THE country in the immediate vicinity of San Roque is tame and uninteresting; but, within the distance of an hour’s ride, in whatever direction you may turn your horse’s head, it becomes agreeably varied,—presenting wide, cultivated valleys, shady forests of cork, oak, and pine, and wild and cragged mountains.

In the neighbourhood are many objects well deserving the attention of the antiquary; amongst others, the ruins of the ancient city of Carteia, situated on the sea-shore, within the bay of Gibraltar, and near the mouth of the River Guadaranque. The walls may be traced very distinctly; they enclose an amphitheatre, in a tolerable state of preservation, reliques of baths and other edifices, and the remains of a small temple of Corinthian architecture and most exquisite and elaborate workmanship.

This last has only recently been discovered. It was built of beautiful white marble, and its columns, though lying prostrate, appeared to have suffered little by their fall; but such is the want of antiquarian taste in the Spaniards of the present day, that it is to be feared this fine specimen of the arts has already disappeared, and is now only to be met with in detached blocks, scattered throughout the neighbouring farm-houses and walls.

The learned Mr. Francis Carter, whose interesting “Journey from Gibraltar to Malaga” has, it is much to be regretted, been long out of print, states, that Carteia was built on the ruins of a “most antique” city called Tartessus, or Tarsis, from whence, “once in three years,” the fleets of King Solomon “brought gold and silver, ivory and apes and peacocks.”[38] The Greeks afterwards called this city Heraclea,[39] and in yet more recent times it received the name of Carteia.

The Carthagenians (on the authority of Justin) made themselves masters of this place, about 280 years B.C., and retained possession of it until they were finally expelled from Spain by Scipio Africanus, B.C. 203. It was one of the cities most devoted to the cause of the Pompeys, and that to which Cneus fled for refuge after his defeat at Munda. On the margin of the River Guadaranque, at a short distance from the walls of the city, may be seen some remnants of its ancient quays, and about a mile higher up the stream, other vestiges of antiquity present themselves, which are supposed to be the remains of a Dock or Arsenal. They consist of several moles constructed of stone and brick intermixed, and held together by a very durable cement.

The Guadaranque (River of Mares) discharges itself into the bay of Gibraltar, three miles N.W. of the fortress; and some distance further to the westward, the Palmones, another mountain stream, also empties itself into the bay. In the bed of this latter river may be seen the piers of a ruined bridge, said to be a work of the Romans. It is evident from these remains, that a great change has taken place in the character of the two rivers: since the first can now be entered only by boats of the very lightest draught, and the other is fordable immediately above the ruins of the Roman bridge.

The plain between the two rivers is not devoid of interest, being celebrated as one of the battle fields of the heroic Alphonso XI. (A.D. 1333) whose exploits, independent of his having been the most chivalric monarch of the Castillian race, are particularly interesting to Englishmen, from the circumstance of many of our countrymen having fought under his banner against the Moslems, and particularly at the siege of Algeciras: which place, notwithstanding the destructive weapons[40] there for the first time employed against the Christian army, was captured after a twenty months’ siege, and in spite of the repeated attempts of the allied kings of Granada and Gibraltar to relieve it, A.D. 1344. In these various endeavours to raise the siege, the plain extending between the Guadaranque and Palmones again became the scene of fierce contention; of which a most interesting account will be found in Villasan’s Chronicles of Alphonso XI.

Numerous other points in the neighbourhood of San Roque are equally worthy of observation; but these I shall not detain my reader longer to particularise, as other opportunities will present themselves for doing so more conveniently, in the course of our travels; it being my purpose to make San Roque a kind of “base of operations,” upon which I shall from time to time retire, for a fresh supply of notes and sketches. I shall now therefore direct my steps due north, through the lonely and almost boundless forest of Almoraima, towards Ximena.

The forest consists principally of cork, oak, and ilex; but, in the marshy parts of it, (called sotos,) ash, willow, and other trees to which such localities are favourable, grow very luxuriantly.

The owner of this vast domain is the Marquis of Moscoso,—who derives from it a revenue totally disproportioned to its value and extent; and what little he does get, he squanders nightly at the gaming-table. The principal source of revenue arises from the numerous herds of swine and other cattle, that are driven from all parts of the country to feed upon the acorns, herbage, and underwood, scattered throughout the forest; the fine, well grown trees with which it abounds being turned to no better account than to furnish bark and charcoal.

This is entirely owing to the want of means of conveying the timber to a market; for not even to Gibraltar—in which direction the country is level—is there a road capable of bearing the draught of heavy weights. Of course the ruinous passion that swallows up all the proprietor’s resources prevents any attempt at improvement in the management of the estate; and thus, whilst huge trees, stript of their bark, lie rotting in some parts of the forest, in others, the underwood is set on fire by the peasantry—to the great detriment of the larger trees—to improve the pasture for their cattle.

The ride through the forest is delightful, even in the most sultry season, the wide-spreading branches of the gnarled cork-trees screening the narrow paths most effectually from the sun’s rays. The gurgle of the tortuous Guadaranque,—which, escaped from the mountain ravines that encircle its sources, here wends its way more leisurely to the sea,—may be heard distinctly on the left, and now and then a glimpse may even be caught of its dark blue stream, winding under a perfect arbour of woodbine, clematis, and other creepers, and spanned here and there by a rustic bridge. The single stem of a tree of which these bridges usually consist is readily enough crossed by the practised feet and heads of the swineherds and foresters; but to strangers unskilled in the art of slack rope dancing, the passage of the stream, like that of the bridge leading to the Mohammedan’s paradise, is a feat of no very easy achievement.

Occasionally, wide, open glades, carpeted with a rich greensward, present themselves in the very heart of the forest, to diversify the scenery—giving it quite the character of an English park; and from these breaks in the wood a view may generally be obtained of the far-distant towers of Castellar; the mountain fortress of the master of this princely domain, now inhabited by his Administrador, or Agent, his gamekeepers, and other dependents.

The forest abounds in deer, wild boars, and wolves; but, excepting the first named, these animals seldom venture to descend into the level parts of the forest in open day, but confine themselves to the thickly wooded glens, that furrow the mountain range bordering the right bank of the Guadaranque.

Permission to shoot in the forest is never refused to the British officers and inhabitants of Gibraltar. Indeed, excepting for the caza mayor,[41] the ceremony of asking leave is not considered necessary; and in the winter season the sotos afford good sport, woodcocks, ducks, and snipes, being very plentiful.

Turning now away from the Guadaranque, and leaving a spacious convent that gives its name to the forest, about half a mile on the left, the road inclines to the eastward, and soon reaches a large solitary building, the Venta del Aqua del Quejigo, but known more commonly amongst the English by the name of the Long Stables, and distinguished as the scene of many a festive meeting, and many a bacchanalian orgie, being a favourite place of rendezvous for a Batida.[42] My head aches at the very recollection of the nights passed within its walls. We will therefore pass on, and again plunge into the forest.

After proceeding about a mile, the road divides into two branches. That on the right hand is the most direct way to Gaucin, whither I am bending my steps; but the other, though little known, is the best, and offers more attractions to the lover of the picturesque. I will therefore take it, in the present instance, and advise all who may follow in my wake to do the like.

Continuing two miles further through the impervious forest, the road at length arrives at the brink of a deep ravine on the right, when a lovely view breaks upon the traveller, looking over a rich valley watered by the river Sogarganta, and towards the mountain fortress of Casares and lofty Sierra Bermeja. The road, hemmed in by steep banks, and still overshadowed by the forest, descends rather rapidly towards the before named river; and this narrow pass, being the only outlet from the forest in this direction, has, from its celebrity in days past as a place of danger, received the name of the Boca de Leones—mouth of the lions.

On emerging from the pass, a wide and carefully cultivated valley presents itself. The river which fertilizes it, here makes a considerable elbow; the chain of hills clothed by the Almoraima forest checking its southerly course, and directing it nearly due east towards the Mediterranean. To the north, the valley extends nearly ten miles, appearing to be closed by a conical mound that is crowned by the old castle of Ximena; the town itself being piled up on its eastern side.

The road to that place (eight miles) keeps along the right bank of the Sogarganta, which winds gracefully through the wide, flat-bottomed valley; but the track to Gaucin crosses by a ford to the opposite side of the stream, and, after advancing about four miles, inclines to the right, traverses a low range of hills, and comes down upon the river Guadiaro. This is crossed by means of a ferryboat, and leaving its bank, and proceeding in a northerly direction, the road passes over a gently undulated country for several miles, and then begins to ascend a high wooded ridge on the right hand.

The ascent is long and tortuous, but tolerably easy, and the view, looking towards Ximena (distant about five miles) is very grand and imposing. The castellated crag, so proudly conspicuous an hour before, is now, however, shorn of all its importance; the superior elevation of the point from whence it is viewed, as well as the magnificence of the mountains that rise to the westward of Ximena—which now first burst upon the sight—making it appear but a pebble at their feet.

But scenery of a more varied and yet more magnificent kind awaits the traveller, at the pass by which the road traverses the ridge that he has now been nearly an hour ascending.

The lovely valley of the Genal[43] is there spread out to his enraptured gaze. On the left, embosomed in groves of orange, citron, and pomegranate trees, and shadowed with clustering vines, stands the picturesque town of Gaucin,—its boldly outlined castle perched on the crest of a rough ledge of rock that rises abruptly behind.

Stretching some way down the eastern side of the cragged mound, the advanced battlements of the Moorish stronghold terminate at the brink of a frightful precipice, which not only forbids all approach to the town in that direction, but threatens even some day to close up the narrow valley it overhangs.

Of the little stream that flows in the deep and thickly wooded ravine, an occasional glimpse only can be caught, as it turns coquettishly from side to side; but its general direction is marked by a succession of water-mills, as well as by a belt of orange and lemon groves, whose dark green foliage is easily distinguished from, and offers a pleasing variety to, the more brilliant tints of the surrounding forest. Beyond, however, where the valley becomes wider and more open, the stream may be distinctly traced lingering over its pebbly bed, and finally forming its junction with the Guadiaro.

The steep but graceful slopes of the mountain ridge that bounds the valley to the east are thickly clothed with cork, oak, chesnut, and ilex; whilst the rugged peaks of the Sierra Cristellina, in which it terminates towards Gibraltar, rise so precipitously as seemingly to defy even a goat to find footing. Over this chain may be seen the distant Sierra Bermeja, celebrated in Spanish history as the last refuge of the persecuted Moslems, and the eastern roots of which are washed by the Mediterranean.

Half an hour’s ride brings the traveller from the pass to Gaucin,—the descent being but short, and very gradual. Gaucin is a long straggling town, of semi-circular form, and is built partly under the rocky eminence occupied by the castle, partly on the southern slope of a narrow gorge that connects this stronghold with the more elevated Sierra del Hacho. The principal street, which traverses the place from west to east, is wider than most one is accustomed to see in old Moorish towns, and cleaner than any I have met with in modern Spanish cities. But nature has all the merit of endowing it with the latter virtue; having supplied it with copious springs, which, in their downward course, carry off all the usual impurities of Andalusian streets. The houses, though not good, are clean, and are decorated with a profusion of flowers of all sorts, that give out a delicious perfume; and in various parts of the town, a vine-clung trelliswork of canes is carried quite across the street, affording at the same time an agreeable shade and a pleasing vista. The first impression made by the town is therefore decidedly favourable.

We—(I ought by the way to have stated before now, that the party with which I travelled on this occasion consisted of four)—we therefore, I repeat, had to traverse the town from one end to the other, to arrive at the posada; which was indicated only by the short, inorthographical, but otherwise satisfactory and invigorating announcement, painted in large black letters on the whitewashed wall of the building—“Aqui se bende vuen bino.”[44]

A cockney could not have managed to make more mistakes between his v’s and w’s, than our Andaluz Posadero[45] had succeeded in compressing into this pithy advertisement;—hoping, however, that he held his plighted word in greater respect than the rules of Castillian grammar,[46] we spurred our horses through the half-opened porte cochÈre, and, À l’Espagnole, rode at once into the principal apartment of the hostelry.

The interior was far from giving the same cheering assurance that good entertainment was to be had for money, as was announced externally of the sale of good wine. I was as yet (I speak of my first visit to Gaucin) but a novice in Spanish travelling, and thought I had never seen a more wretched, uncomfortable, and in every way unpromising, place. But the day was already far spent, and the chance of our finding better accommodation by proceeding further on our journey was against us;—moreover, we had been assured (which by experience I afterwards learnt to be the case) that this was the only Parador fit for Caballeros between San Roque and Ronda.

It consisted of one long, windowless apartment, that from the number and variety of its inmates gave no bad idea of Noah’s ark. Three fourths of the dark smoky space served as a stable, wherein four rows of quadrupeds were compactly tethered; and, impatient for their evening meal, were neighing, braying, and bleating, with all the powers of their respective lungs. Amidst the filth and litter that covered the pavement, lay numberless pigs of all sizes, and every condition of life; some squeaking for mere squeaking’s sake, others grunting in all the discomfort of repletion. On the rafters overhead some scores of gallinaceous animals had congregated for the night; adding, nevertheless, their quota of noise to that of the lower region, whenever one of their number was abducted from the roost, to be hurried out of its peaceful existence, into a greasy olla. The remaining portion of the apartment served both as a refectory and a dormitory for the arrieros,—owners of the tethered quadrupeds—and also as a kitchen, where their various odoriferous suppers were preparing.

The mistress of the mansion—as wrinkle-visaged an old harridan as ever tossed off a bumper of aguadiente—assisted by her two daughters, was busily employed, plucking, drawing, dissecting, and otherwise preparing, divers rabbits, chickens, and other animals, to satisfy the craving appetites of her numerous guests; and cats innumerable were in close attendance, clawing and squabbling for the offal, which, to save all further trouble, was thrown to them on the floor.

The prospect was any thing but inviting; but, as I have said before, there was no alternative;—so, begging the Posadera to draw near, we requested she would inform us whether we could be accommodated with a lodging for the night. Having deliberately scanned the party, and ascertained to her satisfaction that it consisted entirely of Englishmen,—whose pockets Spaniards are apt to consider as inexhaustible as the mines of Mexico and Peru,—the old beldame, oiling her iron features into a species of smile, assured us we could be lodged con toda comodidad;[47] and screeching to her daughter Mariquita, she desired her to hand over the rabbit she was skinning to her hermanita[48] Frasquita, and show the Caballeros[49] to the Sala.[50]

Mariquita led us forthwith up a narrow rickety staircase, which, situated in a dark corner of the room, had escaped our observation; and into a small room, or rather loft, where she assured us we should be very quiet and comfortable; adding that it was always reserved for gente de pelo[51] like ourselves.

The only comfort apparent was the undisturbed possession of a space twelve feet square, enclosed by four bare walls: for of bedding or furniture of any sort it was quite destitute. We submitted with as good a grace as possible, but, after some persuasion, succeeded in procuring four mattresses to spread on the clay floor; as many pairs of clean sheets and pillows; and some pie-dishes to serve as wash-hand basins. We then descended, to have some further conversation with our hostess concerning supper.

The landlady’s reply to our first question, “what can we have?” was gratifying in the extreme—viz. “lo que ustedes gusten”—“just what you please.” But, discovering by our next, more explicit demand, “what can you give us?” that we depended upon the resources of the posada for our evening meal, her astonishment knew no bounds, and her doubts of the Potosi state of our purses became very evident. Leaving, therefore, the delicate affair to be explained and settled by one of our servants, who, being an old traveller, understood how to negociate these matters, we proceeded to examine the ruined castle, ere the sun had sunk below the horizon.

A rugged zig-zag pathway—along which, at stated intervals, are represented the various sufferings and indignities endured by our Saviour on his way to Mount Calvary—leads to the summit of the rocky ledge. The fortress that crowns it must, in the days of the Moors, have possessed great military importance, as it completely commands the valley, and consequently all the roads leading through it, towards the coast. It is now merely a picturesque ruin; its Artillery being dismounted, its wells choked up, and its battlements overgrown with ivy. A chapel dedicated to the NiÑo Dios[52] is apparently the only thing within its precincts deemed worthy of preservation.

The view from this spot is very extensive and beautiful, but hardly so fine as one (which will be hereafter noticed) that presents itself some miles higher up the valley, when the castle itself becomes one of the principal features of the landscape, whilst the distant scenery remains the same.

Returning to the Posada, we lighted our cigars; and, feeling sensibly the change in the temperature of this elevated region, we joined the natives assembled round the fireplace, who, with the courtesy natural to all Spaniards, immediately rose and offered us the seats of honour.

The portion of the apartment allotted to the human kind had now become crowded with persons of all sorts and conditions; for the animals being peacefully engaged at their evening repast, their owners thought it time to be looking after their’s. Some, indeed, had already satisfied the cravings of nature from their own wallets and pig-skins, and, taking time by the forelock, were stretched full length on the floor; their Mantas and Capas serving them for mattresses and coverlets, their saddles and alforjas for bolsters and pillows. Others, seated on low stools composed of junks of cork, had resolved themselves into committees, to discuss the merits of a Gazpacho caliente,[53] or direct their inquiries into the hidden treasures of a savoury olla. Some were assisting the hostess and her somewhat pretty daughters, in their culinary operations; and many were assembled round the wide chimney piece, drinking, smoking, manufacturing papelitos for the morrow’s consumption, and relating their adventures.

Here also were seated several of the village magnates, who repair nightly to this convenient rendezvous, as well to indulge a natural propensity to gossip, as to hear the news from La Plaza, and negotiate with the arrieros for their contraband cottons and tobacco.

The whole presented an interior quite suited to the pencil of a Teniers. A bright wood fire sparkled on the wide hearth, shedding a brilliant red light upon the group of animated figures assembled in its immediate vicinity, and here and there also picking out some conspicuous figure from the more distant parties. The back ground was in deep Murillo shade, excepting on one side; where the flickering flame of a solitary lamp, contrasting its pale light with that of the fire, cast a yellow tinge on the squalid features of the hostess and her helpmates, round whom the eyes of some dozen of cats danced like monster fireflies. A well polished batterie de cuisine; sides of bacon; ropes of onions; platters; goblets and tobacco smoke, were not wanting to fill up the picture. But it was perfect without the aid of such accessories; the spirit and expression of each actor in the Spanish scene, and the diversity of costume, giving it a decided superiority over a picture of the “Flemish School;” in which foaming pots of beer, and a melting frau, must needs be introduced, to extract animation from the stolid features of the assembled boors.

The lower order of Spaniards have a great deal of racy humour which renders them admirable raconteurs. The arrieros assembled round the fire on the present occasion were relating some story of the barbarous treatment received by a good Capuchin friar, at the hands of some wicked ladrones,[54] who, finding he possessed nothing worth being plundered of, had bastinadoed his feet until he could not walk, tied his hands together, enveloped him in a goat skin, fastened a pair of ram’s horns on his head, a bell to his rosary, and suspending that from his neck, had left him to crawl as he best could, to the nearest village.

This tale, though not addressed to him, was evidently intended for the ears of a monk of the same mendicant order, who, pale and trembling, sat in one corner of the chimney place, listening, with open-mouthed attention, to every word the arrieros said; at the same time counting his beads without intermission, and crossing himself devoutly at the relation of each fresh act of barbarity practised on his unfortunate brother.

From the significant glances that from time to time passed between the narrators,—for several of the assembled group came forward to vouch for the truth of the story,—and latterly between them and ourselves, when they saw we were aware of the drift of their joke; it was evidently all fiction; but the tale was told with such minute details, and its veracity maintained by so many asseverations, that any one, not seeing the by-play, might easily, like the unhappy monk, have been made the victim of the hoax.

“Caramba!” at length exclaimed the Alcalde mayor[55] of Gaucin, who occupied one corner of the fireplace—“Caramba! this is a strange story! and it is most extraordinary, that in my official capacity”—this was said with a certain magisterial air—“I should not have been made acquainted with it. Pray tell me; when did this happen? and what became of the pious man?”—“With respect to the time,” said another muleteer, taking up the story, “I cannot precisely inform you; but that matters little; be satisfied that, in the narration of the story, no se salga un punto de la verdad.[56] As for the friar, he crawled to the nearest village, driving before him all the cattle he encountered on the road, like mad things—asses braying—dogs barking; and cows with their tails in the air as erect as palm trees. The inhabitants took the alarm; and, snatching up their niÑos and rosarios, scampered off without listening to what the Padre was crying:—indeed the louder he hallooed to them to stop, the faster they ran; for they all thought it was the devil that was at their heels.”—“And I believe think so to this day,” joined in another arriero, taking his cigar from his mouth, and rolling forth a long cloud of smoke—“for at last, the village priest, seizing upon a crucifix in one hand, and an escopeta[57] in the other, and repeating a heap of Ave Marias, Pater nostres, and credos, went out to meet the beast. On getting within gunshot, he presented the escopeta (for I saw it myself, though he said afterwards it was the crucifix,) upon which the figure fell prostrate on the ground. So then the Cura went up to it, and, after a few minutes, beckoned the people forward, and told them how he had cast a devil out of a good Capuchin, and showed the skin and horns he had kept as trophies. The skin was cut up and sold to the bystanders for charms against the evil one; and the friar was placed on an ass, and conveyed to the Cura’s dwelling, where he remained until his feet were healed. He then returned to his convent, telling every body that he had been assailed by devils in the form of contrabandistas, and that a miracle had been wrought in his favour.”

Here all crossed themselves—arrieros inclusive.

Others of the muleteers were bandying compliments with the crabbed old landlady; one swearing that her wine was as sweet as her face; another that her breath was more savoury than a chorizo;[58] a third that his chocolate was less clear than her complexion: all which jokes she bore with stoical indifference, returning generally, however, a Rowland for an Oliver.

At length our supper was announced, and we betook ourselves to the loft, where we found four chairs and a low table had been added to the furniture. Our meal consisted of a stewed fowl, that had been pulled down from the roost before our eyes, not an hour before; an omelet abounding in onion and garlic; and, what we found far more palatable, ham and bread and butter, which we had taken care to come provided with.

I must not, however, omit to do justice to the Gaucin wine, which is excellent, and has much the flavour of a sound Niersteiner. The best is grown on the side of the Hacho, or peaked mountain above the town.

All the wine of the Serrania is good, when not flavoured with aniseed; but it must be “drunk on the premises;” for the vile habit of carrying it in pig-skins is sure to give it some bad taste—either of the skin itself, if new, or of its preceding contents, (probably aniseed brandy) if old. I tried in vain to get some pure Guacin wine conveyed to Gibraltar, but it had always a “smack” of the unclean animal’s skin.