We recognised two of them on the platform, on their way to the fairs. They also recognised us and touched their large round hats with a broad smile plainly meant to intimate that their bark was worse than their bite.
It is in Reus that many of the French imitation wines are made and sent over the world, passing for Mâcon, Chablis and Sauterne. Much imitation champagne and many headaches come from here. Enormous wine-cellars, in point of size worthy of Madrid or Barcelona, groan with their manufactured stores. Reus has many branches of industry and might be a happy community if it would subdue its revolutionary discontent. It has yet to redeem its terrible murder of the monks of Poblet in 1835.
To-day, however, the crowd in the station were bent on pleasure or business and the warring element was put aside to a more convenient season. They scrambled into the train, and away we went up the lovely Valley of the Francoli as far as Alcober: a favourite settlement of the Moors, where many Moorish remains are still visible. The fine Romanesque church was once a mosque, so that it is full of the traditions of the past. Onwards through lonely, somewhat barren country to Montblanch; another old town apparently falling into ruin, with picturesque walls, towers and gates. Onwards again under the very shadow of the Sierra de Prades, rising in clear undulating outlines against the blue sky; a stately, magnificent chain of hills. Where indeed do we find such beautiful and graceful hills as in Spain?
Finally Espluga, the station for Poblet. Here Francisco alighted at express speed, basket in hand. We followed more leisurely, trembling for the Laffitte, but the boy was equal to the occasion. In spite of enthusiasm, he had an old head upon his young shoulders, and even now would have been almost equal to managing the hotel single-handed.
No sooner out than we were besieged by a man and a woman; the latter begging us to take her donkeys, the former praising his comfortable carriage. Discretion and the carriage won the day. A long donkey-ride over a rough country did not sound enticing. As it turned out we chose badly.
Poblet was some miles from Espluga, and we had to pass through the town on our way to the said carriage. It had been taken on trust, neither carriage nor donkeys being at the station.
The town lies at the foot of a towering hill. From the station you cross over a picturesque stone bridge dark with age, spanning the rushing river. Standing on the bridge you look down upon a romantic ravine and valley, through which the river winds its course. On the further side you enter the town: a primitive out-of-the-world spot, as though it had made no progress in the last hundred years. The people correspond with their surroundings. The streets were narrow and irregular, and the virtue of cleanliness was nowhere conspicuous. Our landlord had well said that if we did not take our luncheon with us, we should take it with Duke Humphrey.
Nevertheless, there was that in Espluga which redeemed some of its disadvantages. Groups of houses with picturesque roofs and latticed windows: houses built without any attempt at beauty, yet beautiful because they belonged to a long-past age when men knew nothing of ugliness and bad taste. No one had thought it worth while to pull down these old nooks and remains and rebuild greater, or even adorn them with fresh paint. Consequently we saw them arrayed in all their early charm. It seemed a very sleepy town, with little life and energy. People plied their quiet trades. Everything was apparently dying of inanition.
Our donkey-woman was an exception: comely and wonderfully good-tempered, with a surprising amount of energy. Not having succeeded in hiring her donkeys, she was not to be altogether outdone by the carriage-man, and insisted upon accompanying us through the town, to carry the basket and show us the way. The man had disappeared to make ready.
"You have made a mistake, señor, in not taking my donkeys. They are beautiful creatures; six grey animals, as gentle as sheep. As for the carriage he praises, I pity you. The road is fearfully rough. When you reach Poblet, you will have no breath left in your body. All your bones will be broken."