At Last We Did Get Together Courage Enough To Drive Twelve Miles Over
The Hills To Tarifa, But This Courage Was Pieced Out Of The Fragments Of
The Courage We Had Lost For Going To Cadiz By The Public Automobile
Which Runs Daily From Algeciras.
The road after you passed Tarifa was so
bad that those who had endured it said nobody could endure
It, and in
such a case I was sure I could not, but now I am sorry I did not
venture, for since then I have motored over some of the roads in the
state of Maine and lived. If people in Maine had that Spanish road as
far as Tarifa they would think it the superb Massachusetts state road
gone astray, and it would be thought a good road anywhere, with the
promise of being better when the young eucalyptus trees planted every
few yards along it grew big enough to shade it. But we were glad of as
much sun as we could get on the brisk November morning when we drove out
of the hotel garden and began the long climb, with little intervals of
level and even of lapse. We started at ten o'clock, and it was not too
late in that land of anomalous hours to meet peasants on their mules and
donkeys bringing loads of stuff to market in Algeciras. Men were plowing
with many yoke of oxen in the wheat-fields; elsewhere there were green
pastures with herds of horses grazing in them, an abundance of brown
pigs, and flocks of sheep with small lambs plaintively bleating.
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