Galicia, the Switzerland of Spain

by Annette M. B. Meakin

It was a glorious day, the 23rd of March, that we chose for our journey from Santiago to Noya, and so hot that we were glad to leave off some of our winter clothing. There is no railway to Noya, but a coach goes there twice every day, and the journey takes a little over five hours. Our coach started at two p.m.; the inside was like a box that would hold six people, three on each side, with an upper storey covered with a double or telescopic hood, which was filled with “second-class” passengers. The Easter holidays began that day, so most of our fellow-passengers were students from the University going home for Easter. They were sprightly young fellows, with bright faces and strong limbs; it was a pleasure to see them get out and walk up the hills. One of them picked a lovely bunch of violets and handed them in to us at the coach window. From the very start the scenery was beautiful; we were out among the giant hills and fertile valleys in a few minutes, there being no ugly suburbs to pass through. Noya lies, as we have seen, upon the sea level, but the road thither from Santiago runs first down into a valley and then up, up, up to the ridge of a very high hill, much higher than Santiago. Here the air grew rare and bracing, and the scenery was like that between Pitlochrie and Braemar. We passed innumerable castros and tumuli, and saw far off on the summit of a conical hill, which commanded the surrounding valleys for many miles, the fine old castle of Altamira. The family of Altamira is one of the oldest, and still one of the greatest in Spain; but I hear that they are letting that fine old castle crumble to ruin! Many a peasant with his bullock cart met us on the road, and we always knew of a cart’s approach by the distant sound of musical cartwheels, and once or twice, when three carts joined in the chorus, the “singing” became very loud; I felt inclined to put my fingers in my ears. A fellow-passenger remarked that the oxen needed some such sound to cheer them on their way, and that the children always sing to their oxen when leading them in the fields, because it makes them work better. A little farther on, as we were passing close to a castro, another passenger explained that it was to these vantage points that the Celts are supposed to have fled at the approach of an enemy. It is in such places as these that the golden torques are found. Many Roman coins have been found in these castros, a fact which has led to the belief that the Romans in their turn employed them as camps.

From a passenger on the return journey I learned that some of these hills were rich in copper and iron, which ought to be worked, and would be, but for the fact that Spaniards prefer to keep their money in paper under lock and key! My informant, who was an elderly resident of Noya, said that he had himself discovered in his youth the remains of an ancient tin mine, and had made many vain attempts to interest capitalists and resuscitate the industry. Not far from Noya there are some iron mines, but they belong to Englishmen; they are called Minas de Vilacoba, and almost as many women are employed there as men.

Many of the mountain valleys were full of oak trees, while others were covered with waving rye (secale cereale), wheat, and other cereals. The highest part of the road lay for about a mile and a half between green hills mostly covered with furze and without any trees, but when we began to descend the landscape changed; in place of the Scotch Highlands we seemed to have arrived at the pine-crested rocks of Norway. The pines looked like Christmas trees covered with tall brown candles; these “candles” were some of them a foot and a half long, and in the sun they looked a rich reddish bronze. Waterfalls foamed between the mossy crags and boulders, and picturesque bridges spanned the mountain streams. One bridge, consisting of a single semicircular arch over a small stream, was clearly a relic of Roman days. We passed, half hidden by the trees, some four or five paper mills worked by the gushing water.

At last dwelling-houses came in sight, white-washed granite cottages roofed with red tiles; they were nearly square, with about four rooms to each. The road now descended rapidly, and we passed to our right a picturesque dell surrounded on three sides by a noisy waterfall, in which stood an old monastery and its church, San Justo de los Tojosutos, so named because the slope upon which the dell is situated is covered with tall furze (tojo). The little church, whose spire rises up to a level with the sides of the dell, dates from the twelfth century. We could see part of the beautiful arcade of the ruined cloister from the coach as we passed. No monks have lived there since its monastic inmates were turned out, but I was told that this little cloister was once used as a place of banishment for monks of Osera who had broken the monastic rules. The modern building adjoining is the house of the village priest. All the pasture land on the hills round the dell and the two neighbouring valleys, right down to the bank of the Tambre, once belonged to the monks, and they had a right to all the fish caught in that part of the river, which, by the way, was particularly rich in lampreys. People say that the kindness and generosity of the monks towards the poor did much to encourage idleness and increase the number of paupers.

We were at last nearing Noya; women were at work in the fields; they wore very short skirts, hardly below the knees, and wide-brimmed yellow straw hats with a band of black ribbon round the low crown; the men also wore this kind of hat, the manufacture of which is the special industry of one of the Noya villages. A young peasant woman met us as she was leading her oxen home. She was as upright as a young pine; perhaps her queenly bearing was a result of carrying burdens on her head, and certainly Gallegan women do hold themselves remarkably well. At a bend in the road we caught sight of the sea for a moment in the direction of Cape Finisterre. The scenery remained beautiful and rugged till we had reached the bottom of the wide valley in which Noya lies. In front of one of the cottages we saw a quaint sight,—a cottager was mounted on a ladder with a mortar trowel in his hand doing something to the roof, while beneath him, motionless as a statue, stood a tall woman supporting on her broad-brimmed hat the board from which the man helped himself to mortar. Here was another use to which the head of a Gallegan woman could be put.

The coach drew up in a sort of village green, near a fountain, and in front was the public walk, or Alameda. The first thing that attracts a stranger’s attention is a bust of Noya’s

NOYA

PHOTO. BY AUTHOR