by Norman Lewis
‘It’s in the wrong direction,’ I pointed out.
‘It’s in the only direction. You wouldn’t get a mile along the Seville highway. Pamplona’s on a side road.’
‘But why Pamplona? What’s it got to offer?’
‘Its insignificance. It’s the old Spain. Something out of the past. Nobody bothers about the place. They won’t even notice you’re there. Be polite to the old people and buy the kids a few sweets. The place is run by a sergeant in the Civil Guard. He’s fifty-eight and gets all the sleep he can. In Pamplona they still bury people standing upright. About twenty or thirty families live in caves.’
‘How does going to Pamplona help us get to Seville?’ I wanted to know.
‘Well at the moment it doesn’t,’ Enrico said, ‘but it’s the sort of place where it’s easy to make yourself liked, which means that if they can do anything for you they will. And that includes finding some way of getting to Seville.’
‘Doesn’t the State of Alarm bother them?’
‘No way of knowing, but if it does I’d guess the pressure is a lot less than in San Sebastián.’
A van with an official pass stuck on the windscreen was delivering meat to Pamplona that afternoon. ‘So why not take a chance?’ Enrico suggested. ‘You’ve nothing to lose. The police have got plenty to keep them occupied just now without bothering about you.’ The van was parked in a street at the back of the hotel and the driver looked in the other direction while we pulled up the flap at the back and clambered in.
The road took us through pleasantly mountainous countryside dotted with wooden houses, half extinguished, in the Tyrolean fashion, by their eaves. Beauty was once again under the protection of poverty. There was no money about, the driver said, as we bumped along round the holes as deep as baths that kept the tourists away. An eagle, tearing at some small carcass, waited until we were within fifteen yards before spreading its wings to take to the air. Where there are eagles, the driver said, men go short of bread.
Behind this desolate beauty the outline of Pamplona raised itself cautiously from among low hills and I was at first delighted by the town’s mouldering ramparts but then almost immediately discouraged as an area of industrial development came into sight. What do they produce in the heart of this amphitheatre of nature, I asked, and the reply was bathroom fittings and sanitary appliances. While old Pamplona guarded its silences, the new town uttered a muffled roar of profitable activity. Understandably there were no tourists in sight, for Pamplona, we were to learn, possessed just one hotel. The Montaña charged eight pesetas fifty centimos a day—the equivalent of six shillings and nine pence for full board, and naturally enough, said the manageress, wine was included with both meals.
We were already well aware of the fact that such cheap Spanish hotels, however little they charged, always did their best to give a lot for the money. Thus, instead of concentrating on simple two-course meals based on wholesome materials, they insisted on performing feats of camouflage with what was left over and bought at auctions in the markets at the end of the day’s business, and in serving it up in four or five often abominable courses.
The Montaña offered the finest example of this competitive policy in action that one could hope to find; both ingenuity and imagination were employed in the processes of substitution and falsification of what was on offer. The tang of corruption was suppressed as far as possible by wholesale use of garlic. All cooking was done in the cheapest of rancid oil promoting odours that wandered through the building for an hour or so before and after each mealtime. This was to remind me that one of the charges on the indictment drawn up by the Inquisition leading to the expulsion of the Spanish Jews was that (to the offence of Christian nostrils) they cooked in oil.
Falsifications generally employed in such low-cost establishments were common throughout Spain in those days. It seemed extraordinary that the counterfeiters of food went to the lengths they did. There were even occasions in restaurants when we were confronted with such wild impostures as a fish described as a salmon but possessing the three-cornered spine of a conger eel or a small shark.
Among the small surprises of the Montaña Hotel was the news that its manageress was an ardent communist who organised the many political rallies taking place in the central square. Her husband, a mason, was employed at five pesetas (three shillings) a day on the building of a giant seminary just outside the town. He supplemented his wages, she told us with some pride, by producing busts of Lenin which commanded a good sale as household ornaments, replacing the biblical figures of old among the working class.
Eugene produced his membership card and we were invited to a cell meeting at which the prospects for the success of the coming revolution were discussed. At this time the armed revolt by Asturian miners was in full swing, with even such government newspapers as the ABC reporting with misgivings the slaughter produced by the shock troops employed to quell the revolt. Pamplona’s communists had gone to the trouble of bringing down a miner to talk to them—a near dwarf whose ancestors had worked underground for generations. He convinced them with splendid oratory that the victory of socialism was at hand. Next day we were to discover that government censorship had suppressed all news from the north on the eve of a final battle in which tanks were in action against strikers armed with pickaxes, and a victory, never in doubt, was proclaimed.
Our State of Alarm problem refused to go away. In Pamplona we faced increasing difficulties through the frequent changes in and misunderstandings of the regulations applied to travel. All public transport in the Pamplona area remained at a standstill, in addition to which there were differences of opinion as to whether it was permissible or even safe to use private cars. This led to a delay in the supply of provisions to the towns, long queues at the food stores, and even their temporary closure.
Then news filtered through that although at first depressing, seemed to Eugene on second thoughts to offer a glimmer of hope. We were assured by one of the communists who had connections in Zaragoza that the only train in service in the country at that time was based in that town, and that it connected solely with Madrid. The capital was not quite halfway to Seville, but even to get so far as this on our journey offered hope of escape from our present frustrations. But how were we to reach Zaragoza? Such was the effectiveness of the State of Alarm in the Pamplona area it appeared that the last private cars had disappeared from the road.
One of the comrades suggested that we should simply walk there, the distance being a matter of about a hundred and ten miles and—as they assured us—it was a journey that had been done many times in the past. It was a solution, we decided, at least to be contemplated, and with the possibility, we hoped, of toughening ourselves we undertook what for us at that stage were several fairly strenuous lung-expanding walks into the surrounding countryside.
Finally, assuring ourselves that we had nothing to lose, we took the plunge. In a way we were unlucky due to the fact that after a long and exceptionally dry summer the rains had now started and the unsurfaced road to which we had committed ourselves, in a mistaken hope of shortening the distances involved, was soon to be deep in puddles. Fortunately the rain stopped, although it was to start again in a few hours, and we were able to take refuge and dry ourselves in the first of the few cafés to be encountered in the course of the journey. A remarkable feature of this small village, and several others to follow, was its possession of a church large enough for a medium-sized town, but even more singular was that its main tower appeared to serve as a lookout post over the surrounding countryside. It also had a small bell-tower for the transmission of simple messages. Thus, when after a few minutes we continued our walk, the bells were rung, and this peal appeared to have been answered by bell-ringing in the tower of the next church some three miles along the road. It was a method of communication to be followed from village to village the next day.
Happily, with the first two settlements behind us, and a sudden change in the weather, the rich gilding of su
mmer returned to the Navarran landscape. It was Navarra that first confronted us with the splendour, the magnitude and even the mystery of these Spanish landscapes, which for many miles into the countryside round Pamplona offered the charm and the delicacy of a Chinese painting on silk. We moved across boundless plains of billowing rock purged of all colour by the sun. Distant clumps of poplar seemed to have been drawn up into the base of the sky in an atmosphere of mirage and mist. Behind the mountains ahead luminous and symmetrical clouds were poised without shift of position as we trudged towards them for hours on end. At our approach an anomalous yellow bloom shook itself from a single tree, transformed into a flock of green singing finches. Lizards, basking in the dust, came suddenly to life and streaked away into the undergrowth.
Our road crossed and recrossed the river in which vipers by the dozen were corkscrewing their way through the warm sunny water, and under a bridge of wooden planks we counted seven of them. An eagle detached itself from a boulder and flapped away towards the mountains. It was on a smooth rock face that an obituary was carved: ‘Beneath this rock died Tomàs, “The Mule”. June 8th 1916.’ We wondered how Tomàs had come to earn his reputation for pig-headedness, and how this spot had been selected for his death, and whether his passing had been peaceful or violent.
The afternoon was well advanced before we stumbled into a hamlet where bread and wine was to be bought. What was more to the point was that the owner of a pioneer model Morris Cowley lived here and was proud of a chance to demonstrate the machine in action. Although the lights could not be switched on, in the gathering dusk he drove us determinedly and in defiance of the State of Alarm half the way to the next village.
We had already seen examples of humans living in caves within a few miles of San Sebastián, but it was here that we encountered the first of the true cave-dwellers of our days. These could have been villagers in cottages which through an earthquake of exceptional violence had toppled into holes in the earth from which roofs, chimneys, and even a window sometimes appeared. But on second glance they were obviously still too tidy to have survived a catastrophe. It was merely a matter of caves being rent-free and cool in summer as these were. And that, we were told, was the reason why in this area of Spain carefully planned and constructed caves were multiplying more rapidly than houses in many small villages.
We were to see many more of them a day later when, maps carefully studied then stuffed away in haversacks, we began the remaining miles to Zaragoza with only the vaguest idea of when we were likely to arrive. This, after all, we consoled ourselves, was accepted as a main road, and although it appeared to pass for the most part through isolated communities, there were many of them in which, if necessary, we could take refuge. Amazingly, so late in the year, the sun shone as brilliantly as ever on this vast plain with the soft inflation of the distances by the heat, and that morning Tiebas, Tores, and Carascai came successively into sight, afloat in the mist over the yellow earth.
How did their people live? Small men with ancestors who for a thousand years had fitted themselves into the cramped living spaces in this barren immensity, watched us from the roadside, avid perhaps for human company of any kind. A lean fox scrutinised us from its hole, a gaunt bush suddenly exploded with a hundred twittering birds, while small white butterflies had settled on nearby rocks like hoarfrost. Ringing bells were in our ears for the first two days of the long walk to Zaragoza. We would arrive in a village to find three or four young men waiting at the church doors who did no more than stare with no reply to our salutations. Once again we were to suspect that what we saw here was an ancient form of defensive drill against foreign invaders or even casual marauders. We were watched, it was evident, until we were out of sight when the bell-ringing was renewed. About midday we were relieved by the sight of a village shack calling itself a casino, with bread and salt to offer the traveller and jugfuls of thin white wine. In our unjustified ignorance we had failed to take into account the Spanish taboo against wearing shorts other than on sporting occasions, and a law still imposed in many rural communities ruled that, even in the case of males, the kneecaps must be covered. Tactfully reminded of this in the casino we hastened to put the matter right.
I saw Eugene as a lover of the natural world and believed that it was only his father’s insistent championing of what he called ‘real life’ (largely to be measured in terms of financial prestige) that had so far debarred him from a career devoted to the great outdoors. Thus, although Ernesto himself was not to understand the mistake he had made in promoting our venture, it was inevitably to lead to an involvement with the Spain of the far past which otherwise neither of us would have experienced. As it was, much of our journey to Zaragoza was through hardly-trodden—and thus unspoiled—forest areas, and the wildlife observed on the walk was likely to be unusual if not unique in these surroundings.
On the night of the third day’s walk we found ourselves in an area with no signs of human occupation, and were therefore relieved to sight what appeared to be a deserted cave a hundred yards or so off the road. After a previous night of mist and rain, and under what was still a doubtful sky, we climbed the hillside to consider the possibilities of sleeping there. We found that the ferns and other vegetation had been cleared away, and the cave itself appeared at first sight to be a pit, largely encircled by a low whitewashed wall. The remnants of a door covered parts of a black opening and some effort was called for to tug the decayed door away and let in the light. This revealed a spacious cell with smooth walls upon which traces remained here and there of what might have been intricate paintings. Having studied these we moved on to explore a tunnel which proved to be only four or five yards in depth. Back in the stronger light several animal footprints were visible on the sandy floor. The most exciting discovery was what appeared to be part of a prehistoric pot sticking out of the wall.
We were about to settle down for the night here when Eugene spotted what he thought was a scorpion, which instantly took refuge in a crevice. This experience, plus the presence of a number of unidentifiable smaller insects—some brandishing what might have been stings in the rear ends of their bodies—caused us to change our minds of spending the night here, and to sleep in the open after all.
We awoke with the field lightly dusted with dawn and the squeaking of the first tree pipits in the branches above. An investigation into the possibilities of breakfast led us through various small villages of the neighbourhood, some consisting of as few as a dozen families living in houses with no more than two tiny rooms. The inhabitants were outstandingly similar to each other in their appearance. They were all remarkably short, although of sturdy appearance. There was something slightly alien about their full lips and flattened noses. Here there were no signs of the shyness we had experienced in some of the more northern villages. They laughed easily and accompanied a fluent conversation with excited gesticulation. Eugene speculated on the possibility of their being descendants of captives taken in the African wars of old. It was an interesting thought.
Above all they were exceedingly hospitable, and insisted on our staying in one of their cell-like rooms for the night. We were thankful for having brought children’s toys with us for dispensation in situations such as this.
CHAPTER 3
SUDDENLY, FOUR HARD DAYS’ walk from our destination, we were plunged into a change of climate, and the cold, winter-scented rains were upon us. It had been a long, dry summer, but now the sky was dimpled with soft lilac clouds and we found ourselves trudging through new sharp-edged grass oozing water and watery odours. The young men here wore the locks of childhood, soon to be replaced, with the disappearance of adolescence, by cropped hair covered with caps in deference to the coming of winter. We slept in a cave for the first time, only for it to be invaded by huge frogs seeking to pack themselves in the mud. Later we were awakened by the whinings of what we took to be a wild dog that had found its way in, although we were later assured that this would certainly have been a local domestic variety, whi
ch having been lost or abandoned had adjusted to life in the wild.
By the next day steady rainfall had produced streams on both sides of the road, and these contained innumerable tiny fish darting here and there in a few inches of water. Following advice we had bought a couple of small circular nets and managed in the end to catch a dozen or so tiddlers between two and three inches in length. A hundred yards or so away, wading birds with long legs and necks had been added to the landscape and we studied their fishing methods and results with envy.
The quest for undisturbed sleep was only a partial success. Dawn brought the astonishing discovery that the long night of rainfall had produced a remarkable effect: stepping out into the morning light, we discovered that our stream had become a shallow river in which ducks were already prospecting for eels.
Quite suddenly the rainforest was upon us—a conclusive black line drawn across the horizon at the limit of the rusty pastures of summer. With this came almost instantaneous change. The birds of prey began to leave the sky. More importantly we were relieved of a plague of flies, and a few hours later we entered a different world for which Eugene had prepared himself with a series of slim paperbacks chiefly upon animal life, although flora of the rarer kind also came in for mention.
I joined him in his enthusiasm and blessed the good luck that had brought us here where we hoped not only to explore the wonders of nature but, in the cooler climate, to enjoy the arrival of the autumn rains. Here, then, we were confronted by a forest storehouse of the treasures of the natural world, untouched by civilisation. The magnificent forest trees were too far from the nearest town for them to be seen as valuable timber, and Spain’s national universities considered themselves too poor to be able to finance academic tours dealing with natural history. Thus a treasure house of rare trees and plants had been left inviolate for investigation and enjoyment.
