It Is Now Deserted, And
Stands Lone And Desolate Upon One Of The Peninsulas Of The
Cantabrian Shore.
Leaving Llanes, we soon entered one of the most
dreary and barren regions imaginable, a region of rock and stone,
where neither grass nor trees were to be seen.
Night overtook us
in these places. We wandered on, however, until we reached a small
village, termed Santo Colombo. Here we passed the night, in the
house of a carabineer of the revenue, a tall athletic figure who
met us at the gate armed with a gun. He was a Castilian, and with
all that ceremonious formality and grave politeness for which his
countrymen were at one time so celebrated. He chid his wife for
conversing with her handmaid about the concerns of the house before
us. "Barbara," said he, "this is not conversation calculated to
interest the strange cavaliers; hold your peace, or go aside with
the muchacha." In the morning he refused any remuneration for his
hospitality. "I am a caballero," said he, "even as yourselves. It
is not my custom to admit people into my house for the sake of
lucre. I received you because you were benighted and the posada
distant."
Rising early in the morning, we pursued our way through a country
equally stony and dreary as that which we had entered upon the
preceding day. In about four hours we reached San Vincente, a
large dilapidated town, chiefly inhabited by miserable fishermen.
It retains, however, many remarkable relics of former magnificence:
the bridge, which bestrides the broad and deep firth, on which
stands the town, has no less than thirty-two arches, and is built
of grey granite.
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