Our road next day still followed the mountainous coast line, and we descended at noon upon the roofs of Laredo, a delightful little town, climbing up the steep hillside above its tiny anchorage, and facing the great mass of Santoña, the “Gibraltar of the North.” This imposing fortress lies across{11} the mouth of an immense land-locked lagoon, and in size, shape, and situation is almost a replica of the famous Rock. It has no such strategical value, but is probably equally impregnable; for it was the only northern city where the French flag was still waving at the close of that “War of Liberation” which we style the Peninsular War.
At Laredo we dined, and as Spanish meals are the subject of much needless apprehension, perhaps we may pause to say a word in their defence before proceeding further upon our way. We begin with Desayuno or petit déjeuner, and here, in a genuinely Spanish ménage, chocolate will generally take the place of the Frenchman’s café au lait. It is served in tiny cups, very hot and very thick. It is really a substitute for butter, and you eat it by dipping your bread in it, washing it down with a glass of cold water, which you are expected to “sugar to taste.” The peasants, however, eschew this fashion as new-fangled, and content themselves with a draught of wine or a thimbleful of “the craythur.” This is not recommended by the faculty, but travellers have sometimes to be content.
