From the base of this barren ridge issues the Hedionda; still, however, about a mile from us; and ere reaching it, the hills retiring for a time yet more from the stream, leave a flat space of some extent, and in form resembling an amphitheatre, which is planted with all kinds of fruit-trees, and dotted with vine-clung cottages. This spot is called La Huerta—the orchard; and these comfortless looking little hovels—pleasing nevertheless to the eye—we eventually learnt are the lodging-houses of the most aristocratic visiters of the baths.
Traversing the fruitful little dell, and mounting a low rocky ledge that completes its enclosure to the east, leaving only a narrow passage for the rivulet, we found ourselves close to the baths; our vicinity to which, however, the offensive smell of the spring (prevailing even over the strong perfume of the orange blossoms) had already duly apprized us of.
The baths are situated almost in the bed of the pure mountain stream, whose course we had been following from Casares; and a short distance beyond, and at a slight elevation above them, stands a neat and compact little village.
The season being at its height, we found the place so crowded with visiters, that it would have been impossible to procure a night’s lodging, had such been our wish. All we required, however, was information concerning the place; for which purpose we repaired to the Fonda,—a kind of booth, such as is knocked up at fairs in England for the sale of gin, “and other cordials,"—and ordered such refreshment as it afforded, asking the Moza[73] if she could tell us whether any of the houses were vacant, &c.
She replied, that the Fonda was provided with every thing necessary for travellers of distinction, being established on the footing of the hotels “de mas fama” of Malaga and San Roque; and that El Señor Juan, the “intendente”[74] of the place,—who, doubtless, on hearing of our arrival, would forthwith pay his respects to us,—could furnish every sort of information respecting it.
Oh! a master of the ceremonies, with his book, thought we—well, this will be amusing: some urbane “captain,” no doubt, all smiles to all persons!—and whilst we were yet picturing to ourselves what this Spanish Beau Nash could possibly be like, a tall ungainly personage, with a considerable halt in his gait, a fund of humour in his long leathern countenance, and a paper cigar screwed up in the dexter corner of his mouth, presented himself, and placed his services at our disposition.
He held a huge pitcher of the fragrant water in one hand, which, when he was in motion, gave him a “lurch to starboard;” a stout staff in the other, by means of which he established an equilibrium when at rest. His body was coatless, his neck cravatless, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, leaving his brown sinewy arms bare; his trowsers hung in braceless negligence about his hips; his large bare feet were thrust into a pair of capacious shoes; and his head was covered with a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed, Frenchified hat, which had evidently browned under the heat of many summers, and bent to the storms of intervening winters. Round his neck hung a stout silver chain (which the fumes of the sulphur-spring had turned as black as Berlin iron), whence was suspended a ponderous master-key.
“He must be the prison-keeper,” said we, “carrying the daily allowance of water to the incarcerated malefactors!”
“This is Señor Juan, el intendente,” said our smirking attendant, placing a bottle of wine upon the table before us.
“Oh! this is Señor Juan, the master of the ceremonies!—Then pray be seated, Señor Juan; and bring another wine-glass, Mariquita.”