Muros is the name given to a juridical division of the province of Coruña, which comprises twenty-nine parishes and some forty thousand souls. The town of Muros, nestling in a fold of Mount Costina, has about three thousand inhabitants, who are chiefly engaged in fishing and sardine packing; it is divided into two parts, called respectively Gesta and Cerca. In the central square, or Plaza de los Toros, there is a tall Gothic clock tower which has been so much repaired that very little of its antiquity remains. The church, Santa Maria del Campo, was founded in 1504 by Diego Minguez. The port of Muros is a very good one, sheltered on three sides by lofty mountains, and opening into the Ria de Noya; it admits ships of every size and kind, and has a good beach for sea-bathing, and a mild temperature.[245] English sailing ships called at Muros long before they discovered Vigo, and the seafaring folk of Muros have visited for centuries the coasts of Scotland and England; they are energetic, and make a good deal of money. I had fully intended to visit Muros from Noya, but was obliged to abandon the project on account of the uncertainty of the journey. It takes five hours to cross the ria in fine weather, but if the weather is stormy one may be kept a prisoner at Muros for days together, and I could not risk so much time.
Muros is believed to have been founded by Greek colonists long before the Christian era, and the classic beauty of its women is attributed to the fact that the town never, till quite lately, had much intercourse with other places, and that the purity of the Greek type was thus handed down from one generation to another. My hostess in Santiago had talked much of Muros and its beautiful women; she described them as mostly fair-complexioned with very dark eyes, pearly teeth, and black hair, the latter so thick that when worn in a plait “you could not get your fingers round it, and so long that it reached to the feet.” “People turn in the street to look at a Muros woman,” she added; “their beauty is so striking.” These women have a dress of their own, loose and flowing; they never cover their heads with either hat or handkerchief, though if the weather is very cold they will draw their shawls up over their heads.
Our third drive took us up the side of a hill called Pena de Oro (Rock of Gold), and bearing that name as far back as the fourteenth century, as a recently discovered document testifies. Part way up the slope we passed a charming villa and garden belonging to a Santiago family, that of Don Pedro de Pais. A woman working there kindly came on with us as our guide to a dolmen (cromlech) which we wished to visit. It was at this point I took a photograph of Noya from the carriage. But no photograph could do justice to its delicate framework of cherry and apple blossoms, which literally smothered its innumerable villages, and joined them all in one pink-and-white mass. It has been predicted that these villages will ere long form part and parcel of Noya, for the spaces between them are filling up rapidly.
The dolmen was situated on the flat top of a high hill far from all human habitation, and shut in by pines and the slopes of yet higher hills. It was a rough scramble up steep goat paths winding among stones and furze. We found seven Druidical-looking stones placed in a small circle round what had once been a grave. Sr. Barros Sevelo opened the grave some thirty years ago, and describes the various implements, ashes, torques, and urns, that he found there, in his book on the antiquities of Galicia. The stones lean against one another like the leaves of a tulip; there was once a great slab across the top. The peasants of the neighbourhood call this dolmen Casa dá Moura, and implicitly believe it to be a Moorish ruin, for the Moors are the only strangers they have ever heard of; they attribute everything that is old to them, including the Latin inscriptions! The hill on which the dolmen stands is called Monte Paraino. From it we had an extensive view of the valley through which our road passed, and of the villages on the farther slope. Among them we noted a large white house, the residence of a former Rector of Santiago University, Señor Romero Blanco, who enjoys considerable repute in the world of medicine.
As we were descending the hill to rejoin our conveyance, we entered a cottage and had a chat with its owners. On my expressing a wish to see the rooms, the woman took me by the hand and led me through a passage and up stairs so dark that we had to strike a light to see the steps. In a room on the upper floor there was a bed covered with a neat counterpane. “This room belongs to my nephew who has gone to America,” she said, with a touch of sadness in her voice. “We have only had one letter from him since he arrived there, and that came a month ago.”[246] The cottage, built of granite slabs, had hardly any windows; most of the rooms were low and dark, and we were in danger of knocking our heads against the rafters. The old man looked very hale and hearty; quite fit for another ten years of active life.
“How old do you think me?” he asked, and then he added: “I am eighty-six; I was born in 1821. In my younger days I was a grenadier in the Engineers; I have served in almost every part of Spain.”
When we emerged to the sunlight I looked at him more closely. He was a tall, well built fellow with a fine military bearing, and had features that would have done credit to a general.
A couple of miles farther on we came to a little church (upon our right), which dated from the twelfth century, and had a Romanesque entrance not unlike that of Santa Maria de Sar, a semicircular arch resting upon columns with sculptured capitals—only much rougher in its workmanship; the apse was eighteenth-century work, square in form and much higher than the nave. The apses were lower than the nave until the fifteenth century, and often circular in form. This church was constructed entirely of granite; the statues which once stood in its niches are now placed in the wall of the apse; the churchyard was full of horizontal tombstones. On festal occasions a procession of peasants passes over them with as little concern as if they were paving stones. The Gallegans have none of our superstitious horror of graves and coffins, but like to have the remains of their departed always near them.
We drove on till we had almost reached a hill called San Mamed, rising from the slope of Monte Confurco, among the granite boulders of which there has stood a little chapel of some description ever since the fourth century; this was probably the site of a hermit’s cell in the days of San Fructuoso. On certain days in the year, and especially on 10th August, the people of Noya make excursions to this hill. Some of the boulders are so big that a man can stand upright beneath their projecting sides. The excursions or romerias are a kind of religious picnic, from which both spiritual and physical blessings are expected to result. So great is the faith in San Mamed, that delicate women walk the whole way from Noya, often taking quite young children with them; although they are ready to drop with fatigue, they persevere for the sake of ultimate good. A curious hollow in one of the great boulders is called the bed of San Mamed, and people suffering from various internal complaints think they will be cured if they stretch themselves upon the saint’s bed.
The moon shone full upon our road as we drove back along the pine-skirted road, and lit up the faces of the young peasant women who passed us with baskets of fish upon their heads, and sang as they walked, “Tralala, tralala.”