It is
the true way to travel in Spain. With such disposition and
determination, what a country is it for a traveller, where the most
miserable inn is as full of adventure as an enchanted castle, and
every meal is in itself an achievement! Let others repine at the
lack of turnpike roads and sumptuous hotels, and all the elaborate
comforts of a country cultivated and civilized into tameness and
commonplace; but give me the rude mountain scramble; the roving,
haphazard, wayfaring; the half wild, yet frank and hospitable manners,
which impart such a true game flavor to dear old romantic Spain!
Thus equipped and attended, we cantered out of "Fair Seville city"
at half-past six in the morning of a bright May day, in company with a
lady and gentleman of our acquaintance, who rode a few miles with
us, in the Spanish mode of taking leave. Our route lay through old
Alcala de Guadaira (Alcala on the river Aira), the benefactress of
Seville, that supplies it with bread and water. Here live the bakers
who furnish Seville with that delicious bread for which it is
renowned; here are fabricated those roscas well known by the
well-merited appellation of pan de Dios (bread of God), with which, by
the way, we ordered our man, Sancho, to stock his alforjas for the
journey. Well has this beneficent little city been denominated the
"Oven of Seville"; well has it been called Alcala de los Panaderos
(Alcala of the bakers), for a great part of its inhabitants are of
that handicraft, and the highway hence to Seville is constantly
traversed by lines of mules and donkeys laden with great panniers of
loaves and roscas.
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