Galicia, the Switzerland of Spain

by Annette M. B. Meakin

to Portugal, and while we were writing them a group of respectably-dressed boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen gathered round us and watched us as we wrote. On my laughingly remonstrating with the postmaster, he replied, “You need not mind the boys; not one of them knows how to read.” So much for education in Portugal in the twentieth century!

CHAPTER XXII
ORENSE

Our last view of Tuy Cathedral—Scenery between Tuy and Orense—Ribadavia—Boundaries of Orense—Crossing the Miño—The Puente Mayor—The hot springs—Their usefulness—The Cathedral of Orense—Its Pórtico de Gloria—The wonderful crucifix—The cloister—Santa Eufemia—Fight for her body—The oxen decide—Cardinal Quevado—Sculpture brought from Italy—Wood-carving—Spanish enamels—A silver crucifix—The reredos—The Orense Museum—Stone sarcophagi—Roman mosaics—A strange musical instrument—The Gallegan bagpipe—Orense and the Sueves—The Monastery of San Francisco—La Trinidad—Allariz—An interesting church—Convent of Santa Clara—Allariz mentioned by Ptolemy—Strongly fortified—Aquasantas—The parish church—San Pedro de la Mezquita—Junquera de Ambia—El Mosteiro

WE rose early on a glorious April morning to catch the first train to Orense. The sun shone brilliantly, and the outline of the blue-grey hills with which Tuy is surrounded stood out clear and distinct. On some of these peaks there are still the ruins of fortifications raised by the ancient Celts when they fled from the Romans in the valley. As the railway omnibus was taking us through the pine woods to the station, we caught, at a bend in the road, a view of the Cathedral of Tuy. “What ancient castle is that?” I inquired of a fellow-passenger. “It is the Cathedral,” he replied, smiling. This was the second time that I had mistaken that edifice for a mediæval stronghold.

The line from Tuy to Orense runs through scenery more beautiful than that of the Austrian Tyrol. For a long time the winding Miño is visible close beneath the train windows, as it makes its way through the verdant valley, banked by mossy boulders and clumps of pine or chestnut trees, and now and again rushing through narrow ravines. The first station we passed was that of Salvatierra, near which towered a mediæval fortress almost hidden by ivy, while, dotted about, were some little houses painted red. Terraces of vines now covered the sloping hills; every now and again we were in the thick of a pine wood. The station in the pine wood was Nerves: between it and Arbo the Miño’s bed grew very narrow and stony, and the waters foamed as they forced their way between the boulders; then they whirled round in an eddy, and the next minute we were looking at a sparkling waterfall, below which a peasant sat fishing with a very long line. At Pousa, the next station, we compared the architecture of the houses on the Portuguese side of the water with that of the Spanish houses on the opposite bank: the Portuguese houses were larger and more commodious in appearance. Steep mountains walled us in as we neared the station of Freira, and our train described a curve or loop worthy of the Canadian Rockies. After the next station, Filgueira, the river burst from its granite ravine and fled round the circular base of a conical mountain.

We had now reached Ribadavia, and the country on all sides was covered with vine terraces. Ribadavia, hardly more than a large village in the district of Ribadavia, in the province of Orense, was once an important town. Garcia, king of Galicia, the son of Ferdinand the Great, had his Court at Ribadavia, and his palace stood on the spot now occupied by a Dominican convent. There are two churches at Ribadavia that are well worth a visit—the conventual Church of Santo Domingo, and the Church of Santiago. The former is a good specimen of Gallegan architecture, with its wooden roof and its whitewashed granite walls and arches; the latter has an interesting Romanesque window.

Orense, it will be remembered, is one of the four provinces into which modern Galicia is divided. It is bounded on the north by the provinces of Pontevedra and Lugo, on the south by Portugal, on the east by Zamora and Leon, and on the west by Pontevedra and Portugal. Its most important rivers are the Miño, the Sil, the Limia, and the Bibey. The chief town, Orense, is situated in an extensive and luxuriant valley which lies in the midst of mountains, many of them having summits of bare rock devoid of all vegetation. Orense is a clean, bright little town, with more movement in its streets than is usual in Gallegan towns; it is in closer connection with Madrid than the others, and has not that mediæval look so characteristic of the province.

The river Miño lies between the railway station and the town, and is crossed by an exceedingly fine bridge, which is acknowledged to be one of the sights of Orense. Molina wrote of it that its principal arch was so high and of such a width that the Miño could flow beneath the central arch alone—even after its waters had been swollen by the reception of its many effluents—without touching the other arches. This bridge, the Puente Mayor, had originally nine arches, but several of them disappeared at the time of its renovation. Until about 1830, a mediæval fortress was still standing by the bridge, but it had to be removed on account of its ruinous condition. This bridge is the highest in Spain, as well as one of the finest.

Our first walk in Orense was to Las Burgas, the hot springs, which have been known and appreciated by the inhabitants of Orense ever since the days of the Romans. These springs have never been known to decrease or to increase: the flow of their waters is always the same both in summer and winter. Their water keeps hot longer than is the case with boiled water. The water of one of the springs is hotter than that of the other; it can be drunk cold, it has neither colour, taste, nor smell; the water of the other is sulphurous. Descending a flight of stone steps, I found the water of the first spring flowing through a granite wall beneath an arch decorated with sculpture into a stone basin; a small space round it was paved with granite and enclosed with a railing, in front of which there was a small public garden laid out with paths between its flower-beds. The water which overflowed from the basin ran into a large tank, and here a group of women were engaged in washing linen. The sight that met my eyes in the neighbourhood of the second spring was less pleasing; here women were busy scalding and skinning poultry at one tank, while at another they were cooking meat in the seething water. There are butchers’ shops close by, and their meat is carried down to the springs to be washed and cleaned before being exposed for sale. I noticed that the women who were employed in skinning and cleaning the carcases were standing with their bare feet ankle deep in bloody water, on which there floated the usual refuse of a butcher’s shop. The place might easily have been mistaken for a slaughter-house. My guide informed me that on the occasion of a visit paid to the springs last year by the present King of Spain, the whole place was cleaned up and carefully prepared for the Royal visit.