A Corner of Spain

by Walter Wood

Across Vigo Bay, looking like a white streak at the foot of the hills, which are bare and bleak at the tops, but fresh and green at their bases, lies the little fishing town of Cangas. A small steamboat which plies regularly between the two places makes the journey across the blue water in half an hour, and on stepping ashore at the primitive pier you can realise what Vigo was like not many generations ago. There is no plan in the arrangement of Cangas; the houses are placed where they fit best, and the streets follow the houses. Oil-lamps give illumination to the straggling thoroughfares, yet inside the quaint dwellings there is electric light. Cangas has its old church, whose dimensions are out of all proportion to the size of the town to the English way of thinking, and smaller places of worship, one on the sands, built in 1711.

The church, which is named after St. James, is dark and bleak inside. I visited it the morning after All Souls' Day, and saw in the middle of the floor a high structure covered with black cloth and ornamented on four sides with skulls and cross-bones in white. Rising from the gloom, after entering the church from the brilliant sunshine, the reminder of the grave looked ghastly. The air was heavy with the smell of incense, and peasants were kneeling and praying. One old man was wiping away his tears and gazing at some object in the semi-darkness which I could not clearly see. I walked up to it, and saw that a bier, black-cloth-covered, with the skull and cross-bones in white, was resting on the floor. On the bier was an open black coffin, and at the head of the rude, oblong box were two pillows covered with dark velvet. On the top pillow was a grinning skull; in the coffin was a khaki-coloured coarse robe, like a friar's habit, and from the sleeves peeped the bones that had once been arms. The grave-clothes and the side of the bier were thick with spots of candle-grease. A child came up as I bent over the coffin, and she waggled the skull to and fro with hideous effect, for it seemed to nod. She looked at me and smiled. Here was all the ghastliness of death without its glorious hope and promise, a spectacle that was meant to awe and overpower, yet a little girl was unaffected by the grim reminder of her own end. Near me was a door through which the sunshine slanted, and I walked out into the free, refreshing air, and listened to the song of another small maid who was nursing a child. She was one of the prettiest children I saw in Galicia, and was singing a song which I was told was an urgent prayer to her lover to come across the seas and rejoin her.

Most of the men of Cangas are engaged in the sardine fisheries, and on the beach and afloat were many of their fine open craft, which are rowed by sixteen, eighteen, or twenty oars, and can be propelled very rapidly.

At times the fishermen will contract to sell their catch, whatever it may be, at a certain price, in which case they are assured of some return for their labour; at other times they will dispose of the fish in the ordinary way, at market prices. On the north side of Vigo Bay, as on the south, there are factories where sardines and other fish are prepared and packed for home and foreign use. One of the most popular and interesting sights of Vigo is the sardine factory of Messrs. Barreras, beautifully situated at the edge of the bay, to the east of the town. It is fascinating to watch the treatment of the myriads of fishes from the time they are brought in from the sea to the moment when the soldered box is ready for packing. Only a few hours elapse, sometimes, between the catching of the fish and the exportation of the finished product. Messrs. Barreras build their own steam fishing-boats entirely, catch their own sardines, and carry out the various processes of cleaning, cooking, tinning, and packing them for home and foreign use. The sardine trade is one of the most important of Vigo's industries, and no visitor to Galicia should fail to inspect one of these busy factories.

Sunday is the brightest day in the week in Vigo, for then the band plays at noon and evening in the Alameda, and the people promenade and laugh and talk incessantly; the places of amusement are open, and the theatre provides a satisfactory finish for the day's enjoyment. So excellent is the climate of the town that the band performances take place in the open air even in the winter months. For those who do not care for the public entertainments there are two or three good clubs. When ships of war visit Vigo the officers are made honorary members of clubs, and find the institutions very useful for seeing their country's newspapers.

I spent many interesting days in Vigo. Often, in the darkness of the early morning, from the balcony outside my bedroom at the Hotel Continental, a stone's-throw from the bay, I watched the mail-boats, tramps, and sailing-ships come in from the sea, or the day break. A constant charm about the watching was the impossibility of foreseeing what would happen. One morning I saw a Russian cruiser squadron, grey and silent, steam up to its anchorage, and frequently afterwards, at eight o'clock, I heard the strains of the Russian National Anthem as the ensigns were hoisted. The familiar music, used sometimes in England as a hymn tune, mingled with the shore noises of bullock-carts and timber-shifting and the cries of men and women.

While the Russian squadron was in Vigo Bay a seaman was killed by the explosion of some acetylene on board his ship. On the following afternoon he was buried with all the solemn rites of his Church. At the head of the procession walked a sailor carrying a basket, from which he scattered flowers on the roadway; following him were Russian priests in their white silk vestments, chaplains from the squadron, and brass eikons were borne aloft; the bandsmen from the squadron played a funeral march, and alternating with their music was the playing of a solemn dirge by the band of the 37th Regiment of the Line of Spain; there was the firing party, with fixed bayonets, the admiral and the officers from the ships and the ships' companies, and the white coffin in the white funeral car, drawn by four horses, and surmounted by a figure of the Virgin. It was all very touching and impressive—another of the unexpected sights of this corner of Spain which is so old and yet so very new.

Vigo is the port from which most of the emigrants who leave Galicia sail, and at which they land on returning to their native country. Crowds of them may be seen frequently, with their baggage and household belongings, waiting on the quay for their ship to enter the bay, or going off in barges or tenders to get on board. The emigrants, mostly young men, are bound for South America, where some of them do very well, and come back to Galicia with capital enough to buy land and settle as comfortable farmers.

A most enjoyable journey can be made from Vigo to Redondela, eight miles away. In situation the town is considered one of the finest in Spain, and it would be hard to picture anything more beautiful and striking than its aspect at night, as seen from either of the tall railway viaducts. The larger of these is 118 feet high and 348 yards long. The electric lamps give the place the look of an enchanted city. You can glance down the shore to Vigo itself, outlined by lamps, high on the hill-side, whilst Redondela nestles in a dike scores of feet below you as you rumble over the viaduct, thankful for once that the speed of the train is so slow. Redondela is on the road from Vigo to Mondariz. Pretty women, portly priests, and tales of war and treasure have been long associated with the lively town.