All the town come into my room and smoke and spit and make me show them my maps.
A miserable town, and I was glad to leave my abominable host the next day and start for Alcantara, the carriage road leading us by Villa del Rey and Cartillano.
October 16.—All the people marvel at the wonders of my toilette. My comb, my brush, my tooth-brush and nail-brush, my shaving-brush and soap were all as much objects of wonder to these peasants as the comb and watch of Gulliver to the people of Lilliput.
I start from the Cam di Cartillano at eight o’clock, and arrive at Alcantara at half-past two.
The Tagus here flows between two great mountains, and the bridge is about 120 feet high.
At the house where I am billeted they are dancing the ballora—very curious. A handsome youth and lively girl, and another couple, then the old gentleman joins, others singing and playing the guitar. One pretty girl, looking half ill-natured, half—I do not know how—bewitching, sang, and I gazed and tried to find out her lover. As I sit at dinner the Alcalde (Mayor), dressed excellently with a scarlet cloak, says he is come to fetch me to his house, sends for wine, cheese, etc., and invites me to breakfast to-morrow. They all treat Bernardo as a gentleman.
Visited the bridge before dinner; go down a mountain to it, and up one from it.
October 17.—Take chocolate and biscuit with the Alcalde (Mayor) and start for Salvatierra, pass the bridge over Tagus and ascend the Estremadura mountains. Go to Zarza la Mayor, a large town on the high road to Ciudad Rodrigo, turn westward and go to Salvatierra, a small Portuguese village, and then on to Segura, a miserable place, but lodged comfortably in an old priest’s house. On the road we met a man who said, “Is that an Englishman? I’m very glad of it. I wanted to see the face of one, for they are fine fellows.” Yesterday, at Alcantara, the Alcalde, hearing me speak Italian to Bernardo, took me for an Italian. “I am an Englishman.” “Aye, aye, your passport tells me so. Yes, yes, English.”
I hope I shall get a good dinner, not having eaten since eight, when I took a thimbleful of chocolate and a biscuit. It is now six. Bernardo bought a partridge on the road, and plucked it as he rode along, saying it was to gain time. He has bought another here. Both now on the fire, besides cabbage, pork steaks, and fried eggs. The acorns of the cork trees make this country famous for pork. Bernardo a capital cook. The priest pulls a partridge to pieces with his fingers!!
October 13.—Get up at five. Arrive at Rosmaninhal and proceed to Monforte, four leagues farther, and a prettier place. Start before four o’clock for Lentiseves, and the guide, as it grows dark, declares he has lost the road, and does not know which of the two to take. We take the right, and are so long in finding the place that we are sure of being wrong. Arrive at Lentiseves by half-past six. The Judge in his hovel issues his billet and leads us to a miserable cot. I ask for a better house. There is none. Go with the horses to an excellent stable, full of wheat straw, and in the house find a good man and woman and a blazing fire, with fried eggs and bacon and a roast chicken. Sleep in the corn chamber.