Galicia, the Switzerland of Spain

by Annette M. B. Meakin

Besides the Open-air Museum of Santo Domingo, there are also a couple of rooms devoted to antiquities in the handsome new municipal buildings overlooking the Alameda, but the keys are not always forthcoming for visitors, and I only visited one of them; it contained a collection of coins, some bronze agricultural instruments, a few arrow-heads, and a few Roman amphoras, and round the walls were a series of pictures to show what Pontevedra looked like before the English destroyed its battlemented walls and towers. In a bookcase I saw among other books an old copy of Pliny’s History. There was also a collection of ancient keys, and another of fifteenth-century bells. In a glass case there were some medals, among which was the square medal worn by the Inquisitors. The room to which I could not get the key contains the pieces of the seventeenth-century retablo that was removed from Santa Maria la Grande, and many interesting pieces of old furniture.

The archives of Pontevedra were very rich in historical documents relating to the past history of the town and province, but about three years ago the authorities of Madrid took it upon themselves to send some one to fetch them bodily to the capital, where they now lie in piles unread and uncared for, while local archæologists, who for the love of their town would willingly devote to them the most painstaking study, are left behind to lament the departure of a precious mental pabulum. What Madrid can gain by thus robbing the smaller towns of their archæological treasures, and damping the ardour of local enthusiasts, I fail to see. This is not the way to educate the people and make them value all that is connected with their past. No wonder that the citizens of Pontevedra should look upon the ruins of Santo Domingo as an eyesore; why should they do otherwise when they feel that if it had any value it would be carted to Madrid!

In the public gardens the azalias were covered with white blossom, and in the private gardens between the houses the wisteria was also resplendent, so too were camellias and oranges. One of the finest houses, standing in its own grounds, was that of Admiral Mendez Nuñez; it is here that our English admirals who come with the fleet are usually entertained.

One of the most charming drives in the vicinity of Pontevedra is to Marin, a little fishing town which lies upon a crescent-shaped bay on the south-east coast of the ria; there is also a steam tramcar route, but it is far pleasanter to drive. Marin is a diminutive port, it has a little wharf, and is so safe and commodious that ships, all except the largest, can enter it in the most stormy weather, and its bottom affords splendid anchorage. As our carriage left the town behind us, we caught a fine view of the bridge over the Lerez, and the bull-ring near it. To our left we passed the handsome summer residence and grounds of the Marquis de Monfero Rios: here an orange grove had recently been planted, and some of the trees were laden with golden fruit; beside them was an avenue of tall pines which led up to the principal entrance of the villa. Hyacinths, nemopholi, and drooping narcissi covered the banks beneath the hedges that bordered our road as we proceeded, and behind them in the gardens were wisterias again, and camellias, and white roses creeping in profusion over the walls; but the principal feature of the whole drive was the vines; they showed as yet no signs of leaves, yet their dark knotted branches looked as if they had plenty of life in them, for tendrils were shooting all over the frames. These vines were not trained like hops on sticks, as they are in the Crimea, nor on trellis-work like those of the Austrian Tyrol, but rested upon bamboo canes from eight to twelve feet long, especially cultivated for that purpose; the cottages had bamboo brackets swinging out over their doors and lower windows to form supports for the vine branches; these make a deliciously cool covering in hot weather. The hills did not slope down to the water, but descended in terraces cut like steps; there were steps of vines, steps of corn, steps of grass, and steps of green peas; but always steps, never patches. At Marin we were kindly welcomed by some English Protestant missionaries, who do what they can to improve the condition of the poor fisherfolk; they have recently built a tasteful little chapel near their dwelling: the priests do not favour their presence, but the same liberty is accorded to them as is accorded to Mohammedans in England. At Marin numbers of fisherwomen are occupied in gathering cockles and other shell-fish on the shore; cartloads of cockles are taken up to the mountain villages, where the peasants live on them for days together. I constantly found groups of cottage children picking cockles out of their shells and making of them their mid-day repast.

An excursion by boat upon the river Lerez was planned for us, but had to be abandoned on account of the rain; this is one of the most beautiful excursions that tourists can take from Pontevedra; the banks of the Lerez are thickly wooded, and are one mass of flowers and ferns in April and May.

The convent of Santa Clara is surrounded by lofty and forbidding walls; part of it is very old and part quite modern. Tradition says that the original building was a centre for the Knights Templars, whose duty it was to protect pilgrims and travellers on their journeys through the wilder parts of the country: it is said that this accounts for the fact that there is no escutcheon of the Order of Santa Clara upon the walls. The apse of the conventual church is Gothic, and resembles, with its lancet windows, those of Santo Domingo and San Francisco: the nuns are not allowed to leave their convent on any pretext whatsoever—they are cloistered for life; they do not even enter the body of their church, but worship in a gallery behind a wooden trellis, like the Jewesses in the synagogues of Bokhara.

Our next drive was across the bridge to the village of Combarro, and then on to the monastery of San Juan de Poyo Grande, to hear the monks sing the Salve Regina at their Saturday afternoon Mass. As we were just reaching the bridge, we got out of our carriage to look at the little house in which Pedro Sarmiento is said to have been born. Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa was a celebrated navigator of the sixteenth century. Sir Clements Markham tells us that Sarmiento’s writings on the Straits of Magellan are admirable work, and well known to English naval surveyors.[256] It seems that Sarmiento left Pontevedra at the age of eighteen, and devoted seven years of his life to studying the Incas. The Inquisition found him guilty of possessing mysterious and magic rings, and although his confessor had authorised his collecting them, he was condemned to say Mass, on his knees and nearly naked, in the Cathedral of Lima. While this sentence was being carried out, he was shut up in the convent of Santo Domingo without a single book, fasting on Wednesdays and Fridays, and reciting seven psalms a day. At length his case was brought before the Pope, who somewhat softened the severity of his punishment. He eventually returned to Spain, equipped a large fleet and sailed forth, to be caught by three English ships and tortured to confess that he carried precious metal. The English took him to Plymouth; he travelled thence to Windsor, where he was kindly treated by Queen Elizabeth, till his enemies got up some scandals about him, whereupon Elizabeth sent him on a diplomatic mission to Flanders and afterwards on another to Spain. He was taken prisoner, while asleep at Burgos, by Viscount de Bearny, and put in prison; thence he was ransomed by the king for six thousand escudos, and four horses. Such was the early history of the eminent navigator. He wrote many books, including a Treatise on Navigation, Information concerning the Stars, and a Treatise on Fortification.

The little house in which Pedro Sarmiento passed his childish days[257] is nothing but a white-washed granite cottage with the usual red-tiled roof. The last relic of the Sarmiento family is still there in the shape of two old maiden ladies, whom the townsfolk call Las Sarmientas. They have sold most of the original house, and only kept one little end of it for themselves to live in. No one who had studied the massive build of the granite cottages of Galicia would feel any surprise that one of them should last for nearly five centuries; they are as solid and firm as the rock from which their blocks are hewn.

About two kilometres distant from Pontevedra is the quaint little village of Combarro, with about four hundred inhabitants; it is thought to be very ancient and to have derived its name from the Greek word χαμπτο. We left our carriage to scramble up and down its steep, narrow, and stony streets, with its houses of granite and its balconies of wood, and its red-tiled roofs. Some of the balconies were painted green, others blue, while most of the walls were covered with whitewash. We were invited to visit the inhabitants of several of the houses, and found all very poor. The village covers a steep hillside sloping down to the water, and most of the people are fisherfolk.

At the door of one of the houses there suddenly appeared a woman of about forty-five years of age. I could see threads of silver in her thick black hair, but her face (though it had a wrinkle or two) was still beautiful. She addressed us in tones of the most passionate fervour; she wrung her hands, she lifted them to heaven, she swayed her body like a reed swayed by the wind, and at length burst into a flood of tears. “What is all this?” I asked of the friend who was with me, for the woman spoke in the Gallegan dialect, and so fast that I could catch very few of her words.