32 Unexplored Spain 



ride through the scrub the whirr of the red-legged partridge 

 sends an invohintary hand to the gun. They may await another 

 day. At dusk we ride into the whitewashed patio, just in time 

 to sally forth and get a flighting woodcock between gun and 

 linserincT glow of the setting sun. 



For no precious hours are wasted in the Goto Dofiana. Next 

 day at early dawn, maybe, if the lagoon be our destination, or 

 at any rate after a timely breakfast, off" starts again the eager 

 cavalcade, be it in quest of red deer or less noble quarry. Then 

 all day in the saddle, from drive to drive, dismounting only to 

 lie in wait for a stag, or trudge through the sage-bushes after 

 partridge, or flounder through the boggy soto, beloved of snipe, 

 with intervening oases for the unforgotten hocadillo. 



If Vazquez be kind, he will take you one day to crouch with 

 him behind his well-trained stalking-horse, drawing craftily 

 nearer and nearer to where the duck sit thickest, till, 

 straiglitening your aching back, you have leave to put in your 

 two barrels, as Vazquez lays low some twenty couples with one 

 boominof shot from his four-bore, into the brown. 



But one morning surely a visit must be paid to the sandhills, 

 Caraballo will call you at 4 a.m., and soon after you will be jogging 

 over the six or eight miles which separate the " Palacio " from 

 that morning rendezvous of the greylag. The stars still shine 

 brightly as you dismount at the foot of the long stretch of 

 dunes, A few minutes' trudge will deposit you in a round hole 

 dug deep in the dazzling white expanse the day before ; for a 

 hole too freshly dug will expose the damp brown sand from 

 below, staining the spotless surface with a warning blotch, and 

 causing the wary geese to swerve beyond the range of your No, 1 

 shot. It is still dark as you drop into your hole. Gradually the 

 sky grows greyer and lighter, till the sun rises from the round 

 yellow rim of the blue morning sky. Who shall describe the 

 magic thrill of the first hoarse notes falling on your straining 

 ear ? The temptation to peep out is strong, but crouching deep 

 down, you wait till the mighty pinions beat above you, and the 

 first wedge of eight or ten sails grandly away in the morning sun. 

 You judge them out of shot. But surely this second batch is 

 lower down ? Are they not close upon you ? Why then no 

 response to your two barrels ? Was the emotion too great, or 

 have you misjudged the speed of that easy flight or its distance 



