The stable was a wretched shed, in which the
horses sank to their fetlocks in mud and puddle. On inquiring for
barley, I was told that I was now in Galicia, where barley was not
used for provender, and was very rare. I was offered in lieu of it
Indian corn, which, however, the horses ate without hesitation.
There was no straw to be had; coarse hay, half green, being the
substitute. By trampling about in the mud of the stable my horse
soon lost a shoe, for which I searched in vain. "Is there a
blacksmith in the village?" I demanded of a shock-headed fellow who
officiated as ostler.
Ostler. - Si, Senhor; but I suppose you have brought horse-shoes
with you, or that large beast of yours cannot be shod in this
village.
Myself. - What do you mean? Is the blacksmith unequal to his trade?
Cannot he put on a horse-shoe?
Ostler. - Si, Senhor; he can put on a horse-shoe if you give it him;
but there are no horse-shoes in Galicia, at least in these parts.
Myself. - Is it not customary then to shoe the horses in Galicia?
Ostler. - Senhor, there are no horses in Galicia, there are only
ponies; and those who bring horses to Galicia, and none but madmen
ever do, must bring shoes to fit them; only shoes of ponies are to
be found here.
