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Updated: May 8, 2025
After eight miles more of toilsome travel we reached the valley of the Guadiaro. The river was not more than twenty yards wide, flowing with a deep, strong current, between high banks. Two ropes were stretched across, and a large, clumsy boat was moored to the shore. We called to the ferrymen, but they hesitated, saying that nobody had yet been able to cross.
The matter was discussed for some time; it was pronounced impossible to travel by the usual road, but the landlord knew a path among the hills which led to a ferry on the Guadiaro, where there was a boat, and from thence we could make our way to San Roque, which is in sight of Gibraltar. He demanded rather a large fee for accompanying me, but there was nothing else to be done.
The River Guadiaro was so high that nobody could cross, and two forlorn muleteers had been waiting eight days at the inn, for the waters to subside. Augmented by the rain which had fallen, and which seemed to increase as night came on, how could I hope to cross it on the morrow? In two days, the India steamer would be at Gibraltar; my passage was already taken, and I must be there.
Orange Valleys Climbing the Mountains Jose's Hospitality El Burgo The Gate of the Wind The Cliff and Cascades of Ronda The Mountain Region Traces of the Moors Haunts of Robbers A Stormy Ride The Inn at Gaucin Bad News A Boyish Auxiliary Descent from the Mountains The Ford of the Guadiaro Our Fears Relieved The Cork Woods Ride from San Roque to Gibraltar Parting with Jose Travelling in Spain Conclusion.
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