A Crossing of the Hills
WHEN it was nearly noon my companion said to me:
“By what sign or track do you propose to cross the mountains?” For the mountains here seem higher than any of highest clouds: the valley beneath them is broad and full of fields: beyond, a long day off, stands in a huge white wall the Sierra del Cadi. Yet we must cross these hills if ever we were to see the secluded and little-known Andorrans. For the Andorrans live in a sort of cup fenced in on every side by the Pyrenees; it was on this account that my companion asked me how I would cross over to their land and by what sign I should find my way.
When I had thought a little I answered:
“By none. I propose to go right up at them, and over unless I find some accident by which I am debarred.”
“Why, then,” said he, “let us strike up at once, walking steeply until we come into a new country.”
This advice was good, and so, though we had no longer any path, and though a mist fell upon us, we began walking upwards, and it was like going up a moor in the West Riding, except that it went on and on and on, hour after hour, and was so steep that now and then one had to use one’s hands.