To tell
you the truth, I am by no means sorry that the guides are absent,
for I am pleased with your company, as I make no doubt you are with
mine. I will now go and write a letter to my wife at Rivadeo,
informing her that she must not expect to see me back for several
days." He then went out of the room singing the following stanza:
"A handless man a letter did write,
A dumb dictated it word for word:
The person who read it had lost his sight,
And deaf was he who listened and heard."
Early the next morning we emerged from the hollow of Luarca; about
an hour's riding brought us to Caneiro, a deep and romantic valley
of rocks, shaded by tall chestnut trees. Through the midst of this
valley rushes a rapid stream, which we crossed in a boat. "There
is not such a stream for trout in all the Asturias," said the
ferryman; "look down into the waters and observe the large stones
over which it flows; now in the proper season and in fine weather,
you cannot see those stones for the multitude of fish which cover
them."
Leaving the valley behind us, we entered into a wild and dreary
country, stony and mountainous. The day was dull and gloomy, and
all around looked sad and melancholy. "Are we in the way for Giyon
and Oviedo?" demanded Martin of an ancient female, who stood at the
door of a cottage.
"For Giyon and Oviedo!" replied the crone; "many is the weary step
you will have to make before you reach Giyon and Oviedo. You must
first of all crack the bellotas: you are just below them."
"What does she mean by cracking the bellotas?" demanded I of Martin
of Rivadeo.
"Did your worship never hear of the seven bellotas?" replied our
guide. "I can scarcely tell you what they are, as I have never
seen them; I believe they are seven hills which we have to cross,
and are called bellotas from some resemblance to acorns which it is
fancied they bear. I have often heard of these acorns, and am not
sorry that I have now an opportunity of seeing them, though it is
said that they are rather hard things for horses to digest."
The Asturian mountains in this part rise to a considerable
altitude. They consist for the most part of dark granite, covered
here and there with a thin layer of earth. They approach very near
to the sea, to which they slope down in broken ridges, between
which are deep and precipitous defiles, each with its rivulet, the
tribute of the hills to the salt flood. The road traverses these
defiles. There are seven of them, which are called, in the
language of the country, Las siete bellotas. Of all these, the
most terrible is the midmost, down which rolls an impetuous
torrent. At the upper end of it rises a precipitous wall of rock,
black as soot, to the height of several hundred yards; its top, as
we passed, was enveloped with a veil of bretima. From this gorge
branch off, on either side, small dingles or glens, some of them so
overgrown with trees and copse-wood, that the eye is unable to
penetrate the obscurity beyond a few yards.
"Fine places would some of these dingles prove for hermitages,"
said I to Martin of Rivadeo. "Holy men might lead a happy life
there on roots and water, and pass many years absorbed in heavenly
contemplation, without ever being disturbed by the noise and
turmoil of the world."
"True, your worship," replied Martin; "and perhaps on that very
account there are no hermitages in the barrancos of the seven
bellotas. Our hermits had little inclination for roots and water,
and had no kind of objection to be occasionally disturbed in their
meditations. Vaya! I never yet saw a hermitage that was not hard
by some rich town or village, or was not a regular resort for all
the idle people in the neighbourhood. Hermits are not fond of
living in dingles, amongst wolves and foxes; for how in that case
could they dispose of their poultry? A hermit of my acquaintance
left, when he died, a fortune of seven hundred dollars to his
niece, the greatest part of which he scraped up by fattening
turkeys."
At the top of this bellota we found a wretched venta, where we
refreshed ourselves, and then continued our journey. Late in the
afternoon we cleared the last of these difficult passes. The wind
began now to rise, bearing on its wings a drizzling rain. We
passed by Soto Luino, and shaping our course through a wild but
picturesque country, we found ourselves about nightfall at the foot
of a steep hill, up which led a narrow bridle-way, amidst a grove
of lofty trees. Long before we had reached the top it had become
quite dark, and the rain had increased considerably. We stumbled
along in the obscurity, leading our horses, which were occasionally
down on their knees, owing to the slipperiness of the path. At
last we accomplished the ascent in safety, and pushing briskly
forward, we found ourselves, in about half an hour, at the entrance
of Muros, a large village situated just on the declivity of the
farther side of the hill.
A blazing fire in the posada soon dried our wet garments, and in
some degree recompensed us for the fatigues which we had undergone
in scrambling up the bellotas. A rather singular place was this
same posada of Muros. It was a large rambling house, with a
spacious kitchen, or common room, on the ground floor. Above
stairs was a large dining-apartment, with an immense oak table, and
furnished with cumbrous leathern chairs with high backs, apparently
three centuries old at least.
