BIDDING adieu to Ronda,—its fruitful groves, crystal springs, snow-white bread, and jet-black eyes,—we will take the road to Malaga.
At about a mile and a half from the town, the road arrives at and passes under a long aqueduct, by means of which a stream is conveyed across the valley, for the supply of the fountains of the Mercadillo; thereby saving to its inhabitants the expense of sinking deep wells in the rocky hill.
At the end of another half league, the road having gained a slight acclivity, commands a fine view of the venerable old city and its fertile plain; but diving thence into a dark and narrow ravine, a contrast of the wildest character presents itself, and the road winds for many miles amongst the rugged roots of the old women’s teeth, already noticed.—These have certainly not had the effect of grinding the path smooth—for a more execrable trocha it never has been my fate to ride over. Part of it is so bad,—resembling a petrified honeycomb of Brobdignag dimensions,—that our horses had to pause at every step, and consider into which of the holes presented to their choice they should next venture to put their feet.
The scenery is splendid. It consists of terrific precipices and impending mountains—foaming torrents and rustic bridges—umbrageous oaks and wide-spreading cork trees. But our enjoyment of these wild beauties was considerably diminished, as well by the torrents of rain that fell without ceasing from the time of our entering the mountains, as from the attention it was necessary to give our horses.
Our progress, necessarily slow over this camino de perdices,[109] was yet further retarded by numberless trains of loaded mules, which, having left Ronda with the earliest dawn, had gained an advance upon us over the plain, and, labouring under the bulky produce of the fair, were filing slowly along the same narrow track as ourselves, restricting our pace to an average rate of something less than three miles an hour. Vain were all our endeavours to gain the head of the lengthened column;—for though we seized every opportunity the rugged road presented of pushing on with our less burthened animals, yet no sooner had we succeeded in passing one string of mules, than we found ourselves in contact with the tail of another.
Gradually, however, the Cafilas[110] became wider and wider apart; and on arriving within a few miles of the town of El Burgo, an open and comparatively level space presenting itself, unobstructed by man or beast, we began to indulge the hope that our perseverance had earned its reward, and that thenceforth a clear road lay before us. Our impatient steeds gladly availed themselves of the permission to quicken their pace; but five minutes’ canter carried us across the verdant glade, when we again found ourselves immured within a rocky ravine, shadowed by the dark forest, and—to our disappointment—in contact with yet another string of mules and boricos.
The pass was more rugged than any we had hitherto met with, and the sure-footed animals, with noses almost touching the stony path, were scrambling down the rough descent with caprinine agility; though sometimes—thrown off their equilibrium by the size rather than the weight of their burthens,—they would stagger from side to side, so as to make their destruction appear inevitable. Righting themselves, however, in the most scientific manner, and making a short pause, as if to recover their self-possession, they would resume their perilous undertaking, without further incitement than an “arre!”[111] glad enough not to feel the usual accompaniment on their houghs or ribs.
Considering it advisable to follow the muleteers’ example, we too allowed our beasts to use their own discretion in the selection of their stepping-places by giving them their heads; and, folding our cloaks about us, so as to afford the utmost possible protection against the pelting storm, we resigned ourselves to fate; there being nothing for it, as the philosophic Sancho says, but patience and a shrug of the shoulders.
Whilst proceeding with our necks thus in chancery—sliding, stumbling, and dripping along, in rear of the closely formed column—we came most unexpectedly upon a peasant, mounted on a sleek mule, who, taking advantage of a favourable spot, had drawn up on the road side to allow the train to pass. The circumstance of his being the only person we had met journeying towards Ronda, would of itself have caused us to notice him, but there was something in the man’s deportment that peculiarly attracted observation. In the first place, he suffered all his fellow-countrymen to pass without deigning to return their usual courteous salutation; in the next, he was smoking a tabaco[112] instead of a papelito; and, lastly, he was muffled up so completely in his manta that every part of his dress was concealed, and of his face little more than the eyes could be seen. These were dark, piercing, and inquisitive, and their sidelong glances, evidently following their owner’s thoughts, were directed with searching scrutiny on the tempting bales that passed successively before him.
So thoroughly was the attention of this person devoted to this interesting examination, that, concealed as we were by the moving mountains of Manchester goods which preceded us, our military cortège, bringing up the rear of the column, took him completely by surprise. For the moment all presence of mind forsook him. His left arm, by an instinctive jerk, removed the hat from his head; disclosing a most sinister countenance, and a brace of pistols stuck in his worsted sash; whilst, with the other, he hurriedly made the cruz de admirado,[113] muttering, at the same time, the usual passing benediction. With the flurry of a person exerting himself to appear composed, he then, to our great amusement and astonishment, began singing one of the peculiar ditties of the arrieros, at the very extent of his voice.