The capital itself, however, does not show up badly when approached from the northward; and the Royal Palace which dominates it, on the hill above the Manzanares, is an exceedingly imposing pile. Aránjuez (we were given to understand) considers itself equal to Windsor; but no one of our acquaintance would dare mention Buckingham Palace in competition with the Palacio Real at Madrid.{192}
CHAPTER X
TOLEDO
THERE are but three reasons, that I know of, for anyone visiting Madrid. First, that the roads (which are very bad) lead there; second, that the Prado picture gallery (which was closed) is exceeding magnifical; and third, that there is a bicycle repairer—which is an unsatisfactory reason at best. Smart, well-groomed, busy cities with commodious mansions and boulevards may be found (by such as have need of them) within easier distances than this. And for those who seek old streets, historic monuments, and that delightful aroma of medievalism which is the true inward charm of the Peninsula,—are not the little crooked calles of Ávila and Segóvia and Toledo better than all the carreras of Madrid?
To them the “Only Court” is no more than a convenient “jumping-off place”; a head office of “Cooks’”; an entrepôt of the central roads. The{193} Mecca of their pilgrimage lies fifty miles to the southward,—Toledo, the ancient stronghold of the Moor, the Visigoth, and the Roman in the days when none dreamed of such a kingdom as Castile.
The map showed two roads to Toledo, and already I had sampled one of them. “The Illescas road,” I argued, “was as bad as possible”; and “therefore the Aránjuez road is the best.” My premise had been quite unassailable, yet after all my deduction proved fallacious. More just, and equally logical, was “therefore it has necessarily improved.”
The Aránjuez road, to do it justice, starts off with the most admirable intentions; and as if it were really determined to arrive (as it proposes) at Cadiz. But there is a sad slump in its prospects before it has got far on the journey. It becomes stony and bumpy and hummocky, with ruts like the furrows of a plough; and to steer a bicycle along the narrow ribbon of practicable track at the margin is an operation of some nicety, which is not at all facilitated by a heavy side wind. Presently there is a lucid interval of good smooth surface, which lasts just long enough to put the victim into good humour; and the final stage into Aránjuez is like the shingle that is upon the sea-shore.
Such are the habits of a Spanish road; and in a{194} way its eccentricities are consolatory. However bad it may be, you can always cherish the hope that it will reform itself altogether round the next turn. There is no reason why it should, but it often does. Of course, “in the alternative” the converse is equally true, but that is a point which needs glossing. Unless you foster a sanguine temperament you will make no progress at all.
I have dwelt at some length on the state of the road, but, indeed, at this stage there is little else to dwell upon. A struggling avenue is pluckily endeavouring to push a line of green pickets across the dun-coloured plain; and here and there are a few miserly olives, each perched upon the little hoard of soil clutched by its hungry roots. But the only things that seem really to flourish are the gigantic six-foot thistles, and I fear that is an ill-omened fertility. It is a greener and leafier world when we descend into the Jarama valley.