The river at this point, close to its confluence with the sea, has a width of two miles, but the long lateen-sail, bellying out before a gentle poniente, bore us rapidly to the silent strand, where our horses stood awaiting us under a giant pine. No short time was spent in landing baggage, for the falucha lay aground a stone's throw from the shore; but at length all was landed, stowed in the mule-packs, and we set out on the long ride.
It had been intended to have one "drive" this afternoon, but these delays, and the customary tardiness of Spanish trains and travel generally, frustrated this plan, and it was already dark ere the head of our cavalcade sighted the welcome light displayed from the turrets of the ancient shooting lodge of Doñana. Though now in a state of partial ruin, the old Palacio still shows signs of former grandeur, and has been, in bygone days, a favourite sporting retreat for more than one Spanish king. As we approached its glimmering lights amidst the darkness of a November evening, the resonant konk, konk! kerronk, kerronk! of the wild geese, the mournful cries of plover and curlew, and the startled splash of wild ducks, are evidence of its lonely marsh-girt site and prophetic of sport to come.
Around the pile of logs cheerily blazing in the spacious hearth we gather, relieved to find that all the transport and commissariat arrangements had this time come off without a hitch—no slight matter where everything, from a lemon or a hen's egg to a portable bath, from a match to a mattress, has to be transported on mule-back the whole forty miles of rough country (and river) we had just travelled. Our Galician cook and steward, half sportsman, half Bohemian, had come on two days in advance, and strangers were agreeably surprised to find anything to eat—except perhaps stewed lynx or fricasseed flamingo—in this outer wilderness. Then, as we gathered round the blazing hearth, enjoying such coffee and breva cigars as are only combined in Spain, the keepers come in with their reports—keepers of a different type to British ideals, Bartolo, Larrios, and Manolo, copper-skinned, pelt-clad and unkempt, and Trujillo, the guarda mayor, who enters with lordly salaam, his jacket hung on one great shoulder as on a peg—a picture of Cervantes' Quixote. These are four of the ten keepers who, from father to son, have occupied the posts on the property for generations.
The intention was to devote the first few days to the small game of the adjacent plains, but our first operation in the morning was a deer-drive. This, however, proved blank, for, though several were seen—five stags breaking back—none, except a few hinds and one bareta, or yearling stag, whose incipient horns (hardly longer than his ears) were not distinguished by the gun past whom he broke, came forward to the shooting line. The writer's position was on the crest of a sand-ridge, with only the covert of a dead cistus bush: nothing, however, tested his powers of concealment except a few partridge and a pack of stone-plovers. The sandy glen which the post commanded was, nevertheless, plentifully tracked over by deer, and three wild pigs had passed inwards into the covert that morning.
After this beat, shot-cartridges were substituted for ball, and for the rest of that day and several following ones caza menor was the order of the day. The system of small-game shooting adopted on these plains combines both walking up and driving at the same time, and requires a few words of description. It must be borne in mind that we always have on one side of us—towards the north and east—the marisma, practically at this season an inland sea, and upon this circumstance the system is based. The plan of campaign consists in driving the game down upon the marisma; a line of eight, ten or twelve guns each 100 or 150 yards apart, and with several beaters placed in the interval, is formed at a distance of three or four miles inland. This line occupies upwards of a mile in length, and as it advances towards the marisma, obviously encloses whatever game may be concealed in three or four square miles of country, the greater part of which (the game) has a fair chance of coming in the way of one point or another of the line of guns. Some care is needed to preserve the formation of the beat, which is done by mounted keepers, who also see that the "points" or wings are thrown slightly in advance.
Presently there occurs an obstacle; already we have waded through some wettish spots; but how is it possible to cross this broad lagoon? On the right a mancha, one of those thickets of tree-heath and brooms, all interlaced with thorny briars, bars the way: these manchas are impenetrable—we have proved this—save to the wild boar or the badger. In the other direction the water stretches far—we can see the mounted beaters already splashing through it. In England one does not walk through river, lake, or pond merely because it lies in one's course, but this is not England, and as, after all, the bottom is sound and moderately level, if one can keep the cartridges dry, the sun will soon dry the rest.
The density of the scrub varies also: sometimes for a short distance one has to push through thickets where every step is a struggle with hard dried cistus stems, and where broken ground, ravines and thorny jungle make perspiration flow, and ill conduce to taking those smart chances that offer overhead at inopportune moments.
To a northerner it is hard to believe that it is midwinter while almost every tree remains leaf-clad, and the brushwood all green and flower-spangled. Arbutus, rosemary and tree-heath (Erica arborea) are already in bloom; while bees buzz in the shoulder-high heather, and suck honey from its tricoloured blossoms—pink, purple and violet. Strange flies and winged creatures of many sorts and sizes, from gnat and midge to savage dragon-flies, rustle and drone in one's ear, or poise on iridescent wing in the sunlight, and the hateful hiss of the mosquito mingles with the insect-melody. Over each open flower of rock-rose or cistus hovers the humming-bird hawk-moth, with here and there one of the larger sphinxes (S. convolvuli), each with his long proboscis inserted deep in the tender calix. Not even the butterflies are entirely absent. We have noticed several gorgeous species at Christmas-time, including the painted lady and red admiral, the southern wood-argus, Bath white and clouded yellow, with Lycæna telicanus, Thäis polyxena, Megæra, and many more. On the warm sand bask pretty green and spotted lizards, apparently asleep, in the sunshine, but all alert to dart off on slightest alarm, disappearing like a thought in some crevice among the roots of the cistus.[67]