The ruins of the old Moorish fortress occupy the right of the picture, the cragged ridge on which it is perched jutting boldly into the valley, and (uncheered by the sun’s rays) standing out in fine relief from the bright, vine-clad slope of the impending Sierra del Hacho, and yet more distant mountains. To the left, the view is bounded by the rugged peaks of the Sierra Cristellina, from the foot of which a dense but variegated forest spreads entirely across the valley, wherein may here and there be traced the snake-like course of the impatient Genal.
Further on, the valley presents a wider opening; but the little stream still has to struggle for a passage amongst the wide spreading roots of the retiring mountains, which, overlapping each other in rapid succession, present, for many miles, a most singularly furrowed country.
Calpe’s fantastic peaks rear themselves above all these intermediate ridges, marking the boundary of Europe: whilst, to the left of the celebrated promontory, Ceuta may be seen, stretching far into the glassy Mediterranean, and to the right, the huge Sierra Bullones, (Apes hill) falling perpendicularly to the Straits of Gibraltar. In the extreme distance, the African mountains rise in successive ranges, until closed by the chain of the lower Atlas, the faint blue outline of which may be distinctly traced in this transparent atmosphere, although at a distance of at least one hundred miles.
It is a scene that amply repays the traveller for all the désagrémens of his night’s lodging, and one which, numerous as were my visits to Gaucin, I always turned my back upon with regret. I do so even now, and proceed on to Ronda, leaving the villages of Algatocin and Benalhauría, situated on the side of the mountain, to the right of the road, and about pistol-shot from it; and in a few miles more, descending by a rough zig-zag track (something worse than a decayed staircase) towards the little town of Benidalid; which, with its picturesque castle, stands also somewhat off the road, and immediately under a lofty tor of decomposed rock, distinguished by the name of the Peñon de los Frailes,[65] and seems doomed, some day or other, to have the holy mound upon its shoulders.
The next and last village on the road is Atajate, distant about ten miles from Ronda. It is nestled in a narrow pass, overhung on one side by the mountain chain along which the road has hitherto been conducted, (and which here begins to rise considerably above it) and on the other, by a conical crag, whose summit is occupied by the picturesque ruins of a Moorish fortress.
In former ages, the houses of the hardy mountaineers, clustered round the base of the little fastness, must have been secure from all attack; and even now the pass, which here cuts the direct communication between Gibraltar and Ronda, (and consequently Madrid) might be held against a very superior force.
Immediately after passing Atajate, the character of the scenery undergoes a complete change. The mountains become more rugged and arid, rising in huge masses some thousand feet above the road, and are tossed about in curious confusion. Patches of corn and flax are yet here and there to be seen, and the valley beneath is still clothed with cork and ilex; but the vineyards, olive grounds, and chesnut groves, have altogether disappeared, and the villages are far apart, and distant from the road.
On advancing some little way further, all traces of cultivation cease. The road,—if a collection of jagged blocks of granite can be so called,—traverses a succession of perilous ascents and descents; sometimes being conducted along the brink of an awful precipice, at others carried under huge masses of crumbling rock. Here and there may, nevertheless, be traced the remains of a paved road, that, in the days of Spain’s pride, was made for the express purpose of transporting artillery and stores to the siege of Gibraltar. It is now—so sadly is Spain fallen!—purposely suffered to go to decay, lest it should offer facilities for making irruptions from that same fortress!
On drawing near the head of the valley, several narrow cut-throat passes present themselves, bringing forcibly to mind Don Quijote’s speech to his faithful squire, on reaching the Puerto Lapice, “Aqui, hermano Sancho, podemos meter las manos hasta los codos en esto que llaman aventuras.”[66] But, on gaining the summit of the chain, the country becomes more open, and the traveller again breathes freely. A few meagre crops of corn are scattered here and there between the rocks, and the bells of the fathers of a herd of goats are heard tinkling amongst the gorse and palmeta that fringe the feet of the impending tors, bespeaking the vicinity of fellow man, and giving the traveller a pleasing consciousness of security, whilst he checks his horse to gaze on the splendid scene before him: for here the lovely basin of Ronda first bursts upon his view, rich as Ceres and Pomona can make it.
In the centre of the verdant plain, but crowning the summit of an isolated rocky eminence, stands the shining city,—its patched and crumbling walls telling of many a protracted siege and desperate assault. Beyond, the view is bounded by a range of wooded mountains, that forms the western barrier of the secluded basin, and up the rough sides of which, the roads to Cadiz, Seville, and Xeres, may be traced, winding their tedious way.