WE met, our trio, on the platform of Charing Cross—not classic but perhaps historic ground, since so many notable expeditions have started therefrom, with others of less importance.

The heat in Madrid towards the end of August (1896) was not excessive—less than we had feared. We enjoyed, that Sunday, quite an excellent bull-fight, although the bulls themselves had been advertised as of “only one horn” apiece (de un cuerno). There was no sign, however, of any cornual deficiency as each magnificent animal dashed into the arena, although with binoculars one could detect a slight splintering of one horn-point, a defect which had caused the rejection of that animal from the herd-list. For these bulls were, in fact, of notable blood—that of Ybarra of Sevillian vegas—and none bearing that name appear in first-class corridas save absolutely perfect and unblemished.

The point illustrates the keen appreciation of quality in the fighting-bull, which in Spain goes without saying, yet may well deceive the casual stranger. Thus an American party who breakfasted with us (always keen to get the best, but not always knowing where to find it) despised the “Unicorns” and reserved themselves instead for the opera. We enjoyed an excellent fight with dashing bulls—two clearing the barrier and causing a fine stampede among the military, the police, and crowds of itinerant fruit-and water-sellers who occupy the Entre-barreras.

These “Unicorns” proved really better bulls than at many of the formal corridas. Three young and rising matadors despatched the animals—two each. They were Galindo, Gavira, and Parrao—both the latter excellent. Gavira looked as if he might take first rank in his order, while Parrao displayed a coolness in the lidia such as we had seldom before seen—even to stroking the bull’s nose—while in the final scene he went in to such close quarters, “passing” the animal at half arm’s-length, that the whole 10,000 in the Plaza held their breath. Parrao will become a first-flighter, unless he is caught, which certainly seems the more natural event.

That evening we were hospitably entertained at the British Embassy, where our host, the ChargÉ d’Affaires, regretted that the short fourteen-days’ Ortolan season had just that morning expired. Thus, quite unconsciously, was an ornithological fact elucidated.

Next morning we were away by an early train, and after five hours’ journey joined our staff, as prearranged. But here we committed the mistake of quartering in a country-town on the banks of the Tagus, instead of encamping in the open country outside. Bitterly did we regret having allowed ourselves to be thus persuaded. Long summer heats and parching drought had destroyed what primitive system of natural drainage may have existed in Talavera de la Reina and produced conditions that we revolt from describing. Oh! those foul effluvia amidst which men live, and feed, and sleep!

With intense delight, but splitting headaches, we left the plague-spot at earliest dawn and set out for the mountain-land. For thirty odd miles our route traversed a highland plateau; a group of five great bustard, gasping in the noon-day heat, lay asleep so near the track that we tried a shot with ball. Farther north, near Medina del Campo, we had also observed these grand game-birds feeding on the ripening grapes in the vineyards. Packs of sand-grouse (Pterocles arenarius) with musical croak flew close around. Spanish azure magpies abounded wherever our route passed through wooded stretches, and we also observed doves, bee-eaters, stonechats, crested and calandra larks, ravens, and over some cork-oaks wheeled a serpent-eagle showing very white below.

Towards evening the track began to ascend through the lower defiles of the great cordillera that now pierced the heavens ahead. Presently we entered pinewoods, resonant at dusk with the raucous voices of millions of wingless grasshoppers or locusts (we know not their precise name) that live high up in pines. Never before had we heard such strident voice in an insect.

At 4000 feet we encamped beneath the pines by a lovely trout-stream. This was the rendezvous whereat by arrangement we met with our old friends the ibex-hunters of AlmanzÓr—savage perhaps to the eye, yet beyond all doubt radiantly glad to welcome back the foreigners after a lapse of years. No mere greed of dollars inspired that enthusiasm, but solely the bond of a common passion that bound us all—that of the hunter. It was, however, but sorry hearing to listen to the reports they told us around the camp-fire. Everywhere the ibex were yearly growing scarcer, dwindling to an inevitable vanishing-point, former haunts already abandoned—or, we should rather say, swept clean. Where but a score of years before, 150 ibex had been counted in a single monterÍa, our friends reckoned that exactly a dozen survived. One remark especially struck us. “There remained,” with glee our friends assured us, “one magnificent old goat, a ram of twelve years, out there on the crags of AlmanzÓr.” One! To one sole big head had it dwindled?

The valley of the Tagus divides two geological periods, and perhaps at one time divided Europe from a retiring Africa. Marked differences distinguish the fauna on either side of the river, and that of the north (with its 10,000 feet altitude) promised reward worthy the labours of investigation. Not a yard of that great mountain-land of GrÉdos has been trodden by British foot (save our own) since the days of Wellington. Hence it was an object with us to secure, not only ibex heads, but specimens of the smaller mammalia that dwell in those heights. Our mountain friends assembled round the camp-fire—twenty-five in all—each promised to take up this unaccustomed quest and to regard as game every hitherto unconsidered bicho of the hills, whether feathered, furred, or scaled. If ibex failed us, at least a harvest in such minor game we meant to assure.[34]

Three o’clock saw us astir, bathing in the dark burn while moonlight still streamed through sombre pines. Camp meanwhile was broken up; tents and gear packed on ponies and mules, breakfast finished—we were off, heavenwards. Then, just as the laden pack-animals filed through the burn, there rode up a man—he had ridden all night—and bore a message that changed our exuberant joy to grief—bad news from home.

There could be no doubt—the writer must return at once. Within five minutes I had decided to make for a point on the northern railway beyond the hills and distant some sixty miles as the crow flies. Baggage and battery were abandoned; a handbag with a satchel of provisions and a wine-skin formed my luggage, and, leaving my companions in this wild spot, I set forth in the grey dawn on a barebacked mule devoid of saddle, bridle, or stirrups, and accompanied by two of our hill-bred lads, one riding pillion behind or running alongside in turn.

Where the grey ramparts of the Risco del Fraile and the CasquerÁzo frown on a rugged earth below I parted with my old pals, they to continue the ibex-hunt, I on my mournful homeward way.

Bee-eaters poised and chattered, brilliant butterflies (whose names I forgot to note), abounded as we rode along those fearful edges and boulder-studded steeps. Six hours of this brought us to a rock-poised hamlet of the sierra. The landlord of the posada was also the Alcalde (mayor) of the district, and even then presiding over a meeting of the council (ayuntamiento). Amidst dogs, children, fleas, and dirt, along with my two goat-herd friends, we made breakfast.

Thence over the main pass of Navasomera—no road, not the vestige of a track, and a tremendous ravine stopped us for hours, and for a time threatened to prove impassable. By patience and recklessness we lowered mule and ourselves down scrub-choked screes, and after some of the roughest work of my life gained a goat-herd’s track which led upwards to the pass. After clearing the reverse slope we traversed for twenty miles a dreary upland (6000 feet) till we struck the head-waters of the Albirche river, where my lads tickled half-a-dozen trout and a frog! Kites beat along the stony hills, where wheatears and stonechats fluttered incessant, with dippers and sandpipers on the burn below.

We halted at a lonely venta (wayside wine-shop), where assembled goat-herds courteously made room, and passed me their wine-skin. Presently one of them asked whither I went, remarking, “Your Excellency is clearly not of this province.” Three or four skinny rabbits hung on the wall, and the landlord, after inquiring what his Excellency would eat, assured me he had plenty of everything, was yet so strong in his commendation of rabbit that I knew those wretched beasties were the only food in the place. Presently with my two lads, and surrounded by mules, cats, dogs, poultry, wasps, and fleas, we sat down to dine on trout, rabbits-Á-pimiento, and chorizo (forty horse-power sausage). I believe my boys also ate the frog!

Two hours after dark we were still dragging along the upland, while the outlines of the jagged cordillera behind had faded in gathering night. I could scarce have sat much longer on that bony saddleless mule when a light was descried far below, and, on learning that we were still twenty miles from our destination, I decided to put up for the night at that little venta of Almenge, sleeping on bare earth alongside my boys, and close by the heels of our own and sundry other mules.

SCENES IN SIERRA DE GRÉDOS.

MOREZÓN. CUCHILLAR DE NAVÁJAS. ALMANZÓR.
The Circo de GrÉdos.

The Plaza de AlmanzÓr, with its immediate environment, presents a panorama of mountain-scenery unrivalled, not only in the whole cordillera of GrÉdos, but probably in all Spain—it may be questioned if the world itself contains a more striking landscape than that known as the “Circo de GrÉdos.” Briefly put, a vast central amphitheatre of rock—really four-square (though known as the “Circo”) in the depths of which nestle an alpine lake—is enclosed by stupendous rock-walls and precipices of granite; some of these smooth and sheer, others rugged and disintegrated or broken up by snow-filled gorges of intricacies that defy the power of pen to describe. Three of these vast mural ramparts stand almost rectangular, the fourth shoots out obliquely, traversing the abysmal enclave and all but closing the fourth side of its quadrilateral. The rough sketch-map at p. 141 shows the configuration better than written words, while the photos convey, so far as such can, some idea of the scenery.[35]

The actual peak of AlmanzÓr which dominates the whole “Circo,” as viewed from the north, culminates in a flattened cone, the summit being split into two huge rock-needles or pinnacles separated by an unfathomed fissure between. Only one of these needles—and that the lower—has yet been scaled. The loftier of the pair, though it only surpasses its fellow by a few yards in height, is so sheer, its surface so devoid of crevice or hand-hold, that the ascent (without ropes and other appliances) appears quite impracticable.

Will the reader seat himself in imagination at the spot marked (*) on the map. Surveying the scene from this point, the whole opposite horizon is filled by the Altos de MorezÓn—a jagged and turreted escarpment pierces the sky, while its frowning walls dip down, down in endless precipices to the inky-black waters of the Laguna far below.

Towards the left one’s view is interrupted by an extraordinary mass of upstanding granite, disintegrated and blackened by the ages, known as the AmeÁl de Pablo—in itself a virgin mountain, as yet untrodden by human foot. This colossus, glittering with snow-striÆ, surmounts the oblique ridge aforesaid, that of the Cuchillar del Guetre, which traverses two-thirds of the “Circo,” leaving but a narrow gap between its own extremity and the opposite heights of MorezÓn.

Continuing towards the right, there rises to yet loftier altitudes the black contour of the Risco del Fraile, beloved of ibex; while adjacent on the north-west, but on slightly lower level, uprear from the snow-flecked skyline three more unscaled masses—rectangular monoliths like giant landmarks. This trio is distinguished as Los Hermanitos de GrÉdos, their abruptness of outline almost appalling as set off by an azure background.

Farther to the right (in the angle of the square) two more mountain-masses—knife-edged, jagged, and embattled along the crests—frown upon one another across a gorge rent through their very bowels. These two are the Alto del CasquerÁzo and the Cuchillar de las NavÁjas, while the interposed abyss—the Portilla de los Machos—cuts clean through the great cordillera, forming a natural gateway between its northern and its southern faces. As the name implies, this gorge is the main route of the ibex from their much-loved Riscos del Fraile to their second chief resort, the Riscos del FrancÉs, which occupy the southern face of the sierra whose snowfields defy even the heats of August.

From our present standpoint the southern wall of the Circo—the Cuchillar de las NavÁjas—is not visible. This section of the quadrilateral is equally abrupt and intricate, dropping in massive bastions towards the level of the lake. Just beyond the Plaza de AlmanzÓr a second deep gorge or “pass”—the Portilla Bermeja—unites the northern and the southern faces.

Behind where we sit lies yet another panorama of terrible wildness, again dominated by rock-walls of fantastic contour—the valley of Las Cinco Lagunas. But right here our rock-descriptive powers give out—we can only refer to the map.

GRIFFON VULTURE AND NEST
GRIFFON VULTURE AND NEST