains over which the whole of the battlemented walls have climbed (195-197), Alquezar in the Pyrenees, the northern outpost of the Moors in Spain (210-212), Sigüenza, Jerica, Trujillo, Caceres, Niebla, Carmona, Martos, Antequera, and many bold castillos.

Ronda is the most boldly situated town lying on a high plateau encircled by a wide mountain arena (62, 63). Running through the rocky plateau is a huge crevice which looks as though it had been split in rage by the mighty fists of giants.

The streams thunder down in all their wild force over the boulders, hammer threateningly against the rocky walls, break into scintillating spray, rush round in whirlpools, and hurry on their course. And in close proximity to all this turmoil, the rocky walls stand unshaken in their immobility against the sky-line, an emblem of eternity cast in stone by the hand of God. The rainbow in the spray has been copied by man in the shape of a bridge high over the abyss joining the rocky heights upon which the town stands.

Let us pass from these stubborn old battle towns to a more smiling scene: San Sebastian (286-290) known throughout the world for its incomparably beautiful situation on the sea. The view from Monte Ulia, a mountain guarding the entrance to this paradise, is wonderful beyond words. Here nature has modelled and painted a masterpiece. The sea hugs the land in two gracefully curved bays and catches the beauties of the town in the reflection of its waters.

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=Cave-dwellings and the simple life.=--This time I decided to leave the destination of my wanderings to chance. I could have chosen no better guide. I set out long before the dew was dry, or the sun had risen. The palm trees were just beginning to shake themselves in the early breeze when I approached a strange rocky landscape. Dark holes in the rock stared at me like dead eyes. But nevertheless life was hidden there. Human forms stepped out of the holes to greet the morn.

What I saw was a towering rock wall with hundreds of cave-dwellings next to each other and over each other. Some of them were even five storeys high and approached from the outside (92). Where the rocks were too steep, the approaches had been dug from the inside, and upper storeys created with outlook holes and loggias high up in the rocks. Tunnels had been cut in the soft stone to get from one rock valley to the other.

The children were running about in the costume God had given them. But it is not to be supposed that they were troglodytes, and as unaware of culture as those who lived in the ice period. High on the rocks you can read in large black letters on a white background “El Retiro".

Every Spaniard knows, at least by name, Madrid’s beautiful park the Retiro. For this reason it seems somewhat of a joke to suddenly come across the name in such a spot far up on the rocks. El Retiro, like Sanssouci, means solitude, retreat, place of rest. An enterprising hotel-keeper has levelled his portion of rocks into roof-terraces where the favourite gossip hour (tertulla) is spent, skittles played, and merry dances performed. Hence the alluring words on the wall for the benefit of passers-by. On another rock is graven the brief significant inscription: “Dios, Pan y Cultura" (God, Bread, and Culture. 92-95).

During the course of another stroll I was again equally surprised. I saw smoke arising in the distance from ground that looked like fantastic mountain erosions. Surely this was not the site of volcanic activity? Indeed this was out of the question. And on drawing nigh I discerned human figures moving among the columns of smoke. I then saw to my astonishment that little smoking towers--not unlike champagne corks in shape--were chimneys projecting out of the ground. I had again strayed among cave-dwellers. What Homeric primitiveness was there! The valleys are the streets, the mountain sides the fronts of the houses, the pinnacles villas. Front gardens are once and a while supplied by giant cacti and spiky agaves. My wanderings in this interesting world-forgotten primitive spot lasted for hours as I passed up and down the so-called streets (96-99).

My greetings were met with a cheerful response, and I was invited to enter a cool cave, provided with a drink of fresh water, and shown the treasures of the modest household: the bed on the ground, the hearth with a copper kettle, the earthenware pitcher, the stool, the oil-lamp and the image of the patron saint.

“Now as to work?" I asked. “Well we don’t do too much in that way. We cultivate what we need over there where the river runs. We make bricks for the towns where the people live in houses."--Truly a picture of an enviable state of modest requirements. There are still those who are satisfied with the tub of Diogenes. Indeed you may find many such all over Spain. I remember when at a little railway station finding only a lad deep in his after-dinner nap. For the rest, there was no one else to take my luggage, so I woke him up and asked him to help me. He stretched himself in all the bliss of laziness, took a couple of coppers out of his pocket, and showing them to me said: “I’ve earned 25 centimos to-day already; that’s all I need," turned over, and went to sleep again. I continued on my way recalling the words of the Indian philosopher: “He who is without wants is nearest to God."

There is no cause to shrug one’s shoulders. Diligence and happiness are but relative conceptions. And just the poorest in Spain understand the art of doing nothing combined with extracting joy from next to nothing. They need a little shade in summer, and the sunshine in winter; a piece of bread, a tomato, a drop of wine. The whole earth with the sky for a roof is their bed-room; the highroad their field of labour. There is no master they would exchange positions with; they are their own masters; masters of their own time--verily a great possession this. Why then should they not spend it generously? “He whom God helps will go further than he who rises betimes" runs a Spanish proverb. And the Bible tells us: “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them."

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=Feria in Sepúlveda.=--A bull-fight. There is high holiday in Sepúlveda, (172, 173) an ancient little town far from the turmoil of the great world, and far even from the railroad, which indeed is nearly 100 kilometres away. The feria is the greatest day of the whole year. Men and women crowd into the place on horses and donkeys. Old friends meet again. Once more they see ‘life’. Above all it is the bull-fight that is the greatest attraction. It has been for weeks already the only topic worth speaking about. As however our little town has no arena, the market-place is used instead. All day the lively rat-tat of hammers is heard there. The windows of the picturesque dignified old town-hall gaze smilingly down on the lively scene. At last there is really something worth looking at again. Another long tedious sleepy year has gone by.

There is hardly any one who does not go the hour’s walk outside the town to admire the bulls which have come from a long way off, and for the present are being kept at pasture.

When the great day has come, every one is up with the sun. The arrival of the savage animals is feverishly expected. The bravest show their courage by going forth to meet the procession.

A cloud of dust on the highway announces its approach. And finally forms emerge from it. At the head a picador on horseback with a lance, behind him the black bodies of the bulls surrounded by tame steers, and followed by a second picador. As they rush through the narrow streets to the market-square a mighty cry goes up: “Los toros! Los toros!" Shouting, whistling, howling, yelling, and a general pandemonium rends the welkin.

Finally the bulls are secured, and it is only in the afternoon that the longed-for hour arrives.

The forenoon has its own pleasures. Young men demonstrate their daring by teasing a young bull specially selected for the purpose, and earn acclamation or mocking laughter as the case may be. These young heroes try to put into practice what they have seen at the Torero; only it is less dangerous. No blood is shed, only torn trousers and bruises are the honorific mementoes of the great day (174, 175).

My thoughts naturally harked back to the first bull-fight I had seen--in Madrid. The impression was stupendous: fifteen thousand gay spectators in the great sweep of the arena all impatient for the nerve-racking fight to begin. The arena was filled with the babble of voices. It was a chaos of colours, cloudy lace mantillas, flower-embroidered shawls, fans swaying nervously, jet-black glowing eyes.--Shouts of applause greeted the bull-fighters. Yells saluted the great bull as he rushed in. The game was a risky one for life or death. Deeds of audacity were met with idolatrous cheers, the timid with desolating laughter. All of a sudden a coloured form is tossed into the air. A single scream from a thousand throats.--“Is he dead?" “No!" A sigh of relief.--“Go on!"--The condemned bull is mad with rage, his opponent cold as steel. He wields the mortal instrument, the sword flashes, and a hurricane of applause bursts forth for the victor and his tottering victim. White handkerchiefs flutter from every seat like pigeons. Hats are waved, a shower of flowers descends, and the fêted hero returns thanks, nonchalant and proud.--The trumpets blare and a new fight begins (125, 126).

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=Crossing the Picos de Europa.=--Masses of high mountains with peaks about 2700 metres high rise among the Asturian Cantabrian coast range. They bear the proud name of Picos de Europa (The Peaks of Europe). They are the Dolomites of Spain. But they exceed these considerably in inaccessibility.

Tourist facilities in Spain are of a very primitive nature. For this reason there are no shelter huts for mountaineers in the Picos de Europa, and there are likewise no trained guides. There are it is true some game-keepers. Shepherds and miners acquainted with individual parts of the mountains act once in a while as guides.

I had been at the gateway of the Picos de Europa when at Covadongo the celebrated place of pilgrimage. Since then the desire had never left me to become acquainted with this demure mountain beauty so alluring and yet so stand-offish in her loneliness. Thus I started for the mountains.

My path led me from Unquera through the Deva valley to Potes at the foot of the Picos. I very soon noticed that my task would be no easy one, for shortly after leaving Panes the track winds through a mighty and deep valley known as the Desfiladero de la Hermida. My reception was not a friendly one. The rocky guardian of the valley looked down and frowned at me, and the sky treated me at intervals to a cold shower-bath.

In Potes the clouds were low down on the mountain sides on which I was going to test my prowess the next day. But I was so enchanted with the spot, that I willingly renounced the view for that day.

The little town is a very ancient spot. It must once have been the seat of many a knightly family. This is attested to by the various Spanish coats of arms on the houses. But those times are now no more. Where once Spanish grandees strutted by with buckled shoes and sword, clodhopping peasants plod along. And the present generation is hardly aware of the plentitude of beauty surrounding it. Bold bridges span the glen. Narrow colonades with overhanging balconies cling to the steep river bank. A multitude of archways offer innumerable enchanting glimpses. A high watch-tower guards the houses clustering at its base.

Before the sun had risen on the morrow I had set out. Dark and dismal-looking clouds hung low over the landscape. But the Picos pinnacles had rent them asunder, and suddenly they stood forth in the glory of the rising sun. Dark night lay behind me as I marched towards the sunlight.

My guide met me by arrangement at Espinama. He was a grey-headed man with weather-beaten face and smiling eyes. His feet were clad in leather sandals, and under his arm was an ancient umbrella. We soon discussed the itinerary, filled our _rucksacks_ and started for the Puerto de Aliva. The old song came back to me:--

The sun on my way In his golden array Is my fellow and guide. He casts my shadow O’er flowery meadow. I wander world-wide.

As we passed on our way, the houses of the village became smaller and smaller. We soon left the last tree behind, and our path led over sweet green slopes, till they too were lost under the stony debris of rocky giants. There was a hunting-lodge close to the foot of the Peña vieja cliff which the king of Spain visits nearly every year when chamois hunting.

The day drew slowly to its end. Great streamers curled round the Peña vieja, pale shadows floated by like silver grey cobwebs, and the mist rose and fell with every breath of wind. The billowing fog had already wrapped us in its mighty veil when we reached the miners’ inn at Lloroza. An overseer invited us to spend the night there. And we were right glad to find shelter, in spite of the fact that both the hut and its furniture looked like the first attempts of primitive man to scale the ladder of civilization. The night we spent on the hard ground was not a very restful one, and we were glad when the approach of day called us from our layer.

When we left the hut a surprising spectacle met our eyes. The fog which had deprived us of any possibility of obtaining a view the evening before now lay at our feet in the valley. The summits of the mountain rose like islands in the sea of mist.

The moment had arrived when day struggled with night for predominance. The full-moon’s silver disc hung in the deep blue of the western sky, and the morning star held its own for a while against the rising light in the east. At last both moon and star turned to pale glass when the sun sent forth his herald rays. The horizon was tinged with pink; long red streamers fluttered from the windows of heaven to greet us, and then the sun rose above the misty expanse, gilded the crests, flooded the eastern pinnacles with the glory of his light, and glowed on the rocky wall to which our hut clung. O wonderful silence of that hour!

“A new day beckons us to other shores."

For yet a short distance the beaten path used by the king when stalking showed us the way. Then we bent our steps over pathless boulders, sharp edged rocks, mounds of debris, snow-fields strewn among the stony desert with its jagged rock walls and towers.

Whole herds of chamois stared in astonishment at the strange intruders in their paradise. For the rest, they showed little inclination to run away. The mountain fastness became progressively more barren and wild in its aspect. An infinitely dismal mood seemed to brood o’er the scene. Yet the magnificence of these mountains augmented from minute to minute. Grotesque stone giants--cast in burning ore by the furnace of high heaven--stood guarding this great grave of nature.

Woe to the wanderer whose ignorant footsteps err here! Death lies in ambush in the deep crevices and chasms.

At last we halted in front of the monarch of the magnificent mountain empire. His throne stands high in everlasting snow; a golden crown is on his head. His picture is known to all from the most distant mountain valley to the shores of the restless ocean. All admire his beauty, all know his name: Naranjo de Balnes.

This huge rock colossus rises 600 metres over its surroundings. Its perpendicular walls show hardly a crevice. And it seems incredible that nevertheless that bold mountaineer the Marqués de Villaviciosa de Asturia climbed to its summit.

On our wanderings round this mighty and stubborn rock tower we seemed to be lightened of all earthly burdens high up there in the solitude above the depths of humanity.

We climbed up to the Ceredo tower. The rocks were as sharp as knives. Again the ghostly mist rose from the valleys and whirled spectrally around us.

It was 5 o’clock and the Cares valley with Cain to where our steps were directed were not yet in sight.--I asked my companion: “How far yet?" “A few hours more" was the not very consoling reply.--The mist, that enemy of mountaineers was getting thicker. And ere long we could not see twenty paces ahead. The feeling of insecurity grew apace. And the sensation of climbing with mist-bound eyes was terrible. Again I questioned my guide. “Severo, is there no hut or shelter on the way?"--“I don’t think so." Once more long minutes of silent groping. At last we were, at any rate for a while, rid of the stony region. Here and there a rocky projection, but it was quite impossible to tell if we were not suspended on it hundreds of meters over a yawning abyss. It was impossible to see anything through that fog. And at a quarter past six it was pitch dark.

Suddenly we came across a few low rough huts of unhewn stone huts sheltered by a rock-wall. There at last we could spend the night. But my guide wanted to go on. “Stop!" I cried. “Can we get to Cain to night?"--“I don’t know." “Well then we’ll stay here!" Suiting the action to the word, we crept into one of the huts, crouched down, and slept fitfully through ten endless hours of night. But even they passed. The morning meant a dangerous and nasty descent. We waded knee-deep in wet grass, clambered over ledges with fog all around us. Woe to us had we slipped! Then we got lost and had to stop and climb back with the greatest care. Then we slid down a stony gully in which nearly every step set rocks thundering to the depths below.

At last the moist grey mist began to lift. A rift showed the bed of the valley far beneath us, and, as we thought, houses. But no, we were mistaken. They were huge boulders, the wreckage of some avalanche that filled the upper hollow. Down and down we scrambled till finally we broke through the foggy screen. Our goal was at our feet. Cain, strangely walled in by precipitous rocky cliffs rising sheer 1500 metres high. We were there! And we could rest. Some bread and butter was all we could find in the whole village to appease our hunger. We would gladly have rested there a day, but the place was too inhospitable. We had therefore to shoulder our _rucksacks_ again. The distance we had climbed down the day before, we had to climb up again on the opposite rocks of the Peña santa. Hours and hours of strenuous efforts passed till we reached the ridge. We re-descended valleywards in a drizzling rain. Lake Enol was the last spot of beauty to be hidden from our view. It was there we struck the main road, and then marched another 10 kilometres down to Covadonga which we reached as tired as dogs.