The Country Through Which We Passed Was Very
Picturesque.
At about two in the afternoon we could descry through
the mist the small fishing town of Santa Marta on our left, with
its beautiful bay.
Travelling along the summit of a line of hills,
we presently entered a chestnut forest, which appeared to be
without limit: the rain still descended, and kept up a ceaseless
pattering among the broad green leaves. "This is the commencement
of the autumnal rains," said the guide. "Many is the wetting that
you will get, my masters, before you reach Oviedo." "Have you ever
been as far as Oviedo?" I demanded. "No," he replied, "and once
only to Rivadeo, the place to which I am now conducting you, and I
tell you frankly that we shall soon be in wildernesses where the
way is hard to find, especially at night, and amidst rain and
waters. I wish I were fairly back to Ferrol, for I like not this
route, which is the worst in Galicia, in more respects than one;
but where my master's pony goes, there must I go too; such is the
life of us guides." I shrugged my shoulders at this intelligence,
which was by no means cheering, but made no answer. At length,
about nightfall, we emerged from the forest, and presently
descended into a deep valley at the foot of lofty hills.
"Where are we now?" I demanded of the guide, as we crossed a rude
bridge at the bottom of the valley, down which a rivulet swollen by
the rain foamed and roared.
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