CHAPTER XVII 
LA MANCHA 
THE LAGOONS OF DAIMIEL 
IMMEDIATELY to the north of our ‘“‘ Home-Province” of Andalucia, 
but separated therefrom by the Sierra Moréna, stretch away the 
uplands of La Mancha—the 
country of Don Quixote. The 
north-bound traveller, ascend- 
ing through the rock-gorges 
of Despefiaperros, thereat 
quits the mountains and enters 
on the Manchegan plateau. 
A more dreary waste, ugly 
and desolate, can scarce be 
imagined. Were testimony 
wanting to the compelling 
genius of Cervantes, in very 
truth La Mancha itself would 
yield it. 
Yet it is wrong to describe 
La Mancha as barren. Rather its central highlands present a 
monotony of endless uninteresting cultivation. League-long 
furrows traverse the landscape, running in parallel lines to utmost 
horizon, or weary the eye by radiating from the focal point as 
spokes in a wheel. But never a break or a bush relieves one’s 
sight, never a hedge or a hill, not a pool, stream, or tree in a 
long day’s journey. Oh, it is distressing, wherever seen—in 
Old World or New—that everlasting cultivation on the flat. 
True, it produces the necessary fruits of the earth—here (to wit) 
corn and wine. 
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