28o Unexplored Spain 



towards them, and when at 500 or 600 yards, they turned and 

 fled, he jDut on full speed (sixty miles an hour), and within some ten 

 minutes had all three camels completely beaten, tongues hanging 

 out, unable to go another yard ! 



This will be the first occasion when wild camels have been run 

 down, in an open desert, by a motor-car ! 



Fehruari/ 9, 1903.— This morning, shortly after dayl)reak, a 

 big single bull camel passed my " hide " in the Lucio de las Nuevas 

 within easy ball-shot. He was splasiiing through water al:)Out 

 two feet deep overgrown with samphire bushes, and " roared " at 

 intervals — a curious sort of ventriloquial " gurgle," followed ])y a 

 bellow which I could still distinguish when he had passed quite two 

 miles away. With the binoculars I distinguished at vast distance 

 five other camels in the direction the sinole bull was takins;. 



Here we insert a note received from the co-author's brother, 

 J. Crawhall Chapman : — - 



Oh, yes ! I remember that camel-day — it's never likely to die out of 

 my memory, for never did I endure a worse experience nor a harder in 

 all my sporting life. It promised to be a great duck-shoot on the famous 

 " Laguna Grande " ; but for me, at any rate, it began, continued, and 

 ended in misery! At 3.30 a.m., on opening my eyes, I saw Bertie 

 already silently astir — probably seeking quinine or other febrifuge, for we 

 were " housed " (save the mark) in Clarita's choza, a lethal mud- and 

 reed-thatched hut many a mile out in the marisma. Nothing whatever 

 lies within sight — nothing bar desolation of mud and stagnant waters, 

 reeds, samphire, and bikds, relieved at intervals by the occasional and 

 far-away view of a steamer's funnel, navigating the Guadalquivir 

 Sevillewards. 



Well, we arose, looked at what was intended for breakfast, and 

 groped for our steeds. I was to ride an old polo-pony named Biifalo, 

 an evil-tempered veteran with a long-spoilt " mouth " that ever resented 

 the Spanish curb. Cold and empty we rode for two long hours in the 

 dark, always following the leader since otherwise inevitable loss must 

 ensue — splosh, splosh, through deep mud and deeper water, never 

 stopping, always stumbling, slipping, slithering onwards. I feared it 

 would never end ; and, in fact, it never did — that is, the bog. For 

 when I was finally told " Abajo " (which I understood to mean " get 

 down "), and to squat in a miry place so much like the rest of the swamp 

 that it didn't seem to matter much where it really was — well, it was 

 then only 6 a.m. and horribly cold and desolate. 



An hour later the sun began to rise. I had not fired a shot — nor 



