On Saturday, The Tenth Of June, I Left Salamanca For Valladolid.
As The Village Where We Intended To Rest Was Only Five Leagues
Distant, We Did Not Sally Forth Till Midday Was Past.
There was a
haze in the heavens which overcast the sun, nearly hiding his
countenance from our view.
My friend, Mr. Patrick Cantwell, of the
Irish College, was kind enough to ride with me part of the way. He
was mounted on a most sorry-looking hired mule, which, I expected
would be unable to keep pace with the spirited horses of myself and
man, for he seemed to be twin brother of the mule of Gil Perez, on
which his nephew made his celebrated journey from Oviedo to
Penaflor. I was, however, very much mistaken. The creature on
being mounted instantly set off at that rapid walk which I have so
often admired in Spanish mules, and which no horse can emulate.
Our more stately animals were speedily left in the rear, and we
were continually obliged to break into a trot to follow the
singular quadruped, who, ever and anon, would lift his head high in
the air, curl up his lip, and show his yellow teeth, as if he were
laughing at us, as perhaps he was. It chanced that none of us was
well acquainted with the road; indeed, I could see nothing which
was fairly entitled to that appellation. The way from Salamanca to
Valladolid is amongst a medley of bridle-paths and drift-ways,
where discrimination is very difficult.
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