The Bridge at Ramallosa. The Shrine on the
Bridge

Oxen towing a Broken-down Motor-bus

Pontevedra by Night: the Bull-ring (colour) To face 127

118

125

A Diligence on the Highway. Oxen Yoked

to a Diligence

The Hills of Mondariz

Mondariz (colour)

A Peasant's Funeral in the Hills. A Peasant
Woman, with her Distaff, driving a
Bullock-cart

Gathering Firewood in the Pine Hills

The Fishing Town of Marin (colour)

A Maid of Cangas

Carrying Water. A Woman Threshing Beans

Arosa Bay

The Island of La Toja (colour)

The Torre de Hércules, Corunna

A Road in the Hills (colour)

Elviña, where Sir John Moore was Mortally
Wounded. The House, Modernised,

in which he died

Sir John Moore's Tomb at Corunna. Corunna

Bay, from the Ramparts

Map of Galicia

INTRODUCTION

I STOOD upon the salient bastion of an ancient fortress towering high above a swift and placid river. Below and around me swept line upon line of crumbling walls and grass-grown moats, the scene of many a bloody struggle in the evil days of old. From a hundred grim embrasures peeped rusty cannon, harmless now, and dark-eyed children sported upon the battlements that once had belched defiance and destruction to the foe across the stream. For this old white town, cramped within its triple ramparts, is the last vantage ground of Portugal; and on the other side of the Miño straight before me is Galicia, the unconquered land of the Gael, a land of mountain and flood, of mist and sunlight, such as are all the western promontories in which the mysterious Celtic people have finally found a home after ages of unrecorded wanderings.

The scene as I looked upon it from these old battlements of Valença is as fair as any that Europe can offer. Down in the valley on both sides of the stream the maize-fields are reddening in the autumn sun, and between them, and terraced on the hill

slopes above them, vines, heavy now with great masses of black grapes, are trained over slender posts of grey granite, forming endless arcades of fruit and foliage. Then higher up, climbing the steep skirts of the mountains, vast forests of darkling pines throw into relief the majestic summits, bare and boulder-strewn, upon which the ardent southern sunlight glows and quivers, whilst deep purple shadows fleck the tints of old rose and cinnamon where the

sunlight falls. Across the majestic iron bridge that spans the Miño, the one modern note in all this scene, there rises an ancient city clustered upon a rise crowned by square battlemented towers. Some old feudal fortress it would seem; but closer acquaintance proves it to be a Christian cathedral built at a time when bishops girt the sword and donned their armour to fight the infidel and defend their faith with their lives.

Tuy, the first city of Galicia, is a relic of a past age. Its tortuous narrow streets, mere alleys a few feet wide, are like those of the prehistoric Celtic city of Citania in Portugal: deep channels worn in the living rock and patched where necessary with flat slabs. The city itself is as silent as the grave, and the frowning old castle-cathedral, with its tinkling bell calling to worship, almost alone indicates the presence of the living. A mediæval writer calls Tuy "lately a city of pagans," but for well upon ten centuries now the brave old Romanesque church has stood aloft unmoved like a cliff to resist the incursions of the enemies of the Church.