adding that dogs allowed to drink nothing else often became more sexually active.
Where there was dry land growing nothing but brilliant grass, the primitives of Salamanca had dug out their caves. These, often chosen by preference for human habitation, are virtually a speciality of Spain. There are enormous communities of cave dwellers down in Guadix in the far south and, as we had seen at Tudela, on the road to Zaragoza, several thousand citizens had chosen to live beneath the earth’s surface, many of them in reasonably sophisticated surroundings. Neither the lifestyles nor life span of these people were affected by the absence of blue sky overhead. Caves hollowed out of the earth were clearly cheaper to construct and obviously easier in a cold climate than houses exposed to the winds. Nevertheless Grunwald admitted that the so-called primitives of Salamanca would be lucky to reach two-thirds of the urban man’s life span. ‘It’s cold in winter in those holes in the ground and you need more to eat than if you live in a house. Starvation doesn’t come into it. El Panadero eats more than an urban man. He eats as much as the Archbishop of Salamanca, but it’s the wrong kind of food.’
Grunwald had been looking into the question of the best possible route to take to the south. Only one thing matters,’ I said. ‘That is to get to Seville with the minimum loss of time.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear friends,’ Grunwald said. ‘I was just this moment on the phone to some business contacts and they all agree that your best hope is to go via Portugal.’
‘Portugal? Why on earth?’ I said. ‘It would take us hundreds of miles out of our way.’
Grunwald shrugged. ‘Well not quite that, but it would certainly be a bit of a detour. The news is that the State of Alarm will almost certainly be reinstated. Most of the buses are off the road already and trains to the south are likely to be delayed. It would be slow going via Portugal, but the thing is you’d get there. I forgot to mention that a general strike has been called at Caceres which you’d have to pass through on the direct Spanish route. One of the good things about Portugal is that they don’t have strikes.’
Eugene wanted to know how long a detour through Portugal might add to the journey, and Grunwald told him perhaps a week. ‘I’m afraid it’s one of those places,’ he said, ‘where time seems less important than it does to us. I put in the best part of a year there and I found out by the end of that time that I’d stopped worrying too. Travelling by train in Portugal can be quite amusing, in any case. Troubadors, if you can imagine it, come aboard to sing to you. I had to go down to Coimbra last year. They didn’t bring the drinks along as usual and one of the passengers said he was thirsty. A peasant woman who was nursing her baby said, “Sorry about that. How about a drop of my milk?” They all thought it a great joke. That’s how the Portuguese are. Great people and full of fun. You’re going to fall for them.’
‘I know we will,’ Eugene told him. ‘The trouble is my father is paying our fares and he doesn’t have a sense of humour.’
‘All the better that it’s so cheap,’ Grunwald said. ‘The Portuguese travel whenever they can because it’s supposed to be good for the liver. Half the time they don’t know where they’re going, or when they’ll get there. The slower the train the better it is for the digestion, they tell you. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention this, but when and if you go to Portugal you’ll find that the Salamanca–Porto Express averages six and two-thirds miles an hour for the journey.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Surely you must be joking.’
‘It’s far from a joke,’ Grunwald said, ‘nor does it break the record. They’re experimenting with a diesel electric train somewhere up in the north which so far for a long journey has only averaged two miles per hour.’
Next day we took
Where there was dry land growing nothing but brilliant grass, the primitives of Salamanca had dug out their caves. These, often chosen by preference for human habitation, are virtually a speciality of Spain. There are enormous communities of cave dwellers down in Guadix in the far south and, as we had seen at Tudela, on the road to Zaragoza, several thousand citizens had chosen to live beneath the earth’s surface, many of them in reasonably sophisticated surroundings. Neither the lifestyles nor life span of these people were affected by the absence of blue sky overhead. Caves hollowed out of the earth were clearly cheaper to construct and obviously easier in a cold climate than houses exposed to the winds. Nevertheless Grunwald admitted that the so-called primitives of Salamanca would be lucky to reach two-thirds of the urban man’s life span. ‘It’s cold in winter in those holes in the ground and you need more to eat than if you live in a house. Starvation doesn’t come into it. El Panadero eats more than an urban man. He eats as much as the Archbishop of Salamanca, but it’s the wrong kind of food.’
Grunwald had been looking into the question of the best possible route to take to the south. Only one thing matters,’ I said. ‘That is to get to Seville with the minimum loss of time.’
‘I’m sorry, my dear friends,’ Grunwald said. ‘I was just this moment on the phone to some business contacts and they all agree that your best hope is to go via Portugal.’
‘Portugal? Why on earth?’ I said. ‘It would take us hundreds of miles out of our way.’
Grunwald shrugged. ‘Well not quite that, but it would certainly be a bit of a detour. The news is that the State of Alarm will almost certainly be reinstated. Most of the buses are off the road already and trains to the south are likely to be delayed. It would be slow going via Portugal, but the thing is you’d get there. I forgot to mention that a general strike has been called at Caceres which you’d have to pass through on the direct Spanish route. One of the good things about Portugal is that they don’t have strikes.’
Eugene wanted to know how long a detour through Portugal might add to the journey, and Grunwald told him perhaps a week. ‘I’m afraid it’s one of those places,’ he said, ‘where time seems less important than it does to us. I put in the best part of a year there and I found out by the end of that time that I’d stopped worrying too. Travelling by train in Portugal can be quite amusing, in any case. Troubadors, if you can imagine it, come aboard to sing to you. I had to go down to Coimbra last year. They didn’t bring the drinks along as usual and one of the passengers said he was thirsty. A peasant woman who was nursing her baby said, “Sorry about that. How about a drop of my milk?” They all thought it a great joke. That’s how the Portuguese are. Great people and full of fun. You’re going to fall for them.’
‘I know we will,’ Eugene told him. ‘The trouble is my father is paying our fares and he doesn’t have a sense of humour.’
‘All the better that it’s so cheap,’ Grunwald said. ‘The Portuguese travel whenever they can because it’s supposed to be good for the liver. Half the time they don’t know where they’re going, or when they’ll get there. The slower the train the better it is for the digestion, they tell you. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention this, but when and if you go to Portugal you’ll find that the Salamanca–Porto Express averages six and two-thirds miles an hour for the journey.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘Surely you must be joking.’
‘It’s far from a joke,’ Grunwald said, ‘nor does it break the record. They’re experimenting with a diesel electric train somewhere up in the north which so far for a long journey has only averaged two miles per hour.’
Next day we took
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