MONASTERY AND CHURCH, CELANOVA
constantly seen peasant women with their distaffs spinning in the fields as they kept an eye on their cows.
The moon came out, and cast a silvery light upon our road for the last half of the journey, and the granite boulders stood out in great white masses on either side. The horses could see their way as if it had been broad daylight. As we neared Orense we could see the lights sometimes exactly in front of us, sometimes to our left, sometimes to our right, and occasionally they were exactly behind us, so much did the road curl and twine. It was past midnight before we entered the sleeping town.
There was yet another great monastery which I was anxious to see before leaving Orense—the beautiful ruined monastery of San Esteban de Rivas de Sil (St. Stephen on the Banks of the Sil); for I had heard that it was unquestionably the best example of the Flamboyant Gothic style in Galicia. The ruined monastery of San Esteban is situated on the crest of a hill which it takes some two hours and a half to climb, by a path too steep even for mules; and as there is no hotel at the foot of the hill and no refreshment-room at the top, it is a long pull to come out by train from Orense (a journey of one hour), climb the hill, explore the ruins, and return to Orense the same day. Consequently the excursion is very rarely undertaken. After much pondering as to how an easier and less fatiguing plan of campaign could be devised, I decided to travel by a morning train to the little railway station in the valley at the foot of the monastic cliff, and, after finding some cottager who could give me a night’s shelter on my return, proceed to climb up to the ruins. This plan succeeded admirably.
San Esteban is the third station from Orense, and the whole way thither is between verdant mountain slopes, and beside the rapidly flowing waters of the beautiful Miño. It was like making an expedition to a halting-place in the middle of the Aarlberg Pass, in the Austrian Tyrol, and then ascending one of its verdure-clad mountains. The hillsides were cut into steps or terraces wherever there was the smallest patch of cultivated soil. Here the steps were planted with cabbages, and there covered with smooth red soil, and sown with seed that had not yet appeared above the surface; here again were rows of peas whose pods were just forming, and yonder were steps one above the other, on which tall rye waved with every breath of wind; beyond were terraces of nursery fruit trees, and farther on the mountain was ribbed with brown steps that looked as if they must lead to some giant fortress held by men twice the size of puny mortals. As our train crawled along upon a ledge of rock some thirty feet from the foot of the mountain, we had many a little archlike tunnel to pass through. Rocks and crags now replaced the cultivated terraces, and the scene grew wilder, but even between the precipitous rocks and giant boulders there were clumps of rich green chestnut trees, paler walnuts, and apple, pear, and cherry trees, all covered with fresh foliage. Now came a foaming cascade hurling its waters from a height between two crags, and then a peaceful valley spread itself out before our eyes, and we could see the gleaming river darting through it. Vines now covered many of the slopes, and oaks and poplars grew so close to the railway that the train seemed as if it must touch them as it passed. Once more the river entered a mountain gorge, and boulders like mediæval castles hung out over its foam on both sides. We creep very slowly now, in and out, threading our way through innumerable little tunnels and over bridges beneath which there dash the furious waters of many a foaming cascade. Suddenly the river whose course we have been following seems to divide into two streams, one of which branches sharply to the right and disappears, while the other flows on below us in the rocky ravine.—What we really saw just then was the conjunction of Galicia’s two greatest and most historical rivers—the Miño and the Sil.—Our train has described half a circle in its attempts to find out a gulley from where this new river flows, and our line is about to complete the figure of an S when we draw up at the solitary station of San Esteban.
How glorious was the mountain air that greeted us as we stood upon the little railway platform in the midst of that magnificent pass, and there, opposite us, but so high up that we had to throw back our heads to see them, were the ruins of the monastery we had come to see. It was a wild and beautiful scene. There was only one cottage in sight, and thither we made our way; it stood upon a ledge higher than the station, a little farther along the course of the river. The old peasant and his wife gave us a dignified welcome, and readily promised to find me an escort to the monastery and a bed on my return. The view from the ledge on which the cottage stood was unique. Below us was another junction of rivers—the Cabe flowing into the Sil, and the waters of the two streams forming a figure like a Y in a bed of granite boulders between three steep verdure-clad mountains. It was on a high ledge of the mountain road round which the Sil
THE RIVER CABE, ORENSE