C. Rochfort? Scott

JOURNEY TO RONDA CONTINUED—A WORD ON THE PASSPORT AND BILL OF HEALTH NUISANCES, AND SPANISH CUSTOM-HOUSE OFFICERS—ROMANTIC SCENERY—SPLENDID VIEW—BENADALID—ATAJATE—FIRST VIEW OF THE VALE OF RONDA—A DISSERTATION ON ADVENTURES, TO MAKE UP FOR THEIR ABSENCE—LUDICROUS INSTANCE OF THE EFFECTS OF PUTTING THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE.

“A quien madruga, Dios le ayuda,”[59] is a common Spanish saying; and though our hard beds took off much from the merit of our early rising, it nevertheless brought its reward, by enabling us to witness a sunrise scene of most surpassing beauty.

Partaking of a cup of chocolate,—a breakfast that every Arriero indulges in,—a slice of bread fried in hog’s lard—which is a much better thing, and quite as wholesome, as breakfast bacon—we lit our cigars, paid our bill—a little fortune to the lady of the hostel—and bestrode our horses without more delay.

In this part of Spain passports are not included amongst the drags upon travelling. You should be provided with one, in case of getting into trouble of any kind; but, excepting during the prevalence of the cholera, I never, in any of my numerous peregrinations, was even asked to produce it. I happened at that particular period (1833) to have undertaken the journey from Gibraltar to Madrid. The disease was raging with fatal violence on the banks of the lower Guadalquivir, and, spreading Eastward, had appeared in various towns and villages at the foot of the SerranÍa de Ronda. At the same time, reports were rife of its existence at Malaga, Estepona, and other places situated on the shores of the Mediterranean. I had therefore to thread my way to Cordoba, (where I hoped to fall in with the diligence from Seville to the capital) through the heart of the SerranÍa, and was obliged in some cases to avoid particular towns lying in the direct route, because—though no suspicion existed of their being infected with the dreadful disease—they chanced to be within the limits of the kingdom of Seville, which was placed, in toto, under the ban of quarantine.

My passport, or, more properly speaking, my bill of health—for the political importance of the former yielded to the sanatory consequence of its more humble-looking adjunct—was then in great request; the entrance to every little village being interdicted, until the constituted authority had come forward to see that all was right. On one of these occasions, I found a beggar officiating as inspector of health and passports, and I must do him the justice to say, that he performed his duty in the most honourable manner, not asking for “una limosnita par el amor de Dios”[60] until he had carefully examined every part of the lengthy document, and pronounced it to be corriente.[61]

On another occasion, a swineherd was decorated with the yellow cockade and sword of office. In this instance, I thought the bill of the inn at San Roque (which I happened to have in my pocket-book) would answer every purpose, and save time. He examined it most gravely; turned it over and over—for it was rather a long and a very illegible MS.—said it was perfectly correct, (a point on which we differed most materially) and dismissed me with a vaya usted con Dios.[62]

On my present tour, however, we experienced no obstructions of any sort; for custom-house barriers, though now and then met with at the large towns, occasion no longer delay than a turnpike in England, and are as regularly paid; the Aduanero[63] holding out his hand as openly and confidently for the bribe, as the gatekeeper does for his toll.

It is scarcely possible to imagine more romantic and, at the same time, more varied scenery than that which presents itself between Gaucin and Ronda. For the greater part of the first three leagues[64] (full fourteen English miles) to Atajate, the road winds along the summit of a low mountain chain, (I speak only as compared with the height of the neighbouring Sierras) the western side of which slopes gracefully to the clear and tortuous Guadiaro, whilst the eastern falls abruptly to the dark and rapid Genal.

In some places, the width of the mountain ridge exceeds but little that of the road itself; enabling the traveller to embrace the two valleys at one glance, and compare their respective beauties. The difference between them is very remarkable; for whilst the sides of both are clothed with the richest vegetation, yet the more gentle character of the one has encouraged the husbandman to devote his labour principally to the culture of corn, hemp, and the vine; whereas, the steep and broken banks of the other, being less accessible to the plough, are mostly planted with groves of fig, olive, chesnut, and almond trees; though vineyards are also pretty abundant. For the same reason, though both valleys are studded with villages, yet those along the sloping banks of the Guadiaro are large, and distant from each other; whilst, in the more contracted valley of the Genal, almost every isolated crag is occupied by a group of houses, or a dilapidated fortilage, mementoes of the Saracenic occupation; as the names, BenarrabÁ, BenastÉpar, Algatocin, Genalguacil, BenalhaurÍa, Benadalid, &c. sufficiently attest. Beyond the valleys on either side, rise chains of rugged mountains; some covered to their very peaks with dark forests of pine and ilex; others rearing their pointed summits beyond the bounds of vegetation.

The eastern chain is that which borders the Mediterranean shore between Estepona and Marbella; the western is the yet more lofty Sierra that divides the waters of the Guadiaro and Guadalete; directing the former to the Mediterranean, the latter to the Atlantic; and terminating in the ever-memorable headland of Trafalgar.

Through the passes between the huge peaks that break the summit of this bold range, an occasional glimpse may be caught of the low and far distant ground about Cadiz and Chiclana; but the view that most excites the traveller’s admiration is obtained from a knoll on the road side, about three miles from Gaucin, looking back on that place, and down the verdant valley of the Genal.

The ruins of the old Moorish fortress occupy the right of the picture, the cragged ridge on which it is perched jutting boldly into the valley, and (uncheered by the sun’s rays) standing out in fine relief from the bright, vine-clad slope of the impending Sierra del Hacho, and yet more distant mountains. To the left, the view is bounded by the rugged peaks of the Sierra Cristellina, from the foot of which a dense but variegated forest spreads entirely across the valley, wherein may here and there be traced the snake-like course of the impatient Genal.

Further on, the valley presents a wider opening; but the little stream still has to struggle for a passage amongst the wide spreading roots of the retiring mountains, which, overlapping each other in rapid succession, present, for many miles, a most singularly furrowed country.

Calpe’s fantastic peaks rear themselves above all these intermediate ridges, marking the boundary of Europe: whilst, to the left of the celebrated promontory, Ceuta may be seen, stretching far into the glassy Mediterranean, and to the right, the huge Sierra Bullones, (Apes hill) falling perpendicularly to the Straits of Gibraltar. In the extreme distance, the African mountains rise in successive ranges, until closed by the chain of the lower Atlas, the faint blue outline of which may be distinctly traced in this transparent atmosphere, although at a distance of at least one hundred miles.

It is a scene that amply repays the traveller for all the dÉsagrÉmens of his night’s lodging, and one which, numerous as were my visits to Gaucin, I always turned my back upon with regret. I do so even now, and proceed on to Ronda, leaving the villages of Algatocin and BenalhaurÍa, situated on the side of the mountain, to the right of the road, and about pistol-shot from it; and in a few miles more, descending by a rough zig-zag track (something worse than a decayed staircase) towards the little town of Benidalid; which, with its picturesque castle, stands also somewhat off the road, and immediately under a lofty tor of decomposed rock, distinguished by the name of the PeÑon de los Frailes,[65] and seems doomed, some day or other, to have the holy mound upon its shoulders.

The next and last village on the road is Atajate, distant about ten miles from Ronda. It is nestled in a narrow pass, overhung on one side by the mountain chain along which the road has hitherto been conducted, (and which here begins to rise considerably above it) and on the other, by a conical crag, whose summit is occupied by the picturesque ruins of a Moorish fortress.

In former ages, the houses of the hardy mountaineers, clustered round the base of the little fastness, must have been secure from all attack; and even now the pass, which here cuts the direct communication between Gibraltar and Ronda, (and consequently Madrid) might be held against a very superior force.

Immediately after passing Atajate, the character of the scenery undergoes a complete change. The mountains become more rugged and arid, rising in huge masses some thousand feet above the road, and are tossed about in curious confusion. Patches of corn and flax are yet here and there to be seen, and the valley beneath is still clothed with cork and ilex; but the vineyards, olive grounds, and chesnut groves, have altogether disappeared, and the villages are far apart, and distant from the road.

On advancing some little way further, all traces of cultivation cease. The road,—if a collection of jagged blocks of granite can be so called,—traverses a succession of perilous ascents and descents; sometimes being conducted along the brink of an awful precipice, at others carried under huge masses of crumbling rock. Here and there may, nevertheless, be traced the remains of a paved road, that, in the days of Spain’s pride, was made for the express purpose of transporting artillery and stores to the siege of Gibraltar. It is now—so sadly is Spain fallen!—purposely suffered to go to decay, lest it should offer facilities for making irruptions from that same fortress!

On drawing near the head of the valley, several narrow cut-throat passes present themselves, bringing forcibly to mind Don Quijote’s speech to his faithful squire, on reaching the Puerto Lapice, “Aqui, hermano Sancho, podemos meter las manos hasta los codos en esto que llaman aventuras.”[66] But, on gaining the summit of the chain, the country becomes more open, and the traveller again breathes freely. A few meagre crops of corn are scattered here and there between the rocks, and the bells of the fathers of a herd of goats are heard tinkling amongst the gorse and palmeta that fringe the feet of the impending tors, bespeaking the vicinity of fellow man, and giving the traveller a pleasing consciousness of security, whilst he checks his horse to gaze on the splendid scene before him: for here the lovely basin of Ronda first bursts upon his view, rich as Ceres and Pomona can make it.

In the centre of the verdant plain, but crowning the summit of an isolated rocky eminence, stands the shining city,—its patched and crumbling walls telling of many a protracted siege and desperate assault. Beyond, the view is bounded by a range of wooded mountains, that forms the western barrier of the secluded basin, and up the rough sides of which, the roads to Cadiz, Seville, and Xeres, may be traced, winding their tedious way.

The descent to Ronda is long, and, from the badness of the road, extremely wearying. The whole distance from Gaucin (about 25 miles) occupied us seven hours.

I regret much that my reader should have had to accompany me over this savage and romantic country—the reputed head-quarters of banditti—without encountering a single adventure; but the truth is, they are by no means so plentiful as people have generally been led to believe. I may speak with some confidence on this point; since, independently of my long residence in the immediate vicinity of this wild tract—during which every well authenticated case of outrage and robbery came to my knowledge—I have by personal experience been able to form a pretty correct estimate of the amount of danger incurred by the traveller. I have traversed the country, however, in all directions, and at all seasons; in all characters, and in all dresses. I have gone on foot, on horseback, en calesa, (where the roads admitted of my so doing) alone, attended by a single servant, in parties of four, six, and eight:—as a sportsman, en militaire, as a peasant, as a Majo: and yet I never “met with an adventure.”

It is true, I have had many very narrow escapes—that is to say, judging from the information I invariably received—for never did I leave a venta, that I was not mysteriously told the road I was about to take was the most dangerous in the whole SerranÍa; that I should be sure to encounter mala gente; and that it was but a few days before, a robbery—perhaps murder—had taken place, on that very road, attended with most heart-rending and appalling circumstances! But a little cross-questioning soon convinced me that my informant knew nothing of the who, the when, and the where, to which his tale referred; and the story was always reduced to a shrug of the shoulders and a se dice.[67]

The plain truth is, that almost every one the traveller comes in contact with is, in some way or other, interested in spreading these reports to create alarm. The Ventero[68] has a natural disinclination to part with a good customer, and hopes either to persuade his guest to hire additional horses and guides, or to detain him whilst he seeks for further information. The guide finds it his interest to alarm his employer, if only pour faire valoir ses services in piloting him clear of these reported Scyllas and Charybdises. The Contrabandista tries to frighten the stranger, that he may learn which road he is travelling and what is his business; the Arriero simply for his amusement.

The peasant alone has no purpose to serve in deceiving the traveller, neither has he any intention of so doing; for he himself implicitly believes all the stories he hears, and repeats them with the usual notes and addenda of a second edition. He never stirs out of a circle of a league and a half from his dwelling—that is, beyond the range of his herd of goats, or the nearest market town—and he hears these tales repeated night after night, at the venta chimney-piece—each arriero trying to outdo his brother in the marvellous and horrible—until he becomes convinced of their veracity, and repeats them as well authenticated facts.

The state of the country is also such, that when a robbery actually is committed—and such crimes will be perpetrated in the best regulated countries—the traveller hears of it from so many different people, but related with such various attendant circumstances, and stated to have occurred in so many different places, that he naturally multiplies it into a dozen at least. It is in this way that foreigners, who in general know but little of the language, and still less of the topography, of the country, become dupes to this system of deception, and adopt in consequence a most unfavourable opinion of Spanish honesty; regarding every fierce-looking fellow, with piercing black eyes, a three days’ beard, and a long knife stuck in his sash, as a robber; and every Cross on the road side as the memento mori of some waylaid traveller. Whereas, in point of fact, if this mountainous and intricate tract were peopled by our own more highly educated and civilized countrymen, I fear—in spite of our vigilant and, it must be confessed, admirable police—we should be liable to have our pockets picked in a much less delicate and unobtrusive manner, than is now practised in the streets of London.

That robberies and murders have taken place in this part of Spain, and sometimes been attended with most revolting cruelty, is most true; but they have almost always been perpetrated at a time that some unusual political excitement agitated the country, unnerving the arm of power, and even—as has often been the case—placing the civil authorities at the mercy of a ruffian band of undisciplined soldiers.

I regret, however, as before said, that though I courted adventure in every possible way, (as I think must be admitted) yet my suit was always unsuccessful; and since I cannot interest my reader with any account of my own personal risks, I will endeavour to amuse him, with the imaginary dangers of some of my countrymen, which at the same time will serve to show how easily a few simple words may, through ignorance of the language of the country, be made to tell a tale of direful import.

The occurrence to which I allude took place not many years since, when the country round Gibraltar was infested by a band of robbers, headed by a notorious miscreant named JosÉ Maria. Moving about from place to place with extraordinary rapidity, these scoundrels completely baffled all pursuit, but of course gave a wide berth to the garrisons of San Roque and Algeciras; so that the English officers were not deterred from sallying forth from Gibraltar with their fox-hounds, and pursuing the favourite national sport.

On one occasion, however, Renard had led them close upon the border of the Almoraima forest, and some of the party—perhaps a little “thrown out”—were making a short cut across a field of young barley, when, the owner of the thriving crop, perceiving the mischief the horses’ hoofs were doing, and unconscious of the value of the words “’ware corn,” cried lustily out to the red-coated gentry, in his own vernacular—“Fuera!—JesÚs! MarÍa! Josef! mi cibada! mi caÑamo! todo, se echarÀ À perder!”[69]

The wave of the arm that accompanied this exclamatory “Fuera!” clearly implied, be off; and the sportsmen, full of the exploits of the dread bandit, translating the words “Jesus, Maria JosÉ,” “By the Lord, here’s JosÉ Maria;” naturally concluded that the remainder of the sentence, (pronounced with much gesticulation) could mean nothing but save yourselves, or you’ll be hanged, drawn, and quartered. Not waiting, therefore, to lose time in questions, they set spurs to their horses, and rode ventre À terre into the English garrison.

Now the wonderful echo of Killarney is a joke compared to the reverberation that a story is sent back with, from the “four corners” in the High Street of Gibraltar. Accordingly, a report was soon spread, that JosÉ Maria had come down close to the Spanish lines, and made a capture of the “whole field,”—hounds, huntsmen, and whipper-in inclusive!

A statement of the case was instantly forwarded by an express boat to the Spanish General commanding at Algeciras; who, rejoicing at the opportunity of capturing the miscreant band which had so long eluded his vigilance, forthwith despatched “horse, foot, and dragoons,” to scour the country in all directions.

Of course their search was fruitless; but the laughable mistake that had occurred, from simply making JosÉ and Maria change places, was discovered only on the return of the other sportsmen, who, after “a capital run,” had secured Master Renard’s services for another occasion.