At the foot of the hill two roads to Malaga offer themselves, one by way of Cártama (distant ten miles), which turns the Sierra Gibalgalía to the north, the other by Alhaurin, which crosses the neck of land connecting that mountain with the more lofty sierras to the south. The distance is pretty nearly the same by both, and is reckoned five leagues, but the leguas are any thing but regulares, and may be taken at an average of four miles and a half each. The first named is a carriage road, and the country flat nearly all the way; we therefore chose the latter, as likely to be more picturesque.
In about an hour from Coin, we reached a clear stream, which, confined in a deep gulley, singularly scooped out of the solid rock, winds round at the back of Alhaurin, and tumbles over a precipice on the side of the impending mountain. The crystal clearness of the water and beauty of the spot, tempted us to halt and spread the contents of our alforjas on the green bank of the rivulet, though the white houses of Alhaurin, situated immediately above, peeped out from amidst trelissed vines and perfumed orange groves, seeming to beckon us on. But appearances are proverbially deceitful all over the world, and more especially in Spanish towns, as we had recently experienced at Coin.
Our repast finished, we remounted our horses, and ascended the steep acclivity, on the lap of which the town stands. The environs are beautifully wooded, and the place contains many tasteful houses and gardens, wide, clean, and well-paved streets, abundance of refreshing fountains, and groves of orange and other fruit trees, and, in fact, is a most delightful place of abode. The view from it is yet finer than from Coin, embracing, besides the fine chain of wooded sierras above Alozaina and Casarabonela, the lower portion of the vale of Malaga, and the splendid mountains that stretch into the Mediterranean beyond that city. Nevertheless, in spite of these advantages, the scared Malagueños consider Coin a more secure retreat from the dreaded yellow fever than Alhaurin, perhaps because from the former even the view of their abandoned city is intercepted.
Alhaurin contains, probably, 5000 inhabitants. The road from thence to Malaga is carriageable throughout. It winds along the side of the mountain, continuing nearly on a dead level from the town to the summit of the pass that connects the Sierra Gibalgalía with the mountains of Mijas; thence it descends gradually, by a long and rather confined ravine, into the vale of Malaga.
Arrived in the plain, it leaves the little village of Alhaurinejo about half a mile off on the right, and at thirteen miles from Alhaurin reaches a bridge over the Guadaljorce. This bridge, commenced on a magnificent scale by one of the bishops of Malaga, was to have been built entirely of stone; but, before the work was half completed, either the worthy dignitary of the church came to the last of his days, or to the bottom of his purse, and it is left to be completed, “con el tiempo"—a very celebrated Spanish bridge-maker.
Forty-four solid stone piers remain, however, to bear witness to the good and liberal intentions of the bishop; and the weight of a rotten wooden platform, which has since been laid down, to afford a passage across the stream when swollen by the winter torrents, for at most other times it is fordable.
A road to the Retiro and Churriana continues down the right bank of the river; but that to Malaga crosses the bridge, and on gaining the left bank of the river is joined by the roads from Casarabonda and Cártama. From hence to Malaga is about five miles.
On arriving at Malaga we found the dread of cholera had attained such a height during our short absence, that the Xebeque, for Ceuta, had sailed, whilst clean bills of health were yet issued. We also thought it advisable to save our passports from being tainted, and, without further loss of time, departed for Gibraltar by land. Our haste, however, booted us but little; for, amongst the absurdities of quarantine be it recorded, on reaching the British fortress, on the morning of the third day from Malaga, admittance was refused, until we had undergone a three days’ purification at San Roque. Thither we repaired, therefore; and there we remained during the prescribed period, shaking hands daily with our friends from the garrison, until the dreaded virus was supposed to have parted with all its infectious properties. Our decorated attendant had left us on reaching Malaga, promising to take the earliest opportunity of acquainting us with the result of an ordeal, to which the little blind God, in one of his most capricious moods, had been pleased to subject two of his votaries.
The circumstances attending this trial of true love, will be found related in the following chapter, which contains also a sketch of the previous history of the hero of the tale, the knight of San Fernando.