These “Unicorns” proved really better bulls than at many of the formal corridas. Three young and rising matadors despatched the animals—two each. They were Galindo, Gavira, and Parrao—both the latter excellent. Gavira looked as if he might take first rank in his order, while Parrao displayed a coolness in the lidia such as we had seldom before seen—even to stroking the bull’s nose—while in the final scene he went in to such close quarters, “passing” the animal at half arm’s-length, that the whole 10,000 in the Plaza held their breath. Parrao will become a first-flighter, unless he is caught, which certainly seems the more natural event.
That evening we were hospitably entertained at the British Embassy, where our host, the Chargé d’Affaires, regretted that the short fourteen-days’ Ortolan season had just that morning expired. Thus, quite unconsciously, was an ornithological fact elucidated.
Next morning we were away by an early train, and after five hours’ journey joined our staff, as prearranged. But here we committed the mistake of quartering in a country-town on the banks of the Tagus, instead of encamping in the open country outside. Bitterly did we regret having allowed ourselves to be thus persuaded. Long summer heats and parching drought had destroyed what primitive system of natural drainage may have existed in Talavera de la Reina and produced conditions that we revolt from describing. Oh! those foul effluvia amidst which men live, and feed, and sleep!
With intense delight, but splitting headaches, we left the plague-spot at earliest dawn and set out for the mountain-land. For thirty odd miles our route traversed a highland plateau; a group of five great bustard, gasping in the noon-day heat, lay asleep so near the track that we tried a shot with ball. Farther north, near Medina del Campo, we had also observed these grand game-birds feeding on the ripening grapes in the vineyards. Packs of sand-grouse (Pterocles arenarius) with musical croak flew close around. Spanish azure magpies abounded wherever our route passed through wooded stretches, and we also observed doves, bee-eaters, stonechats, crested and calandra larks, ravens, and over some cork-oaks wheeled a serpent-eagle showing very white below.
Towards evening the track began to ascend through the lower defiles of the great cordillera that now pierced the heavens ahead. Presently we entered pinewoods, resonant at dusk with the raucous voices of millions of wingless grasshoppers or locusts (we know not their precise name) that live high up in pines. Never before had we heard such strident voice in an insect.
At 4000 feet we encamped beneath the pines by a lovely trout-stream. This was the rendezvous whereat by arrangement we met with our old friends the ibex-hunters of Almanzór—savage perhaps to the eye, yet beyond all doubt radiantly glad to welcome back the foreigners after a lapse of years. No mere greed of dollars inspired that enthusiasm, but solely the bond of a common passion that bound us all—that of the hunter. It was, however, but sorry hearing to listen to the reports they told us around the camp-fire. Everywhere the ibex were yearly growing scarcer, dwindling to an inevitable vanishing-point, former haunts already abandoned—or, we should rather say, swept clean. Where but a score of years before, 150 ibex had been counted in a single montería, our friends reckoned that exactly a dozen survived. One remark especially struck us. “There remained,” with glee our friends assured us, “one magnificent old goat, a ram of twelve years, out there on the crags of Almanzór.” One! To one sole big head had it dwindled?
The valley of the Tagus divides two geological periods, and perhaps at one time divided Europe from a retiring Africa. Marked differences distinguish the fauna on either side of the river, and that of the north (with its 10,000 feet altitude) promised reward worthy the labours of investigation. Not a yard of that great mountain-land of Grédos has been trodden by British foot (save our own) since the days of Wellington. Hence it was an object with us to secure, not only ibex heads, but specimens of the smaller mammalia that dwell in those heights. Our mountain friends assembled round the camp-fire—twenty-five in all—each promised to take up this unaccustomed quest and to regard as game every hitherto unconsidered bicho of the hills, whether feathered, furred, or scaled. If ibex failed us, at least a harvest in such minor game we meant to assure.[34]
Three o’clock saw us astir, bathing in the dark burn while moonlight still streamed through sombre pines. Camp meanwhile was broken up; tents and gear packed on ponies and mules, breakfast finished—we were off, heavenwards. Then, just as the laden pack-animals filed through the burn, there rode up a man—he had ridden all night—and bore a message that changed our exuberant joy to grief—bad news from home.
There could be no doubt—the writer must return at once. Within five minutes I had decided to make for a point on the northern railway beyond the hills and distant some sixty miles as the crow flies. Baggage and battery were abandoned; a handbag with a satchel of provisions and a wine-skin formed my luggage, and, leaving my companions in this wild spot, I set forth in the grey dawn on a barebacked mule devoid of saddle, bridle, or stirrups, and accompanied by two of our hill-bred lads, one riding pillion behind or running alongside in turn.