W. H. Koebel

An historical town—Rarity of ruins in the River Plate countries—Specimens at Colonia—Situation of the town—Past antagonism between the capitals of Argentina and Uruguay—Present aspect of Colonia compared with the former—A sleepy hollow—Periodical awakenings of the place—Impressions of the old town—Its colouring and compactness—Fortifications of the city of discord—A warlike history—Nations that have warred together at this spot—The reddest corner in a bloodstained land—Surroundings of the town—Crumbling masonry—A medley of old and new—A Colonia street—Old-time scenes of peace and war—Some pictures of the past—Cannon as road posts—The Plaza—An episode in the wars with Portugal—The eternity of romance—Real de San Carlo—A modern watering-place—Its buildings—The bullring—A gigantic pelota-court—Popularity of the spot—A miniature tramway—Attractions of Real de San Carlo—Vegetation on the sands—A curious colour scheme—Pleasant lanes—Buenos Aires as a supplier of tourists.

The small town of Colonia stands quite alone in many respects. Not as regards situation, climate, and a reputation as a pleasure resort. In all these three the spot is especially favoured; yet in each of these it possesses a number of formidable rivals along the Uruguayan coast. Excursionists flock to Colonia, it is true, but such flighty nomads are more concerned with beaches and bathing than with the subtler and deeper interests of the spot.

To the historian and to the antiquarian Colonia represents a gem. It must be admitted that the values of such treasures go strictly by comparison. Uruguay is rich in the amethyst and topaz, but poor in architectural ruins. Indeed, these romantic features are distressingly—or pleasingly—rare throughout all the lands that made up the provinces of the old River Plate. So far as I am aware, almost the sole examples of any real antiquity are to be met with in the Jesuit ruins of Paraguay and the Misiones Province, and in the few fragmentary Inca relics upon the Andes slopes. Beyond these there is Colonia. Therefore if the gem lack the full brilliance of some of the specimens that an older continent can produce, its importance must not be under-estimated, since it possesses the rare merit of being all but unique in its own country.

From the Uruguayan bank of the great river Colonia faces Buenos Aires. The one is not visible from the other, since almost forty miles separate the two cities—a distance that has frequently been found too short for the peace of mind of both. For, although they now sit on their respective banks in undisturbed peace, the past has only too many instances to show of how the pair opposed each other with an active hostility that worked its share in the building up of the warlike history of Colonia.

The present fate of Colonia is much akin to that of many of those spots that serve as the decayed shells of old-time battles and terrific alarums. In short, it is a sleepy hollow. There are certainly times when a large river steamer comes to rest for a while against its wooden jetty, and disgorges a crowd of tourists who wander aimlessly about the quaint streets. But such spells are short, since the interests of the spot can compare in the minds of very few of such visitors with the great bullring and pelota-court, recently erected some half-dozen miles up-stream, to which they are on their way. Thus the place has barely time to shake its old walls, and yawn with its blank windows, wondering at this sudden new life that has sprung up within it, when the spasm has passed away, and Colonia sinks back from its semi-conscious state into full slumber again.

The first impressions of the old town, when viewed from the river, present a rather strange medley of brown, yellow, grey, white, pink, and green. Thrown together as abruptly as this, the colour scheme doubtless sounds perplexing. Yet in reality the tints blend with consummate harmony. The brown is rendered by the rocks that hem in the little bays and inlets of the foreground, while the lichen that clings to the stone accounts for a strangely brilliant yellow. The grey is produced by the most important asset of the town, the ruined walls and battlements of the fortifications that pile themselves sullenly upon the rocks along the river bank, penetrating the waters at many points. The pink and white gleam very softly from the more modern houses in the background that mingle with the old, crumbling erections of grey, while at close intervals the verdure of trees and shrubs sprouts out thickly from amongst the masonry. To conclude with all this colour, so far as possible at one fell swoop, the town is dominated by a brilliant white lighthouse shaft and the twin red towers of a modern church.

Undoubtedly one of the most curious effects for which Colonia is responsible is that of its compactness. There is scarcely a town in Uruguay, or in Argentina either, whose outskirts do not straggle far away from the centre into the Campo. To one who has inevitably become accustomed to these architectural loose-ends the accurately defined boundaries of the riverside town are not a little striking. The reason is a very simple one. In the old days the city of discord was completely surrounded by fortifications and, since it has performed the feat—almost unique in the country—of failing to grow in extent since that time, its original abrupt boundaries have remained. The result, from an artistic point of view, is undoubtedly far more imposing than that produced by the stress of modern development.

Colonia is not a town to be skimmed over lightly. It is worthy of almost as careful a reconnoitring as it has frequently suffered in the past. For the place can boast of half a dozen regular sieges, and pitched battles, sallies, and skirmishes galore. Indians and Spaniards, Spaniards and Portuguese, Uruguayans and Spaniards, Uruguayans and Portuguese—all these have fought together here on countless occasions, and yet the list of the warring companies is not ended. The red ponchos of Urquiza's Gauchos have charged up to the grey walls, staining the brown earth crimson as they went; buccaneers of all nations have come and gone, and the scarlet of a British garrison has gleamed out against the background of stone. Colonia is the reddest spot of all in a sadly bloodstained land.

But, however much the aftermath of battles may brood, the aspect of the place is as fair as could be desired. Just opposite its site are the first green islands of the river, the oceanward outposts of the lengthy series that rest in the midst of the waters upstream. This shore of the mainland itself is picturesque in another fashion. Bright semicircles and crescents of sand fringe the rocks of the innumerable small bays. Upon the natural boulders, and ledges, and heaps of masonry above are clusters of green leaves starred with blossoms. Here and there a growth of more artificial kind is spread upon the stone; for the sole figures upon the foreshore are those of two washerwomen, busily engaged amongst the pools, whose variegated harvest is increasing in area as it is spread out to dry.

In places the surface of the old masonry is level and wide; in others it is necessary to leap from point to point just as it is in the case of the rocks below. Scrambling and walking thus for several hundred yards, the way lies past a collection of ruined houses, the massive walls of which prick upwards in gaunt desolation. Beyond these again is a narrow passage, paved principally by the chance falling of the masonry, that leads into one of the actual streets of the town.

The medley here is fascinating from the mere force of its quaintness. The first houses that flank the slender thoroughfare as it winds its way uphill are a few pink erections, fairly modern, with windows plainly barred, and open doorways, through which is visible the foliage that decorates the patio within. Side by side with these is a building of quite another type, an old grey house, stately and imposing, though now little beyond a shell of ruins. Its front is thickly set with the remnants of graceful balconies, and with broken shields and coats of arms. Upon the massive doorway is an ancient bronze knocker in the form of a human hand. But the hapless instrument has been silent now for many a generation, since at the back of the doorway itself is nothing beyond a confusion of tumbled stone into whose crevices the roots of the intruding shrubs and flowers have pressed themselves.

The street is quite deserted; the temptation to raise the bronze hand and bang out the echoes is almost irresistible. It is certain that one could arouse nothing beyond the ghosts of the past. Yet the answer to such an appeal might prove a little too intense for the modern tranquillity of mind. Confined to the days of peace, the vision would be well enough. The house, the walls, the patio, the fretwork of the balconies, the carving of the coats of arms—all these would be intact and hung about with humanity. In obedience to the most commonplace demands of the all-pervading romance, breeched men, whose long-draped cloaks hid the lace and buckles of their costume, would send out their voices and the tinklings of their guitars towards the seÑoritas, whose soft eyes glowed beneath a tremendous headgear, and who wore their filmy wrappings and short skirts with true Iberian grace.

Within the courtyard the negro slaves would lounge at their ease, while near them would repose the great guardian dogs of the house. Now and again would sound a heavy rumble from the street without that signified the advent of visitors in a cumbrous coach of state—an interruption that would still the notes of voice and guitar string, and that would excite the negro attendants into sudden life and the dogs into a delirium of barking. After which many grave bows and deep curtseyings would prelude the quiet ceremony of entertainment.

But if instead of this peaceful scene the wrong half of the past were to appear! For there were times when the heavy booming and uproar drew ever nearer from without, and then the faces of the seÑoritas as they peered through the elaborate bars were ashy pale. There were moments, too, when the last doubts had turned to a bitter certainty, when the forms of fleeing men passed the house, and those of others, who stayed, reddened the ground before the door. And last of all!—the apparition of the strange men in hostile garb, the lust of slaughter in their eyes as they rushed on, making another place of the once familiar street. Thirsting for blood, hungry for booty, and for all things beyond—the cheeks of the shuddering seÑoritas have not paled without reason. After all, perhaps it is better to leave undisturbed the knocker upon the old door.

Such mental apparitions, moreover, could be multiplied indefinitely, for there are a dozen houses of similar design, if of varied ruinous importance, in the town. Indeed, the place breathes strongly of the past. At a street corner here and there is an ancient cannon, buried muzzle upwards into the ground, that serves to fend off from the sidewalk such wheeled traffic as exists. After a while the narrow street falls away, and the wide sweep of the plaza extends to the front.

The place was once the site of a rather peculiar feat of frontier delimitation. The occasion was that of one of the numerous cessions by treaty to Portugal of the town that the Spaniards were wont to win by force of arms. On receiving the order from the Court of Spain to evacuate the province in favour of the temporarily reconciled enemy the staunch old Spanish Governor lost patience. The town, he knew full well, he must surrender, but he refused to give up more even at the command of his royal master. So he raised the muzzle of a cannon in the plaza, fired a shot to right and left, and told the Portuguese that the land within the range of the balls was theirs, but no more. And with this they had to be content.

There are now no cannon in the plaza, where, indeed, the wild shrubs and grasses alone thrive. Passing across it, the river is approached again, for Colonia covers a small promontory. Ere reaching the water on the farther side, however, it is necessary to pass by far the most imposing ruin in the place. By the side of the white lighthouse tower a tall fragment of grey fortress wall rears itself aloft. Some four feet thick throughout, its crumbling embrasures are strongly lit up by the blue sky behind.

From this point the ground slopes abruptly downwards towards the shore. Here are more rocks, more mounds of ruined masonry, more washerwomen—and the forms of a girl and of a man seated apart from the rest upon the stones. The girl is flaming in all the pride of red skirt and kerchief and yellow blouse. For all I know the latter garment may not technically be admissible within the strict category of blouses, but, failing a more intimate knowledge, it must pass as something similar! By comparison with the very brilliant butterfly, the man looms a dusky moth, whose only glitter lies in the great, round, silver spurs that protrude from his high heels. Yet the business of the pair is the same as ever! Though wrought out more frequently when Colonia really lived, it obtains still amongst the ruins. It is comforting to reflect that even the most simple of these rural chains of the affections continues with links far less unbroken than those of war!

Some three miles distant from Colonia, and situated likewise upon the banks of the river, is Real de San Carlo. Although such close neighbours, it would be difficult to find two spots that differed more widely from each other. Real de San Carlo is a mushroom of a place that has only known existence for some two or three years. Since it is planned as a pleasure resort pure and simple, the nature of Real de San Carlo is to a certain extent artificial, and the brand-new buildings have yet to be toned down by the softening process of age.

So far the new bathing-place is deficient in the private dwelling-houses and chÂlets that characterise the majority of such spots. On the arrival of the steamer at the imposing pier, the eye is arrested at once by the sight of two very large buildings, and by that of one of a more moderate size. Beyond these there is little in the way of architectural development, with the insignificant exception of the cottages that house the labourers upon the place.

Of the two great buildings the bullring is the more notable. Indeed, the enormous circular erection of white concrete is visible for a distance of many miles in all directions. One side of the ground beneath, sheltered by the rising spread of tiers that hold the seats, is occupied by an open-air cafÉ, while the appointments within are of the usual order to be met with in bullrings. It is here that the periodical bullfights are held, and it is here, moreover, that many of the noted Spanish fighters perform.

In the neighbourhood of the bullring is the pelota-court, which is only just now being completed, in which the famous Basque game is to be played. This is likewise constructed of white concrete, and, although its magnitude cannot rival that of the bullring, it is of an amazing size for a building of the kind, holding galleries above, as it does, that must be capable of seating several thousand spectators. Compared with these two tremendous affairs, the hotel is of modest dimensions and of unpretentious appearance. Nevertheless, were it to stand apart from such overwhelming neighbours, it would doubtless appear imposing enough.

Real de San Carlo is well equipped to cope with the crowds of visitors that the steamers already bring to its shore; it does things, in fact, in a certain elaborate style of its own. A narrow-gauge steam tramway runs between the jetty and the bullring, although the distance does not exceed a quarter of a mile, and behind the miniature engine a number of cars are in waiting, each containing a row of seats facing outwards on either side. At the moment of the visit the bull-fighting itself is undergoing a temporary lull—a fact that, from one's own point of view, is very little to be regretted. So the tramcars, crowded now, roll merrily onwards to a ring devoid of espadas, bulls, horses, and blood, and for the majority of the tourists the chief business of the day is confined to the precincts of the cafÉ in the shade of the great building.

Apart from these more artificial attractions, Real de San Carlo will undoubtedly prove popular as a bathing resort. The fine white sands and rippling waters here possess an invaluable auxiliary in the delightful air with which the place is blessed. In this springtime of the year, moreover, the sands themselves are decorated in rather an unusual fashion. From them sprout masses of silver-white, thick, silky leaves, and stems that support blossoms that exactly resemble small sunflowers. The effect that the great stretches of these present is distinctly striking. Thickly spangling the white sand is a silver glow, topped by the yellow of the blossoms above—a colour scheme that gives a strangely fairylike and unreal impression. As though to lend a touch of warmer colour, thousands of butterflies, all of a variety of the painted-lady species, are hovering in clouds about the blossoms.

Just inland, where the undulations of the real country begin, the lanes are ablaze with passionflower and honeysuckle—but the steamer is whistling impatiently in the distance, and the tourists are flocking back to the tramcars. It is time to return, and to mingle with the crowd once more, the great majority of which are returning to Buenos Aires. For it is on the inhabitants of this city, within a couple of hours' steam across the river, that Real de San Carlo depends for its popularity, and consequent welfare.