Chapter 12 Chapter Eleven

After lunch, the square was scorchingly hot when we came out with our bags and rod bags and set out for Burgotte.There were already people on the top of the bus, and others were climbing up the ladder.Bill climbed up to the top floor, and Robert sat next to Bill for my seat, and I walked back to the hotel to get two or three bottles of wine to take with me.When I came out, the car was already crowded.All the luggage and boxes on the top floor were filled with passengers of both sexes, and the women fanned themselves in the sun.It's really hot.Robert climbed out of the car and I took the seat he had just taken for me on the wooden bench that spanned the top floor.

Robert Cohn stood in the shade under the arcade waiting for us to set off.A Basque man with a large leather wineskin in his arms lay across in front of our benches on the top floor, with his back against our legs.He handed the wine bag to Bill and me, and just as I was turning it upside down to drink, he imitated a car horn and beeped so realistically and so suddenly that I spilled some of the wine , everyone laughed.He apologized and let me have another drink.After a while he learned it again, and I was fooled again.He learned very well.The Basques love to listen to him.The guy sitting next to Bill spoke Spanish to Bill, but Bill couldn't understand it, so he offered the guy a bottle of wine.The man waved him down.He said it was too hot and that he drank too much at lunch.When Bill handed it to him a second time, he gulped down a swig, and the bottle passed around among the nearest people.Everyone took a very polite sip and they told us to cork the bottles and put them away.They want us to drink from their own wineskins.They are farmers going to the mountains.

After a few more imitation horns, the car finally moved, and Robert Cohen waved us goodbye, as did all the Basques.As soon as we hit the main road outside the city, it was cool.Sitting high on the roof and driving close to the tree, I feel very comfortable.The car was driving very fast, creating a cool breeze.As we drove straight down the road, dust beating the trees and drifting down the hill, we looked back through the foliage to see a beautiful view of the city perched on the cliff above the river.The Basque lying on my lap pointed at the scene with the spout of his wine bottle, winking at us.He nodded.

"It's beautiful, eh?" "These Basques are pretty good," Bill said. The Basque lying on my lap was dark-skinned, the color of a leather saddle.He wears a black smock like other Basques.The dark neck was lined with wrinkles.He turned and asked Bill to take his wineskin.Bill handed him a bottle of wine we had brought.The Basque gestured to Bill twice with his index finger, slapped the cork on with his palm, and handed back the bottle.He handed the wine bag upwards with all his might. "Up! Up!" he said. "Hold up the wineskin." Bill lifted the wine bag and threw his head back, letting the wine burst out and shoot into his mouth.When he finished drinking, he flattened the wine bag, and a few drops of wine trickled down his chin.

"No! No!" said some Basques. "Not that drinkable." The owner of the wine bag was about to demonstrate to Bill himself when another snatched it from him.It was a young fellow, and with outstretched arms, he held the wineskin aloft, and held the leather bag with one hand, so that the wine hissed into his mouth.He stretched out his hand to hold the wine bag high, and the wine in the bag violently sprayed into his mouth along the trajectory of the flat shot, and he swallowed the wine slowly. "Hi!" shouted the owner of the wine bag. "Whose wine are you drinking?"

The drinking guy nodded at him with his little finger and looked at us with a smile in his eyes.Then he suddenly stopped the flow of wine, and quickly put the wine bag upright, and sent it down to the master's hand.He winked at us a few times.The host shook the wineskin dejectedly. We walked through a small town, stopped in front of a hotel, and the driver loaded a few packages.Then we hit the road again, out of town, and the road began to climb up the hill.We walked through the crop fields, where there were rocky hills that sloped down into the fields.The crop fields stretched up the hillside.We climbed higher now, and the wind swayed the crops.The road was white and covered with dust, which was kicked up by the wheels and filled the air behind the car.The road climbed up the hill, leaving fields of lush crops behind.Now there are only a few scattered crop fields on the bare hillsides and on both sides of the river.The vehicle swerved sharply to the side of the road to give way to a long procession of six mules, one after the other, pulling a high wagon laden with goods.There was dust on the wagons and on the mules.Then came another troop of mules and a cart.This cart pulls lumber. When we passed by, the driver who drove the mule leaned back, pulled the thick wooden gate, and stopped the cart. In this area, the land is quite barren, full of hard rocks, baked hard The mud was washed out of the gullies by the rain.

We drove into a small town along a bend, with an open green valley steeply unfolding on both sides.A creek runs through the center of the town, and there are patches of vineyards behind the houses. The car stopped in front of a hotel, many passengers got out of the car, and a lot of luggage was untied and unloaded from under the big tarpaulin on the roof.Bill and I got out of the car and went into the hotel.It was a low, dark room with saddles, harness, and poplar pitchforks, and from the roof hung strings of espadrilles, ham, bacon, white garlic, and long sausages. , the room was shady and dark, and we stood in front of a long wooden counter behind which two women sold liquor.Behind them are shelves full of groceries.We each drank a glass of white wine, and the two glasses of white wine totaled forty centimes. I gave the female shopkeeper fifty centimes, and the rest was considered a tip, but she thought I had misheard the price and returned the copper coin to me.

Two fellow Basques walked in and made sure to buy us a drink.They bought everyone a glass of wine, then we bought one, then they patted us on the back and bought another.We bought one more, and finally we walked out together into the hot sun and climbed into the car.At this time, there were plenty of empty seats for everyone to sit in. The Basque who had just been lying on the lead roof sat down between us. One of the people talking, the driver came out of the hotel shaking two empty leather mail bags, climbed into the car, the car started, and everyone in the car waved to us. The road left the green upper valley in an instant, and we drove into the mountains again.Bill chats with the Basque man with the wineskin.A man leaned over from behind a chair and asked us in English, "Are you Americans?"

"Yes" "I've been there," he said. "Forty years ago." He was an old man, as dark as the others, with a short white beard. "How's it going there?" "What did you say?" "How was America?" "Oh, I was in California. Nice place." "Why did you leave?" "What did you say?" "Why did you come back here?" "Oh, I came back to get married. I was Going to go again, but my wife doesn't like to go out. Where are you from?" "Kansas City." "I've been," he said. "I've been to Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City."

He read the place names carefully. "How long have you been in America?" "Fifteen years. Then I came back and got married." "Have a drink?" "Good," he said. "You don't get that kind of bar in America, eh?" "As long as you can afford it, there's plenty out there." "What are you doing here?" "We're coming to Pamplona for the festival." "Do you like watching bullfights?" "Of course. Don't you like it?" "Like it," he said. "I think I like it."

After a while, he said: "Where are you going now?" "Go fishing in Burgot." "Well," he said, "may you have a big fish." He shook hands with me, turned around and sat down on the seat behind him again.His conversation with me caught the attention of other Basques.He sat comfortably, and whenever I looked back at the scenery of the mountains and countryside, he always smiled at me.But he seemed to be tired from speaking American English with difficulty just now.He didn't say anything after that. Cars continue to climb up the road, the mountains are barren and barren, and rocks of all sizes protrude from the ground.Not a blade of grass grows beside the road.Looking back, I saw an open field at the foot of the mountain.On the distant hillsides behind the fields were patches of emerald green and tan fields.The brown mountains meet the sky.The mountain shape is peculiar.With every step up, the outline of the mountains in the sky changes accordingly.As the car climbed slowly up the road, we saw other mountains emerging to the south.The road then climbed over the top of the hill and gradually leveled off into a wooded area.It was a cork forest, dappled by sunlight, and cattle grazing deep in the woods.We came out of the woods, and the road curves along a high hill, with rolling green plains ahead and dark hills beyond.These mountains are not the same as the scorched brown hills that we have left behind.The mountains are overgrown with trees and shrouded in clouds and mist.The green plain stretched forward, cut into pieces by palisades, and a white road appeared between the two rows of trees that ran across the plain to the north.When we came to the edge of the high hills, we saw ahead of us on the plain a succession of red-roofed and white-walled houses of Burgot, and in the distance, on the first dark hill, the image of the monastery of Roncesvalles. Gray tin roof. "That's Ronsevoux," I said. "where?" "It's the first mountain that counts over there." "It's been cold these days," Bill said. "It's high," I said. "The altitude should be 1,200 meters." "It's freezing," Bill said.The car drove down the hill on the straight road to Burgot.We passed a crossroads and crossed a bridge over a creek.Burgot's houses stretched along both sides of the road, without a side alley.We drove past churches and school grounds and the car stopped.We got out of the car and the driver handed us travel bags and rod bags.An anti-smuggling policeman wearing a three-cornered hat and a crossed yellow belt stepped forward, "What's in there?" He pointed to the rod bag. I opened the rod bag to show him.He asked for our fishing license and I just pulled it out.He glanced at the date and waved us through. "Is that the end?" I asked. "Yes. That goes without saying." We walked down the main street to the hotel, passing whitewashed stone houses and families sitting in their doorways watching us. The fat woman who kept the hotel came out of the kitchen to shake our hands.She took off her glasses, wiped them clean, and put them back on.It was cold in the hotel and it was windy outside.The shopkeeper sent a maid to accompany us upstairs to see the room.There were two beds, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a steel engraving of Our Lady of Roncesvalles in a large frame.The wind beat against the shutters.This room is located on the north side of the inn.We washed up, put on our sweaters, and went downstairs into the dining room.The restaurant has a stone floor, low ceilings and oak wainscoting on the walls.The shutters were all closed, and the room was so cold that he could see the hot air coming out of his mouth. "My God!" Bill said. "It can't be so cold tomorrow. I don't want to go down the river and wade in this kind of weather." There was an upright piano in the far corner of the room across the wooden dining tables, and Bill went to play it. "I must warm myself up," he said. I went out to find the shopkeeper and asked her how much she paid for board and lodging every day.She put her hands under her apron and didn't even look at me. "Twelve pesetas." "Well, that's all we spend in Pamplona." She said nothing, just took off her spectacles and wiped them on her apron. "Too expensive," I said. "That's all we pay for a big hotel." "We counted the bathroom." "Do you have a cheaper room?" "No in summer. It's high season." We were just the two of us in the hotel travelers.Forget it, I thought, anyway, only for a few days. "Is wine included?" "Oh, yes." "Okay," I said. "So be it." I go back to Bill.He breathed on me to explain how cold it was in the room, then went back to playing.I sat at a table looking at the paintings on the wall.One had pictures of rabbits, dead rabbits, another picture of pheasants, also dead, and another picture of dead ducks.The pictures were all dull in color, as if they had been blackened by the smoke.The cupboard is full of bottles of wine.I went through the bottle by bottle.Bill has been playing the piano. "How about a hot mulled wine?" he said. "Playing the piano to keep warm won't last long." I went out to tell the hostess what a rum was and how to make it.A few minutes later, a maid came in with a steaming clay pot.Bill came over from the piano and we drank mulled wine and listened to the whistling wind. “Not much rum in here” I went to the sideboard, got a bottle of rum, and half filled the jug. "Good direct action," Bill said. "Better than Approval" The maid came in and set the table for dinner. "The wind blows and shakes the mountains here," Bill said.The maid brought a large bowl of hot vegetable soup and wine.Afterwards we had fried trout, a stew and a big bowl full of wild strawberries.We didn't lose money on the drink money.The maid was shy but willing to bring us drinks.The old lady came to visit once and counted the empty wine bottles. After we ate we went upstairs and lay in bed smoking and reading newspapers to keep warm.I woke up once in the middle of the night to the sound of wind blowing.It is very comfortable to lie on the hot blanket.