I have tried a great many of the best rivers in northern Spain, and have come to the conclusion that for angling purposes they have been hopelessly ruined—by dynamite, cloruro, lime, coca, and various other things. There may be deep pools here and there where fish have escaped, but they are very few. If your book is not finished you can put this in, as it is accurate, and may save many a disappointment to the free fisherman.
Farther south, in León and northern Estremadura, are also rivers of first-rate character. The Alagón, for example, with its tributaries, is well adapted for trout—dashing streams with alternate stretches of pool and rapid. These still hold trout in their head-waters among the mountains; but lower down the speckled beauties are well-nigh extirpated.
In this region one frequently observes, not without surprise, evidence of the introduction and acclimatisation of exotic products by old-time Moors—often in most outlandish nooks, wherever their keen eyes had spotted some fertile patch: probably, ere this, that energetic race would have preserved and cultivated the trout! The success of such enterprise in New Zealand and South Africa (it is even promising to succeed under the Equator in B.E. Africa), and indeed in Spain itself (at Algeciras), attests how easily these Iberian waters might be endowed with a new interest and a new value.
Such, however, is existent apathy that, although the local natives (N. Estremadura) were aware of the presence of fish in their rivers, and told us that some ran to 10 or 12 lbs. in weight (these were barbel), yet they knew no distinctive names for the various species. All fish, big or little, were merely pesces—Muy buenas pesces. None could describe them, whether as to appearance or habit, nor did they know whether some species were migratory or otherwise.
The only angling we have seen practised in this province was at Trujillo, where in some lakes adjoining that old-world city Tencas (we presume tench) up to 5 or 6 lbs. are taken with bait.
(2) Salmon
To such an extent used these to abound in Asturian streams that maid-servants stipulated on entering domestic service that they should not be given salmon more than twice a week. At the present day the pollution of rivers by coal-mining and other impurities has in some cases banished the salmon entirely, in others greatly reduced their numbers. There yet remain, nevertheless, rivers in Asturias (such as the Deva and Cares) where salmon abound, and where numbers are still caught—chiefly by net, though rod-fishing is gradually extending its popularity, “owing to the glorious emotions it excites.”
A local method deserves a word of description. In the crystal-clear waters of N. Spain salmon are regularly captured by expert divers. Its exact position having been marked, the diver, swimming warily up from behind, slips a running noose over the salmon’s head. The noose draws tight as the fish begins to run; an attached line is then hauled upon by a second fisherman on the bank.
The Marquis de Villaviciosa de Asturias writes us:—
It is a common practice with the fishermen to dive and capture salmon in their arms (á brazo). My grandfather, the Marquis de Camposagrado, caught twelve thus in a single morning in the river Nalon in Asturias.
(3) Bear-hunting in Asturias
To the same nobleman (one of the first sportsmen of Spain) we are indebted for the following note:—
As regards the chase of the bear in Asturias, where I have killed four, I may say that it commences in September, at which period the bears are in the habit of descending nightly from the higher mountain-forests to the lower ground in order to raid the maize-fields in the valleys. Expert trackers, sent out at daybreak, spoor the bear right up to whichever covert he may have entered, and from which no further tracks emerge beyond.
The locality at which the animal has laid up being thus ascertained, a montería (mountain-drive) is organised—the beaters being provided with crackers, empty tins, hunting-horns, and every sort of ear-splitting engine—even the services of the bagpiper[52] are requisitioned!
Three or four guns are usually required, and are posted along the line where the bear is most likely to break—such as where the forest runs out to a point; or where it is narrowed by some projecting spur of precipitous rocks; or a deep valley where the covert is flanked by a mountain-torrent that restricts and defines the probable line of escape.
The bear (which is in the habit of attacking and destroying much cattle) comes crashing through the brushwood, breaking down all obstacles, and giving ample notice by the noise of his advance. If wounded he will attack the aggressor; but otherwise bears only become dangerous when they have young or are hurt in some way. The picturesque nature of these mountain-forests lends a further fascination to the chase of the bear in Asturias. From twenty to thirty bears are killed here every year.
The following quaint paragraphs we extract from Spanish newspapers:—
Fight with a Bear.—In the mountains of the Province of Lerida (Catalonia) a bear last week attacked and overpowered a muleteer, intending to devour him. A shepherd who happened to be in the neighbourhood, though at some little distance, witnessed the occurrence. Hastening with his utmost speed to the spot, he threw himself between the bear and its victim; and after a prolonged and strenuous combat (lucha larga y esforzada), the shepherd succeeded with his lance (garrocha) in killing the savage beast (fiera).
In his gratitude, the muleteer desired to present the shepherd with the best horse of his cavalcade, but this the latter declined.—November 24, 1907.
Incursion of a Bear.—In the outskirts of the village of Parámo in the Province of Oviedo (Asturias) there has within the last few days made its presence felt an immense bear which continued to execute terrible destruction among the cattle belonging to the villagers. Fortunately the parish-priest, who is an expert shot, succeeded in killing the depredator. It weighed 140 kilograms (= 300 lbs.).—April 25, 1908. [Two others are recorded to weigh 400 and 440 lbs.]
Chase of a She-Bear—Santandér, February 1909. From Molledo an assemblage of the local peasantry, mustered for the purpose, and bearing every kind of weapon, sallied forth, to give battle to a bear which for some weeks had been working havoc among their flocks and herds. After traversing the mountains in all directions without result, they were already returning, dead-beat and disappointed, towards their village, when they suddenly descried the bear standing in the entrance to a cave. On observing the presence of hunters, the animal disappeared within. A shepherd named Melchor Martinez at once followed, penetrating the interior of the cavern which extends far into the mountain-side. Presently on indistinctly perceiving (divisando) the beast, Melchor gave it a shot—flying out himself with hair all standing on end (encrespados) at the roaring of the wild beast (fiera). Melchor, nevertheless, at once entered the den again and fired a second shot—jumping out immediately thereafter. After a short interval, the roars of the fiera within having ceased, the hunters in a body entered the cavern and found an enormous she-bear lying dead, together with four young, alive, which they carried away.
(4) Game-Birds of Cantabria
Alike in its game-denizens with other physical features, Cantabria is differentiated from the rest of Spain, approximating rather to a north-European similitude. Thus the capercaillie is spread along the whole Biscayan range though nowhere numerous, and in appearance less so than in fact, owing to the density of these mountain-forests.
During our long but fruitless rambles after bear we raised but four; that, however, was in spring when these birds are apt to lie close.
In the Pyrenees (where the capercaillie is known as Gallo de Bosque) a certain number are shot every winter along with roebuck and pig in mountain-drives (monterías); but in the Asturias the pursuit of the Gallo de Monte is effected (as in Austria and northern Europe) during its courting-season in May. The system is well known. The opportunity occurs at dusk and dawn, the stalker advancing while the lovelorn male sings a frenzied epithalamium, halting instantly when the bird becomes silent.
Ptarmigan are found in the Pyrenees, but seem to extend no farther west than the Province of Navarre, which area also coincides roughly with the southern distribution of the hazel-grouse (Tetrao bonasia) though we had some suspicion (not since confirmed) that the latter may extend into Asturias.
Our common grey partridge, unknown in S. Spain, occurs all along the Cantabrian highlands up to, but not beyond, the Cordillera de León. Here it descends to the foothills in winter, but is never found on the plains.
A bird peculiar to this region, though not game, deserves remark, the great black woodpecker, a subarctic species which we have observed in the Picos de Europa.
Angling in River and Sea[53]
Nearly all the Spanish rivers when they leave the sierras and dawdle through the plains degenerate into sluggish mud-charged streams; but most of them are well stocked with barbel, which may be caught by methods similar to those in vogue on the Thames, i.e. by float-fishing or ledgering with fine but strong tackle, as the first rush of a barbel is worthy of a trout. These fish average about one pound in weight, but in favourable spots, such as mill-tails, run up to 10 lbs. and upwards.
The Spanish barbel has developed one trait in advance of its English cousins, for it will rise to a fly, or at least to a grasshopper. Owing to the abundance of these insects and of crickets along the river-banks in summer, the barbel have acquired a taste for such delicacies, and a hot June afternoon in Andalucia may be worse spent than in “dapping” beneath the trees that fringe the banks of Guadalete and similar rivers.
The Boga, a little fish of the roach or dace family, seldom exceeding a quarter pound, will afford amusement in all the smaller trout-streams of Spain and Portugal when trout are recusant. The boga is lured with a worm-tail (on finest gut and smallest hook) from each little run or cascade, whence five or six dozens may be extracted in an afternoon.
The Grey Mullet (Spanish, Lisa) is a good sporting fish ranging from half a pound up to four pounds weight, and caught readily in tidal rivers as it comes up from sea on the flood. Native anglers are often very successful, using long roach-poles and gear similar to that of the roach-fisher at home. The bait is either lugworm or paste, and on favouring days as many as two dozen mullet are landed during the run of the flood-tide.
The Shad (Spanish, Sabalo), though not only the handsomest but also the best-eating of all tidal-river fish, is of no concern to the angler, since it refuses to look at lure of any kind.
The Tunny (Spanish, Atun) frequents the south-Spanish coasts and comes in millions to the mouths of the big rivers (especially the Guadalquivír) to spawn. The usual method of capture is by a huge fixed net called the almadrava, extending three miles out to sea, and placed at such an angle to the coast-line that the fish, on striking it, follow along to the inshore end, where they enter a corral or enclosed space about an acre in extent. Here the fishing-boats lie waiting, and when as many as 500 huge tunnies (they average 300 lbs. apiece) are enclosed at once, a scene of wild excitement and bloodshed ensues, the great fish darting and splashing around their prison, sending spray flying mast-high, while the fishermen yell and gaff and harpoon by turns.
The most successful almadrava is situate at Rota, some seven miles south of the mouth of Guadalquivír, the average catch for the season (May 1 till August 1) being about 20,000 tunnies. A canning factory stands on the shore hard by, where the fish are boiled, potted, and shipped to Italy, whence (the tins being labelled “Italian Tunny”) they are exported to all parts of the world! The flesh resembles veal, and is much appreciated in South America.
Rod-Fishing for Tunny
At this period, when the tunny go to spawn (exclusively larger fish), they travel, as the Spaniards say, with their mouths shut, and nothing will induce them to look at a bait. There occurs, however, in winter (November to February) another “run” of smaller fish averaging 50 to 150 lbs. apiece, and these are amenable to temptation. Tarifa, in the Straits of Gibraltar, is a favourable point from which to attempt this sport. The system is to cruise about in a falucho, or sailing-boat, carrying a plentiful supply of sardines, mackerel, and other small fish to serve as bait. These, on arrival at likely waters, are thrown overboard one by one till at length they attract a roving tunny. The operation is repeated till the quarry is enticed close up to the vessel. A similar fish, impaled on a two-inch hook, is then offered him, dangling on the surface, and will probably be seized. The tunny on finding himself held, makes off in a bee-line at a mile a minute. Needless to say, the strongest tackle must be used, together with some hundreds of yards of line, and the fight will be severe and prolonged, for the tunny is one of the swiftest and most active of fish, and he weighs as much as an average man. Few amateurs have hitherto attempted this sport; but as large numbers of tunny are caught thus by professional fishermen with extremely coarse hand-lines, there seems to be no reason why “big-game fishing” in Spain, if scientifically pursued, might not rival that of California.
The Bonito is another fine game-fish which may be caught at sunrise at nearly any point on the Andalucian sea-board by trolling with a white fly.
CHAPTER XXX
THE SIERRA NEVÁDA
THE Sierra Neváda with its striking skylines, crisp and clean-cut against an azure background, is yearly surveyed by thousands of tourists in southern Spain. The majority content themselves with the distant view from the battlements of Alhambra or from the summer-palace of Generalife. Few penetrate the alpine solitude or scale peaks that look so near yet cost some toil to gain.
We are not ashamed to admit that these glorious sierras have in themselves possessed for us attractions that transcend in interest the accumulated art-treasures, the store of historic and legendary lore that illumine the shattered relics of Moslem rule—of an Empire City where during seven centuries the power and faith of the Crescent dominated south-western Europe and the focal point of mediaeval culture and chivalry. None, nevertheless, can long sojourn in Granada wholly uninfluenced by its stirring past, by the pathetic story of the fall of Moorish dominion, and the words graven on countless stones till they seem to represent the very spirit of this land, the words of the founder, King Alhama: LA GALIB ILLA ALLAH = Only God is Victor.
Abler pens have portrayed these things, and we will only pause to touch on one dramatic episode—since its scene lies on our course to the “high tops”—when Boabdil, last of the Caliphs, paused in his flight across the vega to cast back a final glance at the scene of his former greatness and lost empire. “You do well,” snarled Axia, his mother, “to weep over your kingdom like a woman since you could not defend it like a man.” That the maternal reproach was undeserved was proved by Boabdil’s heroic death in battle, thirty years later, near Fez.[54]
From this spot—still poetically called El Ultimo Suspiro del Moro—the Sierra Neváda stretches away some forty miles to the eastward with an average depth of ten miles, and includes within that area the four loftiest altitudes in all this mountain-spangled Peninsula of Spain. The chief points in the Pyrenees, nevertheless, run them fairly close, as shown in the following table:—
| Greatest Altitudes in Feet | |
| Sierra Neváda. | |
| Mulahacen | 11,781 |
| Picacho de la Veleta | 11,597 |
| Alcazába | 11,356 |
| Cerro de los Machos | 11,205 |
| Col de la Veleta | 10,826 |
| Pyrenees. | |
| Pico de Nethou | 11,168 |
| Monte de Posets | 11,046 |
| Monte Perdido | 10,994 |
By way of comparison it may be added that the next greatest elevations in Spain are:—
| Picos de Europa (described in Chap. XXVIII.) | 10,046 | feet |
| Sierra de Grédos (already described) | 8,700 | " |
Curiously all the loftiest elevations occur outside the great central table-lands of Spain, the highest point of which latter is the last-quoted Sierra de Grédos.
Adjoining the Sierra Neváda on the south, and practically filling the entire space between it and the Mediterranean, lie the Alpuxarras, covering some fourteen miles by ten. The Alpuxarras are of no great elevation (4000 to 5000 feet), and are separated from their giant neighbours by the Valle de Lecrin, the entrance to which bears the poetic name of El Ultimo Suspiro del Moro, as just described.
Here is a Spanish appreciation of Neváda:—
Compare this with northern mountains—Alps or Pyrenees: the tone, the colours, the ambient air differentiate this southern range. Snow, it is true, surmounts all alike, but here the very sky flashes radiant (rutilante) in its azure intensity contrasted with the cold blue of glacier-ice. Here, in lower latitude, the rocks appear rather scorched by a torrid sun than lashed by winter rain and hibernal furies. The valleys present a semi-tropical aspect, resulting from the industry of old-time Moors, who, ever faithful to the precepts of the Koran, introduced every such species of exotic fruit or herb as was calculated to flourish and enrich the land.[55]
The main chain of the Sierra Neváda constitutes one of the strongholds of the Spanish ibex; and, curiously, the ibex is the solitary example of big game that these mountains can boast. Differing in geological formation from other mountain-systems of southern Spain, the Sierra Neváda shelters neither deer of any kind—red, fallow, or roe—nor wild-boar. The ibex, on the other hand, must be counted as no mean asset, and though totally unprotected, they yet hold their own—a fair average stock survives along the line of the Veleta, Alcazába, and Mulahacen. This survival is due to the vast area and rugged regions over which (in relatively small numbers) the wild-goats are scattered; but even more so to the antiquated muzzle-loading smooth-bores hitherto employed against them. That moment when cheap, repeating cordite rifles shall have fallen into the hands of the mountain-peasantry will sound the death-knell of the ibex.
LAMMERGEYER (Gypallus barbatus)
A glorious denizen of Sierra Neváda.
While writing the above we hear (from two sources) that the “Mauser” has at last got into the hands of at least one local goat-herd, who last summer killed four out of a band of five ibex—all sexes and sizes. There is no mistaking the import of this. It signifies that the end is in view unless prompt measures are taken to save the ibex of Neváda from extirpation.
So long as local hunters were restricted to their old ball-guns, the contest was fairly equal and the game could hold its own. But neither ibex nor any other wild beast on earth can withstand FREE shooting (unlicensed and unlimited) with 1000-yard “repeaters.” Personally the writer regards the use of repeating-rifles on game as sheer barbarism. These are military weapons, and should be excluded from every field of sport.
A precisely analogous case is afforded by Norway and her reindeer. The Mauser first appeared there in 1894. Three years later we pointed out, both to the Norwegian Government and also in Wild Norway, that unless steps were taken to regulate and limit the resultant massacre, the wild reindeer would be extinct within five years. Our warnings passed unheeded; but the prediction erred only on the side of moderation. For only four years later (in 1901) the Norsk Government was forced to prohibit absolutely all shooting for a period of seven years, and to impose, on the expiry of that time, both licence-duties and limits, alike on native as well as on foreign sportsmen.
Free shooting, unregulated and unlimited, means with modern weapons instant extermination—a matter of a few years. Then, after some creature has perished off the face of the earth, we read a gush of maudlin regret and vain disgust. It is too late; why do not these good folk bestir themselves while there is time to safeguard creatures that yet survive, though menaced with deadly danger? Warnings such as ours pass unnoticed, and platonic tears are bottled-up for posthumous exhibition.
In winter the ibex are driven downwards by the snow. They first descend southwards to the Trevenque—one of those abruptly peaked mountains that “stretch out” even skilled climbers to conquer. A long knife-edged ridge is Trevenque, culminating in a sheer pyramidal aiguille, its flanks scarred by ravines with complication of scarp and counter-scarp, upstanding crags and steep shale-shoots that defy definition by pen or pencil.
A main winter resort is supplied by the Alpuxarras, and, beyond the dividing Valle de Lecrin, ibex are distributed along the whole series of mountain-ranges that lie along the Mediterranean as far as the Sierras Bermeja and Ronda.
Among those subsidiary ranges, the following may here be specified as ibex-frequented, to wit: the Sierras de Nerja and Lujar near Motril, Sierra Tejáda lying south of the Vega de Granada (especially the part called Cásulas, which, with most of the range, is private property and preserved), Sierras de Competa and Alhama, and, nearer the sea, the Sierra Frigiliana belonging to the late Duke of Fernan Nunez, who secured trophies thereon exceeding thirty inches in length.
Westward, in the Province of Malaga, lie the Sierra de Ojen, Sierra Blanca, and Palmitera (a great area of these being now preserved by Mr. Pablo Larios), and last the Sierra Bermeja, described in Wild Spain. Several of these ranges are of bare rock, while others are covered to their summits with gorse and other brushwood.
The most enjoyable season for ibex-shooting (and on preserved ground the most favourable) is during August and September, when the snow has practically disappeared, except the permanent glaciers and stray patches in some northern ravines. Camp-life is then delightful and exhilarating and, given sound lungs and limbs, the game may be fairly stalked and shot. The photo shows a typical trophy—a grand ibex ram shot years ago on the Alcazába, horns 28¼ inches—another specimen measuring 29 inches is figured in Wild Spain. Our own experiences with ibex, however, are now rather remote and might appear out-of-date. We therefore content ourselves with the following extract from our work quoted.
On a bitterly cold March morning we found ourselves, as day slowly broke, traversing the outspurs of the sierra—on the scene of the great earthquake of 1884, evidences of which were plentiful enough among the scattered hill-villages. Already many mule-teams, heavily laden with merchandise from the coast town of Motril, were wending their laborious way inland. It is worth noting that in front of five or six laden mules it is customary to harness a single donkey. This animal does little work; but always passes approaching teams on the proper side, and, moreover, picks out the best parts of the road. This enables the driver to go to sleep, and the plan, we were told, is a good one.
At Lanjarón (2284 feet) we breakfasted at the ancient fonda of San Rafael, where the bright and beautifully polished brass and copper cooking utensils hanging on the walls were a sight to make a careful housewife envious. We watched our breakfast cooked over the charcoal-fire, and learned a good deal thereby. We were delayed here a whole day by snow-storms. There is stabling under the fonda for 500 pack-animals, for Lanjarón in its “season” is an important place, frequented by invalids from far and near. Its mineral springs are reputed efficacious; but the drainage arrangements are villainous in the extreme, and altogether it seemed a village to be avoided. Sad traces of the cholera were everywhere visible, many doors and lintels bearing the ominous sign: it was curious that in so few cases had it been erased.
We left before daybreak, and a few leagues farther on the ascent became very steep and abrupt, the hill-crests whither we were bound within view but wreathed in mist. Only one traveller did we meet in the long climb from Orjiva to Capileira, and he bringing two mule-loads of dead and dying sheep, worried by wolves just outside Capileira the night before. Expecting that the wolves would certainly return, we prepared to wait up that night for them; but were dissuaded, the argument being “that is exactly what they will expect! No, those wolves will probably not come back this winter.” But return they did, both that night and several following. The night before we left Capileira on the return journey (a fortnight later) they came in greater numbers than ever and killed over twenty sheep.
Capileira is the highest hamlet in the sierra and is celebrated for its hams, which are cured in the snow. Here we put up for the night, sleeping as best we could amidst fowls and fleas, after an amusing evening spent around the fire, when one pot cooked for forty people besides ourselves. The cold was intense, streams of fine snow whirling in at pleasure through the crazy shutters, so we were glad to go to bed—indeed I was chased thither by a hungry sow on the prowl, seeking something to eat, apparently in my portmanteau.
ALCAZÁBA. MULAHACEN.
The Peaks of Sierra Nevada.
Heavy snow-falls that night and all next day prevented our advance; but at an early hour on the following morning we were under way—six of us—on mules, though I would have preferred to walk, the snow being so deep one could not see where the edges of the precipices were. No sooner had I mounted than the mule fell down while crossing a hill-torrent, and I was glad to find the water no deeper.
After climbing steadily upward all the morning, the last two hours on foot, the snow knee-deep, we at length sighted the cairn on the height to which we were bound. Before nightfall we had reached the point, but few of the mules accomplished the last few hundred yards. After bravely trying again and again, the poor beasts sank exhausted in the snow, and we had to carry up the impedimenta ourselves in repeated journeys. The deep snow, the tremendous ascent, and impossibility of seeing a foothold made this porterage most laborious, but we had all safely stowed in our cave before sundown.
The overhanging rock, which for the next ten or twelve days was to serve as our abode, we found a mass of icicles. These we proceeded to clear away, and then by a good fire to melt our ice-enamelled ceiling, fancying that the constant drip on our noses all night might be unpleasant. The altitude of our ledge above sea-level was about 8500 feet, and our plateau of rest—our home, so to speak—measured just seven yards by two.
Early next morning we proceeded to erect snow-screens at favourable “passes,” wherein to await the wild-goats as they moved up or down the mountain-side at dawn and dusk respectively, their favourite food being the rye-grass which the peasants from the villages below contrive to grow in tiny patches—two or three square yards scattered here and there amidst the crags. It is only by rare industry that even so paltry a crop can be snatched at such altitudes, and during the short period when the snow is absent from the southern aspects. At present it enveloped everything—not a blade of vegetation nor a mouthful for a wild-goat could be seen.
Although during the day the snow was generally soft—the sun being very hot—yet after dark we found the way dangerous, traversing a sloping, slippery ice-surface like a huge glacier, where a slip or false step would send one down half a mile with nothing to clutch at, or to save oneself. Such a slide meant death, for it could only terminate in a precipice or in one of those horrible holes with a raging torrent to receive one in its dark abyss, and convey the fragments beneath the snow—where to appear next? Each step had to be cut with a hatchet, or hollowed—the butt of a rifle is not intended for such work, but has had to perform it.
Every day we saw ibex on the snow-fields and towering rocks above our cave. They were now of a light fawn-colour, very shaggy in appearance, some males carrying magnificent horns. One old ram seemed to be always on the watch, kneeling down on the very verge of a crag 500 or 600 yards above us, and which commanded a view for miles—though miles read but paltry words! From where that goat was he could survey half a dozen provinces.
These ibex proved quite inaccessible, and nearly a week had passed away ere a wild-goat gave us a chance. One night shortly after quitting my post, little better than a human icicle, and not without fear of scrambling caveward in absolute darkness along the ice-slope, a little herd of goats passed—mere shadows—within easy shot of where, five minutes before, I had been lying in wait. On another morning at dawn the tracks of a big male showed that he, too, must have passed at some hour of the night within five-and-twenty yards of the snow-screen.
But it was not till a week had elapsed that we had the ibex really in our power. Just as day broke a herd of eight—two males and six females—stood not forty yards from our cave-dwelling. The fact was ascertained by one Estéban, a Spanish sportsman whom we had taken with us. Silently he stole back to the cave, and without a word, or disturbing the dreams of his still sleeping employers, picked up an “Express” and went forth. Then the loud double report at our very doors—that is, had there been a door—aroused us, only to find ... the spoor of that enormous ram, the spot where he had halted, listening, above the cave, and the splash of the lead on the rock beyond—eighteen inches too low! an impossible miss for one used to the “Express.” Oh, Estéban, Estéban! what were our feelings towards you on that fateful morn!
Life in a mountain-cave high above snow-level—six men huddled together, two English and four Spaniards—has its weird and picturesque, but it has also its harder side. Yet those days and nights, passed amidst majestic scenes and strange wild beasts, have left nothing but pleasant memories, nor have their hardships deterred us from repeating the experiment. These initial campaigns were too early in the season (March and April).
The only birds seen were choughs and ravens; ring-ouzels lower down. There were plenty of trout, though small, in the hill-burns. On one occasion a circular rainbow across a deep gorge perfectly reflected in the centre our own figures on passing a given point. The ice-going abilities of the mountaineers were marvellous—incredible save to an eye-witness. Across even a north-drift, hard and “slape” as steel and hundreds of yards in extent, these men would steer a sliding, slithering course at top speed, directed towards some single projecting rock. To miss that refuge might mean death; but they did not miss it, ever, in their perilous course, making good a certain amount of forward movement. At that rock they would settle in their minds the next point to be reached, quietly smoking a cigarette meanwhile. How such performances diminish one’s self-esteem! How weak are our efforts! Even on the softer southern drifts, what balancing, what scrambling and crawling on hands and knees are necessary, and what a “cropper” one would have come but for the friendly arm of Enrique, who, as he arrests one’s perilous slide, merely mutters, “Ave Maria purissima!”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Now we have left the ice and snow and the ibex to wander in peace over their lonely domains. To-night we have dined at a table; there is a cheery fire in the rude posada and merry voices, contrasting with the silence of our cave, where no one spoke above a whisper, and where no fire was permissible save once a day to heat the olla. Now all we need is a song from the Murillo-faced little girl who is fanning the charcoal embers. “Sing us a couplet, Dolóres, to welcome us back from the snows of Alpuxarras!”
Dolóres. “With the greatest pleasure, Caballero, if José will play the guitar. No one plays like José, but he is tired, having travelled all day with his mules from Lanjarón.”
José. “No, señor, not tired, but I have no soul to-night to play. This morning they asked me to bring medicine from the town for Carmen, but when I reached the house she was dead. I find myself very sad.”
Dolóres. “Pero, si ya tiene su palma y su corona?” ... = but as she already has her palm and her crown?
José. “That is true! Bring the guitar and I will see if it will quit me of this tristeza!”
Next morning the snow prevented our leaving; and the day after, while riding away, we met some of the villagers carrying poor Carmen to the burial-ground on the mountain-side. The body, plainly robed in white, was borne on an open bier, the hands crossed and head supported on pillows, thus allowing the long unfettered hair to hang down loose below. It was an impressive and a picturesque scene, and as I rode on, the rejoinder of Dolóres came to my mind, “Ya tiene su palma y su corona.”
CHAPTER XXXI
IN THE SIERRA NEVÁDA (Continued)
ITS BIRD-LIFE IN SPRING-TIME
THE long snow-lines of the sierra had vanished behind whirling cloud-masses, black and menacing. The green avenues of the Alhambra seemed gloomier than ever under a heavy downpour, while troops of rain-soaked tourists belied the glories of an Andalucian springtide.
Serins sang in the elms, and wrynecks noisily courted, as we set forth with a donkey-team for the sierra. On former occasions we had explored northwards up the Darro towards Jaën, another year up the Genil, this spring we had selected the valley of the Monachil. Hardly had we entered the mountains than thunder crackled overhead, and then a rain-burst drove us to shelter in a cave. Next day broke ominous enough, but we rode on up the wild gorge of the Monachil, and after seven hours’ hill-climbing reached the alpine farm of San Gerónimo, to the guarda of which we had a recommendation. The house nestles beneath the serrated ridge of the Dornájo, 6970 feet.
With some dismay we found assembled at this outlandish spot quite a small crowd of men, women, and children who, with dogs, pigs, hens, and an occasional donkey, all appeared to inhabit a single smoke-filled room. We were bidden to take seats amidst this company, and watched the attempt to boil an enormous pan of potatoes over a green brushwood fire, while domestic animals (including cattle) passed freely through to the byres beyond. These being on higher ground had created in front a sort of quagmire, which was crossed by a plank-bridge. Rain was falling smartly, and the writer’s spirits, be it confessed, sank to zero at the prospect of a week or two in such quarters. Worse situations, however, have had to be faced, and usually yield to resolute treatment. Thus when a separate room—albeit but a dirty potato store—had been assigned to us, trestle-beds and a table set up, the quality of comfort advanced in quite disproportionate degree.
Now the Sierra Neváda with its league-long lines of unbroken snow, accentuated by the mystery of the towering Veleta, massive Mulahacen, and the rest, presents an alpine panorama that is absolutely unrivalled in all the Peninsula. But immediately below those transcendent altitudes, in its middle regions the Sierra Neváda is lacking in many of those attributes that charm our eyes—naturalists’ eyes. Over vast areas and on broad shoulders of the hills the winter-snows linger so long that plant-life, where not actually extinct, is scant and starved; while these dreary inchoate stretches are strewn broadcast with a debris of shale and schist that resembles nothing so much as one of nature’s giant rubbish tips. True, there exists a sporadic brushwood, exiguous, dwarfed, and intermittent; there are scattered trees, ilex and pinaster (Pinus pinaster), up to about 7000 feet. But all seems barren by comparison. One’s eye hungers for the deep jungles of Moréna, for the dark-green pinsapos of San Cristobal, or the stately granite walls of Grédos. Here all is on a big scale, the biggest in Spain; but size alone does not itself constitute beauty, and the adornments of beauty are lacking. We write of course not as mountaineers, but as naturalists.
It boots not to tell of days when rain fell in sheets and an icy neblina swept the hills, shrouding their summits from view. A single ornithological remembrance shall be recorded—the abundance of certain northern-breeding species on the middle heights, especially common wheatears and skylarks. After watching these carefully, we were convinced by their actions (their song, courting, and fluttering flight) that both intended to nest here at 7000 feet, and dissection confirmed that view. Time alone prevented our settling the point; but a month later (say early in June) an ornithologist could easily verify the fact.
May the 1st broke bright and clear, not a cloud in the azure firmament. The songs of hoopoes, serins, and a cuckoo resounded hard by, and from our paneless window we watched three glorious rock-thrushes “displaying” before their sober mates—as sketched at p. 18. Within sight among the tumbled boulders were also a pair of blue thrushes, with a woodlark or two, several black-starts, and rock-buntings.
WOODLARK (Alauda arborea)
Nests in Neváda up to 5000 feet, and in the pine-forests of Doñana at
sea-level.
We bathed in an ice-cold burn with temperature little above freezing—at dawn, indeed, the backwaters were ice-bound. Then, mounted on a donkey, the writer alternately scrambled up the stony steeps or dragged the sure-footed beastie behind. The gentler slopes were fairly clad with yellow daffodil or narcissus, now just coming into bloom, and above 7000 feet we entered a zone of dwarf-arbutus and ilex-scrub. The warm sunshine brought out numerous butterflies—it seemed strange to see these frail creatures fluttering across open snows! Most of those recognised were tortoise-shells, rather paler than our own.
Alas, before noon the icy mists once more swept up. In a crevice among some rocks where we sought shelter at 8000 feet the skeleton of a wheatear attested the cruel conditions of bird-life—death by starvation. Here we separated, the writer going for a snow-scramble, following the dwindling Monachil to its source, where the nascent river trickles in triple streamlets down black rock-walls mantled by impending snow-fields. Here snow lay in scattered patches dotted with the resurgent unkillable “pincushion” gorse (Buphaurum spinosum) and a spiny broom that later develops a purple blossom, and separated by intervals where the melting mantle had left Mother Earth viscous and inchoate, heart-broken at the indignity of eight months in the arctic. Higher up the snow became continuous, but seamed by innumerable rills, each laughing and dancing as in delight at a new-found existence, or converging to join streams in buoyant exuberance. Some leapt forward through fringing margins of emerald moss; others ploughed sullen ways beneath an overhung snow-brae. But no chirp or sound of bird-life broke the silence, the only living creatures were ants and a bronze-green beetle! (Pterostichus rutilans, Dej.)—not a sign of those alpine forms we had specially come to seek.
From 8500 feet the snow stretched upwards unbroken (save where some sheer escarpment protruded), covering in purest white the vast shoulder of the Veleta. The Picácho itself was to-day hidden amidst swirling clouds, and only once did we enjoy a momentary glimpse of its great scarped outline. Yet in three short weeks, say by May 20, all these leagues of solid snow will have vanished.
Facing this gorge of the Monachil, the opposite slope is crowned by the conspicuous turreted crags known as the Peñones de San Francisco, 8460 feet. To these L. had climbed, and though we both failed in finding the chief of our special objects (the snow-finch) yet L. had enjoyed a glimpse of another alpine species, new to us, and we decided to revisit the spot on the morrow.
That morning again broke fine, the precursor of a glorious day. Hardly had we left our quarters than a lammergeyer soared overhead, then, gently closing his giant wings, plunged into a cavern above. Five minutes later he reappeared and, after several aerial evolutions, suddenly checked and, with indrawn pinions, swept downwards to earth. Ere we could surmount an intervening ridge, the great dragon-like Gypaëtus swept into view, his golden breast gleaming in the early sunlight, and bearing in his talons a long bone with which he sailed across the valley towards Trevenque; we watched to see the result, but, so far as prism-glasses could reach, that bone was never dropped. Probably he had some special spot habitually used for bone-breaking. Later a griffon-vulture (a species rarely seen in Neváda) passed overhead, and then a second lammergeyer sailed up the gorge of Monachil.
‘Tis a long up-grade grind to the Peñones, but repaid by magnificent views of the Picácho de la Veleta—its scarped outline gloriously offset against the deepest azure and its 1000-foot sheer drop vanishing to unseen depths in the mysterious “corral” beneath—an inspiring scene.
Beyond to the eastward towered the mountain-mass, Mulahacen—perpetuating the name of that Moslem chief whose remains, so tradition records, yet lie in some unknown glacial niche in this the loftiest spot of all the Spains. There they were laid to rest by the fond hands of Zoraya, at the dying request of her husband the penultimate Moorish king, Muley-Hacen.
Our upward course led through beds of dwarf-juniper, thick strong stems all flattened down horizontally by the weight of winters’ snows, precisely as one sees them on the high fjelds of Norway. Here, both to-day and yesterday, we observed ring-ouzels, doubtless nesting amid the dense covert.
We soon picked up our friends of yesterday—small hedge-sparrow-like birds with blue-grey throat, striated back, and red patches on either flank, the alpine accentor. At first they were fairly tame, allowing us to watch and sketch them perched on lowly shrub or rock, warbling a sweet little carol (louder, but otherwise resembling that of our hedge-sparrow), or darting to pick up a straying ant. After a while that confidence, though wholly unabused, vanished; they became wild and cautious, refusing to allow us a single specimen! These birds were evidently paired, but showed no signs of nesting. Alas, that a drawing by Commander Lynes depicting the scene with the Picácho de la Veleta in the background refuses to “reproduce”!
These were the only accentors we saw, nor did we see to-day or any other day a single snow-finch.
An Alpine Farm.—The lands of San Gerónimo (where we were quartered) extend up the Monachil to either watershed—a length of 4½ leagues, while the breadth cannot average less than two. The acreage we leave to be calculated by those who care for such detail. At this date (early May) certainly one-half lay under snow, which still encumbered the higher patches of cultivation—to-day we saw men unearthing last autumn’s crop of potatoes well above the snow-line. At lower levels some corn already stood six inches high, but many “fields” were necessarily, as yet, unploughed. Fields, by the way, were separated not, as at home, by hedges, but sometimes by a sheer drop of 500 or 1000 feet, elsewhere by perpendicular rock-faces or by shale-shoots. But the laborious cultivation missed not one level patch—nor unlevel either, since we saw ox-teams ploughing where one wondered if even a cat could maintain a footing.
This is the highest farm in Neváda, possibly in all Spain. The house stands at 6000 feet and the lands extend to the Veleta, 11,597 feet. It provides grazing for goats and sheep, as well as a small herd of cattle, and thus affords permanent employment to several herdsmen. But at seed-time and harvest it employs as many as twenty or thirty men who, with their dependents, live in rude esparto-thatched huts scattered over the whole fifteen miles, and it was the numbers of these (assembled for pay-day) that had caused us some consternation on our first arrival! The value of the farm, we were told, is put at £8000 Spanish, representing some £400 as yearly rental.
Two years before, wolves had become such a pest to the flocks that strychnine was universally resorted to, with the result that to-day not a wolf is to be seen in the whole sierra. Foxes also perished, and the guarda, Manuel Gallegos, told us that he had thus obtained several wild-cats (Gatos montéses) whose skins fetched 20 pesetas apiece as ladies’ furs. The following day we chanced on a dead marten-cat, evidently killed by poison; and on showing it to Manuel with the remark that that was not a gato montés, he replied: “No, señor, that is a garduño; pero lo mismo da” = “it’s all the same!” Accuracy in definition is not a strong point with Manuel, nor indeed is it with any of our Spanish friends.
Martens are the commoner animal in Neváda; there may, nevertheless, be a few true wild-cats, and there certainly are some lynxes. The four-footed fauna of Neváda is sadly limited. There are neither deer of any kind—red, roe, or fallow—nor wild-boar. Bare rocks afford no covert for these: there is, of course, one compensating equivalent in the ibex. Small game is equally conspicuous by its absence. Local cazadores (each of whom, of course, possesses a decoy-bird—reclamo) enlarge on the abundance of partridge and hares, yet we saw hardly any game whether here on the Monachil, on the Genil, Darro, or at any of the points whereon we have explored the Sierra Neváda. There must, however, be a sprinkling to maintain the golden eagles and peregrines, both of which birds-of-prey we observed.