A cloud of dust on the highway announces its approach. And finally forms emerge from it. At the head a picador on horseback with a lance, behind him the black bodies of the bulls surrounded by tame steers, and followed by a second picador. As they rush through the narrow streets to the market-square a mighty cry goes up: “Los toros! Los toros!” Shouting, whistling, howling, yelling, and a general pandemonium rends the welkin.
Finally the bulls are secured, and it is only in the afternoon that the longed-for hour arrives.
The forenoon has its own pleasures. Young men demonstrate their daring by teasing a young bull specially selected for the purpose, and earn acclamation or mocking laughter as the case may be. These young heroes try to put into practice what they have seen at the Torero; only it is less dangerous. No blood is shed, only torn trousers and bruises are the honorific mementoes of the great day ([174], [175]).
My thoughts naturally harked back to the first bull-fight I had seen—in Madrid. The impression was stupendous: fifteen thousand gay spectators in the great sweep of the arena all impatient for the nerve-racking fight to begin. The arena was filled with the babble of voices. It was a chaos of colours, cloudy lace mantillas, flower-embroidered shawls, fans swaying nervously, jet-black glowing eyes.—Shouts of applause greeted the bull-fighters. Yells saluted the great bull as he rushed in. The game was a risky one for life or death. Deeds of audacity were met with idolatrous cheers, the timid with desolating laughter. All of a sudden a coloured form is tossed into the air. A single scream from a thousand throats.—“Is he dead?” “No!” A sigh of relief.—“Go on!”—The condemned bull is mad with rage, his opponent cold as steel. He wields the mortal instrument, the sword flashes, and a hurricane of applause bursts forth for the victor and his tottering victim. White handkerchiefs flutter from every seat like pigeons. Hats are waved, a shower of flowers descends, and the fêted hero returns thanks, nonchalant and proud.—The trumpets blare and a new fight begins ([125], [126]).
O
Crossing the Picos de Europa.—Masses of high mountains with peaks about 2700 metres high rise among the Asturian Cantabrian coast range. They bear the proud name of Picos de Europa (The Peaks of Europe). They are the Dolomites of Spain. But they exceed these considerably in inaccessibility.
Tourist facilities in Spain are of a very primitive nature. For this reason there are no shelter huts for mountaineers in the Picos de Europa, and there are likewise no trained guides. There are it is true some game-keepers. Shepherds and miners acquainted with individual parts of the mountains act once in a while as guides.
I had been at the gateway of the Picos de Europa when at Covadongo the celebrated place of pilgrimage. Since then the desire had never left me to become acquainted with this demure mountain beauty so alluring and yet so stand-offish in her loneliness. Thus I started for the mountains.
My path led me from Unquera through the Deva valley to Potes at the foot of the Picos. I very soon noticed that my task would be no easy one, for shortly after leaving Panes the track winds through a mighty and deep valley known as the Desfiladero de la Hermida. My reception was not a friendly one. The rocky guardian of the valley looked down and frowned at me, and the sky treated me at intervals to a cold shower-bath.
In Potes the clouds were low down on the mountain sides on which I was going to test my prowess the next day. But I was so enchanted with the spot, that I willingly renounced the view for that day.