CHAPTER XXXI 
IN THE SIERRA NEVADA (Continued) 
ITS BIRD-LIFE IN SPRING-TIME 
Tue long snow-lines of the sierra had vanished behind whirling 
cloud - masses, black and menacing. The green avenues of the 
Alhambra seemed gloomier 
than ever under a_ heavy 
downpour, while troops of 
rain-soaked tourists belied 
the glories of an Andalucian 
springtide. 
Serins sang in the elms, 
and wrynecks noisily courted, ey EAS 
as we set forth with a donkey- A aS 
team for the sierra. On 
former occasions we had ex- 
plored northwards up the 
Darro towards Jaén, another 
year up the Genil, this spring we had selected the valley of the 
Monachil. Hardly had we entered the mountains than thunder 
crackled overhead, and then a rain-burst drove us to shelter in 
a cave. Next day broke ominous enough, but we rode on up 
the wild gorge of the Monachil, and after seven hours’ hill- 
climbing reached the alpine farm of San Gerdnimo, to the guarda 
of which we had a recommendation. ‘The house nestles beneath 
the serrated ridge of the Dornajo, 6970 feet. 
With some dismay we found assembled at this outlandish 
spot quite a small crowd of men, women, and children who, with 
dogs, pigs, hens, and an occasional donkey, all appeared to 
inhabit a single smoke-filled room. We were bidden to take 
seats amidst this company, and watched the attempt to boil an 
311 
“UNEMPLOYED” 
Bee-eaters on a wet morning. 
