Crossing
A Bridge, We Presently Found Ourselves In A Deep Gorge Amongst The
Mountains, Down Which Rushed An Impetuous Rivulet, Overhung By The
High Road Which Leads Into Galicia.
We were in the far-famed pass
of Fuencebadon.
It is impossible to describe this pass or the circumjacent region,
which contains some of the most extraordinary scenery in all Spain;
a feeble and imperfect outline is all that I can hope to effect.
The traveller who ascends it follows for nearly a league the course
of the torrent, whose banks are in some places precipitous, and in
others slope down to the waters, and are covered with lofty trees,
oaks, poplars, and chestnuts. Small villages are at first
continually seen, with low walls, and roofs formed of immense
slates, the eaves nearly touching the ground; these hamlets,
however, gradually become less frequent as the path grows more
steep and narrow, until they finally cease at a short distance
before the spot is attained where the rivulet is abandoned, and is
no more seen, though its tributaries may yet be heard in many a
gully, or descried in tiny rills dashing down the steeps.
Everything here is wild, strange, and beautiful: the hill up which
winds the path towers above on the right, whilst on the farther
side of a profound ravine rises an immense mountain, to whose
extreme altitudes the eye is scarcely able to attain; but the most
singular feature of this pass are the hanging fields or meadows
which cover its sides. In these, as I passed, the grass was
growing luxuriantly, and in many the mowers were plying their
scythes, though it seemed scarcely possible that their feet could
find support on ground so precipitous: above and below were drift-
ways, so small as to seem threads along the mountain side. A car,
drawn by oxen, is creeping round yon airy eminence; the nearer
wheel is actually hanging over the horrid descent; giddiness seizes
the brain, and the eye is rapidly withdrawn. A cloud intervenes,
and when again you turn to watch their progress, the objects of
your anxiety have disappeared. Still more narrow becomes the path
along which you yourself are toiling, and its turns more frequent.
You have already come a distance of two leagues, and still one-
third of the ascent remains unsurmounted. You are not yet in
Galicia; and you still hear Castilian, coarse and unpolished, it is
true, spoken in the miserable cabins placed in the sequestered
nooks which you pass by in your route.
Shortly before we reached the summit of the pass thick mists began
to envelop the tops of the hills, and a drizzling rain descended.
"These mists," said Antonio, "are what the Gallegans call bretima;
and it is said there is never any lack of them in their country."
"Have you ever visited the country before?" I demanded. "Non, mon
maitre; but I have frequently lived in houses where the domestics
were in part Gallegans, on which account I know not a little of
their ways, and even something of their language." "Is the opinion
which you have formed of them at all in their favour?" I inquired.
"By no means, mon maitre; the men in general seem clownish and
simple, yet they are capable of deceiving the most clever filou of
Paris; and as for the women, it is impossible to live in the same
house with them, more especially if they are Camareras, and wait
upon the Senora; they are continually breeding dissensions and
disputes in the house, and telling tales of the other domestics.
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