Valencia and Murcia, a glance at African Spain

by Albert Frederick Calvert

“When the vast plain awakes in the bluish light of dawn, the last of the nightingales that have sung through the night breaks off abruptly in his final trill, as though he had been stricken by the steely shaft of day. Sparrows in whole coveys burst forth from the thatched roofs, and beneath this aerial rabble preening their wings the trees shake and nod.

“One by one the murmurs of the night subside; the trickling of the water-courses, the sighing of the reeds, the barking of the watchful dogs, other sounds belonging to the day, grow louder and fill the huerta, the crow of the cock is heard from every farm, and the village bells proclaim the call to prayer borne across from the towers of Valencia, which are yet misty in the distance. From the farmyards arises a discordant animal concert—the neighing of horses, the bellowing of oxen, the clucking of hens, the bleating of lambs, the grunting of swine—the sounds produced by beasts that scent the keen odour of vegetation in the morning breeze and are hungry for the fields.

“The sky is suffused with light, and with light life inundates the plain and penetrates to the interior of human and animal abodes. Doors open creaking. In the porches white figures appear, their hands clasped behind their necks, scanning the horizon. From the stables issue towards the city milch cows, herds of goats, manure-carts. Bells tinkle between the dwarf trees bordering the high road, and every now and again is heard the sharp “Arre, Aca” of the drivers.

“On the thresholds of the cottages those bound for the town exchange greetings with those who stay in the fields. ‘Bon dia nos done Deu!’ [May God give us a good day!] ‘Bon Dia.’

“Immense is the energy, the explosion of life at midsummer, the best season of the year, the time of harvest and abundance. Space throbs with light and heat. The African sun rains torrents of fire on the land already crackled and wrinkled by its burning caresses, and its golden beams pierce the dense foliage, beneath which are hidden the canals and trenches to save them from the all-powerful vivifying heat.

“The branches of the trees are heavy with fruit. They bend beneath the weight of yellow grapes covered with glazed leaves. Like the pink cheeks of a child grow the apricots amid the verdure. Children greedily eye the luxurious burden of the fig-trees. From the gardens is wafted the scent of jasmin, and the magnolias dispense their incense in the burning air, laden with the perfume of cereals.

“The gleaming scythe has already sheared the land, levelling the golden fields of wheat and the tall corn-stalks which bowed beneath their heavy load of life. The hay forms yellow hills which reflect the colour of the sun. The wheat is winnowed in a whirlwind of dust; in the naked fields among the stubble sparrows hop from spot to spot in search of stray gleanings. Everywhere are happiness and joyous labour. Waggons go groaning down the road; children frolic in the fields and among the sheaves, thinking of the wheaten cakes in prospect, and of the lazy pleasant life which begins for the farmer when his barn is filled. Even the old horses stride along more gaily, cheered by the smell of the golden grain which will flow steadily into their mangers as the year rolls on.

“When the harvest has levelled the panorama and cleared the great stretches of wheat sprinkled with poppies, the plain seems vast, almost illimitable. Farther than the eye can reach stretch its great squares of red soil, marked off by paths and trenches. The Sunday’s rest is rigorously observed over the whole countryside. Not a man is seen toiling in the fields, not a beast at work on the road. Down the paths pass old women with their mantillas drawn over their eyes, and their little chairs hanging to their arms. In the distance resound, like the tearing of linen, the shots fired at the swallows, which fly hither and thither in circles. A noise seems to be produced by their wings ruffling the crystal firmament. From the canals rises the murmur of clouds of almost invisible flies. In a farm all painted blue, under an ancient arbour, there is a whirlwind of gaily-coloured shawls and petticoats, while the guitars with their drowsy rhythm and the strident cornets accompany the measures of the Valencian ‘Jota.’

“In the village the little plaza is thronged with the field-folk. The men are in their shirt-sleeves with black sashes and gorgeous handkerchiefs arranged mitre-like on their heads. The old men lean on their big Liria sticks. The young men, with sleeves turned up, display their red nervous arms and carry mere sprigs of ash between their huge knotted fingers.

“In the afternoon, towards the fountain along the road, bordered with poplars which shake their silvered foliage, go groups of girls with their pitchers on their heads. Their rhythmical movements and their grace recall the Athenian Canephori. This procession to the well lends to the huerta something of a Biblical character. The Fontana de la Reina is the pride of the huerta, condemned to drink the water of wells, and the red and dirty liquid of the canals. It is esteemed as an ancient and valuable work. It has a square basin with walls of reddish stone. The water is below the soil. You reach the bottom by means of six green and slippery steps. Opposite the steps is a defaced bas-relief, probably a Virgin attended by angels—no doubt an ex-voto of the time of the Conquest. Laughter and chatter are not wanting round the well. The girls cluster round, eager to fill their pitchers but in no hurry to depart. They jostle each other on the steps, with their petticoats gathered in between their legs, the better to lean forward and to plunge their vessels into the basin. The surface of the water is unceasingly troubled by the bubbles rising from the sandy bed, which is covered with weeds waving in the current.”