The local vins ordinaires of the Northern Provinces are generally somewhat similar to Burgundy, but their quality varies greatly in the different districts. Often they are really excellent,{95} but sometimes exceedingly harsh and rough—attuned to the “hard stomachs of the reapers,” and flavoured with the pitch which is used in dressing the pig skins in which they are stored. The most famous of all is Sancho’s beloved Valdepeñas from the arid plains of La Mancha; but the Miño wines also are excellent, and our hostess had good reason for confidence when she produced “her own wine” so proudly at La Cañiza. Old James Howell refers very affectionately to the “gentle sort of white wine” which is grown at Ribadávia; and he might without any injustice have extended his approval to the red. At all events it was nobly thought of by Don Francisco de Toledo, commandant of the Tertia of the Miño, who sailed in the Spanish Armada, for he shipped an ample stock of it on board the San Felipe. Whereby it chanced that three hundred convivial Zeelanders were carried incontinently to the bottom as they were carousing in the battered derelict.
The truly accommodative traveller should drink, like the natives, a trago, out of the regulation glass teapot or time-honoured “leather bottle.” These experts hold the vessel well above their heads, and squirt the thin jet of liquid straight into their open mouths. But the art needs a long apprenticeship,{96} and is painfully hazardous to a novice. It should not be essayed before strangers, nor in any elaborate get-up.
We had hoped that our mountaineering experiences would cease for a while at Orense—that our road would consent to abide by the Miño, and accept its guidance to the sea. We had got no further than Ribadávia, however, before we found ourselves again going up to the heavens, and the little riverside towns between Ribadávia and Tuy are only to be approached by branch roads which drop upon them from above. The hillsides are clothed with pine woods, plentifully sugared with huge boulders as big as ordinary cottages; and if (as seems probable) these are indeed blocs perchés, the ancient glaciers of Galicia must have been of respectable size. All over the lower slopes they are scattered in lavish profusion, and the topmost are gingerly balanced on the very summits of the arrêtes.
The clouds were massing ominously upon the heights above us as we rose clear of the pine woods, and our further impressions of the landscape were merged in the universal deluge that swallowed us when we reached the top. But the little mountain village of La Cañiza rescued us, and fed us and dried us, and made itself agreeable to us next morning{97} ere it set us again on our way. La Cañiza was preparing a Fiesta; and a fact that excited our interest was that fresh figs were selling in the market at sixteen a penny—or indeed over twenty a penny, with allowance for the rate of exchange. We hope they were favoured with fine weather, but the outlook was not altogether assuring; and we were glad when we found ourselves across the Puerto and dropping once more into the summer-like climate of the deep rich vale beyond.
Tuy is the frontier town of the Miño, and the Portuguese fortress of Valencia confronts it across the river like some “deadly opposite” in an interrupted duel. But its quaint old houses and cathedral do not now wear a very martial appearance; and as I was allowed to sketch uninterrupted under the very nose of a sentry, it would seem that the rival cities have agreed to differ without any unnecessary parade.