Part 11 (1/2)

”The house and all that is in it is at your service,” he said in the phrase of Spanish courtesy.

I was patting the dog.

”That dog,” said the little Senor, ”is a very valuable dog. It is unique in the province and possibly is unique in the south of Spain. It has a romantic history. It is bred by the monks in high Switzerland, and when the snow is deep on the mountains it goes out to hunt for lost travellers. It is the only specimen of a San Bernar' in the south of Spain.”

We looked at the setter; and drank some more beer.

”That bull,” went on the Senor, pointing to the picture, ”was painted by one of the best bull painters in Spain.”

We looked at the picture and again took refuge in beer. Luis, who did not know about setters, but did know about pictures, drank in sympathy.

The Senor wound up his gramophone.

”Do you know 'Frou-Frou'?” he inquired.

”'Frou-Frou'?” we said.

”Yes, the French Comic Opera.”

”But,” said Luis, ”have you not by chance a disc of Spanish music? You see,” he added as excuse, ”the Senors are foreign. It interests them to hear the national music, the Flamenco.”

The little Senor pursed his lips.

”But,” he said, ”it is so vulgar. n.o.body wants to hear that.”

He possessed, however, a disc or two which he turned on, to our delight.

But before we left him he insisted that we should sit through his favourite ”Frou-Frou.”

We went away. The strains of ”Frou-Frou” which the little Senor had turned on once more followed us on the still air. The setter-St. Bernard walked with us to the beginning of the hill, from whence he turned sedately homewards.

We strode upwards--past cottages of all colours, past a large rambling monastery, which, perched on the far side of the Verdolay hill, very cubic in shape, is as romantic as it is possible for a building to be; past a watercourse, above which were dwellings hollowed out of the soft rock of the mountain-side, cave dwellings, and out on to the side of the mountains lying between Murcia and Carthagena. From here we could appreciate the width, flatness and verdure of the Murcian valley in the midst of which was the town, the campanile of the cathedral soaring into the air.

Here we had our first experience of a Spanish country walk. We were all wearing alpagatas, the canvas sides of which are not exceedingly thick.

The dried herbage of the hills was intermingled with all manner of p.r.i.c.kly weeds. The vegetation protects itself in this way from being eaten by anything less leather-tongued than a goat. The results are uncomfortable for the walker. The little hairlike spines pierce the shoes and break off, remaining as a continual irritant until the shoe is removed. Even then the spines, almost microscopic in size and almost flesh colour, are often difficult to find. The same uncomfortable fate is in wait for the unwary stranger who sits down without having carefully explored the place where he is going to seat himself. Indeed the fate is worse, because the thorns thus encountered cannot with decency be extracted in a public place and the victim is condemned to a lot similar to that of the naughty schoolboy.

The sun poured the full of its summer power on to the hill-side, which reflected both heat and light with overpowering intensity. Though it was almost four o'clock in the afternoon we felt that our salamandrine limits were being put to a test. A broad white road, mounting up the hill, crossed our path and we turned into it.

”We are going to the monastery of La Luz,” said Luis. ”I have heard that they sometimes take visitors for short periods. It would be interesting for you to spend a fortnight in a monastery.”

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The road climbed up beneath high black cliffs. The other side of the valley was coloured orange and red upon which the sun was s.h.i.+ning with all its force. The side of the hill was dotted with aloes, some having upright flower stems fifteen feet high in the air, around the flowers of which the bees were swarming in harmonious halos. A stately stone pine overshadowed a medley of old buildings which sprang from the top of a precipice out of which sprouted the weird branches of the p.r.i.c.kly pear cactus. The road circled round the foot of this cliff, and still mounted till, making a full semicircle, it brought us on to a platform.

On one side of the flat s.p.a.ce was an open cistern into which led a pipe.

From the pipe a deliberate trickle of water fell. Two women and two men sat about this pipe slowly filling their amphoras of Grecian form, while donkeys waited patiently in the background bearing panniers for the water-vessels on their backs. On the other side of the platform the monastery showed a high wall with a large gate leading into a courtyard from which arose the face of the church, painted a Cambridge blue.

We could find no bell. The water-carriers shouted instructions to us.

The bell clanged with an empty sound, as though echoing through miles of untenanted corridors. We rang again. No response. We rang three or four times before we heard the sound of shuffling steps. A peep-hole, shaped like a cross, opened and an eye examined us. The door swung slowly open, revealing a small obsequious man dressed in peasant costume. Through pa.s.sages we came into a cloister which was built around a small courtyard full of flowers. In the middle of the courtyard was a high statue of the Virgin. It was framed and almost hidden by a creeper which offered to it a tribute of gorgeous purple bell-shaped flowers. At the foot of the figure was stretched a large cat. A strange thought came to me that the cat did not bother itself about the Virgin other than as something which threw a grateful shadow.