[CHAPTER IX]
A DAY IN SPAIN
There is always a thrill about motoring for the first time in a new country. We had long looked forward to crossing the Spanish frontier and visiting the summer capital of King Alfonso XIII. It was a ride of about thirty miles, far too short for one of the most interesting sweeps of country to be found anywhere in Europe.
There was plenty of variety. This Basque country, forming a triangular corner of northern Spain and reaching over into France, is full of it. The people speak a dialect which is as much a puzzle to Spanish as to French. Until less than half a century ago, they had retained their independence. Proud of their history, and claiming to be the oldest race in Europe, they still cling to their language and hold to their ancient customs, their dances, songs, and pastoral plays. In this region of valleys and mountains we were always within sight or sound of the sea, the road approaching a smooth, white beach washed with foam, or sinking into a quiet valley drowsy with the faint monotone of the waves.
A few miles before reaching Spain is the old seaside town of St. Jean-de-Luz, once the winter headquarters of Wellington and now buried in the shade of its venerable trees. The life in this little village of only four thousand people was not always so simple as it is now. Louis XIV was a frequent visitor, with his courtiers. One can see the château where the "Grand Monarque" lodged at the time of his marriage to the Infanta Marie Thérèse of Spain on June 9, 1660. Another page from this gorgeous period is the church of St. Jean Baptiste, where the ceremony took place. Following the Basque custom, the upper galleries are reserved for the men, while the area below is reserved for the women.
On reaching the Franco-Spanish frontier village of Béhobie a French officer appeared and, after he had entered the necessary details in his book, allowed us to cross the bridge over the Bidassoa River into Spain. This part of the town is called Béhobeia. It is a unique arrangement, this administration of what is practically one and the same town by two different countries. Yet the difference between Béhobie and Béhobeia is as great as the difference between France and Spain. The houses across the river began to display the most lively colors. It would have been hard to say whether browns, pinks, blues, or greens predominated. Some of the people wore blue shoes. Red caps were the style for cab drivers. Of course we looked around for some of our "castles in Spain," but saw instead the Spanish customhouse. An official came out, modestly arrayed in more than Solomon's glory. He wore red trousers, yellow hose, and blue shoes, and looked as though in more prosperous days he might have been a matador. We had forgotten to bring along a fluent supply of Spanish. The oversight caused us no inconvenience. French is sufficient to carry one through any matter of official red tape.
One hears many reports about the difficulty of passing the Spanish customhouse, the severity of the examination, of the long delays. At our hotel in Biarritz they told us that the only safe way would be to pay eight francs to a private company on the French side of the frontier, and that with the passavant so obtained, together with our triptyque, we would not only secure prompt service but also make this company responsible for our safety while in Spain. So much solicitude made us wonder just what percentage of our eight francs would be received by this hotel proprietor, so we decided to cross the frontier without the much advised passavant.
These warnings proved to be exaggerated. The delay was not greater than it would have been in France or Germany. The douaniers were, nevertheless, keenly alert to prevent the smuggling of motor supplies for purposes of sale in Spain. These articles are much more expensive in Spain than elsewhere in Europe. The number of our tires was noted, so that the officials could make sure that we carried the same number of tires out of the country. Another arrangement, new to us, was the method of ascertaining how much the gasoline duty would be. The amount of gasoline in the tank was calculated by depth only and not by capacity.
A hundred fascinating scenes of Spanish country life attracted our attention. Peasant women, evidently returning from market, bestraddled patient little donkeys, or walked, balancing on their heads burdens of various kinds. One of them carried a baby under one arm, a pail filled with wine bottles under the other, and all the time preserved with her head the equilibrium of a basket piled several stories high with household articles. We would not have been greatly surprised to see another baby tucked away somewhere in the top story. These peasant types looked bent and worn, their wrinkled faces old from drudging toil in the fields; they fitted in perfectly with the dilapidated farmhouses. The country was fertile, with vineyards and cornfields, but a prosperity in such contrast with the wretched homes of the people. Little donkeys strained in front of heavily loaded wagons that would have taxed the strength of a large horse. The ox carts were curious creations, the wheels being without spokes, as though made from a single piece of flat board. The small chimneys on the houses resembled those which we had seen in Italy. We did not see a single plow, not even a wooden one; the peasants of the Basque country use instead the laga, or digging fork, an implement shaped like the letter "h."
