“ The next afternoon found me in Vitoria, in the land of the Basque; yet another kind of Spain. Vitoria is a city of to-day, clean, bustling, almost American in her streets and architecture and the wide-awake air of the Vascongado. The boína--round cap without visor and the end of a string for tassel--had all at once become universal, worn, like the fez in Damascus, by every age and grade of man from bootblack to mayor. So pleasing was this prosaic city that even though her prices were high I loitered in her shade until the next afternoon before seeking out the highway to Bilbáo. ”
Summary
"Four Months Afoot in Spain," an anonymous travelogue, chronicles a solitary journey through the varied landscapes and cultures of 19th-century Spain. The unnamed author travels from the Basque Country to Seville, documenting encounters with peasants, the sharp contrasts between urban and rural life, and the unrelenting heat of the Spanish summer.
Themes of cultural observation, the physical and economic difficulties of travel (noted through references to pesetas and tickets), and the enduring customs of local traditions—such as the córrida and regional dress—anchor the narrative. Through vivid depictions of roads, villages, and the resilience of everyday Spaniards, the work offers a raw, immersive portrait of a nation in transition, blending personal reflection with the rhythms of a land shaped by both tradition and modernity.
Quotes from Four Months Afoot in Spain ()
“ The Spanish summer resembles an intermittent fever; with nightfall comes an inner assurance that the worst is over, and infallibly with the new day the blazing sun sends down its rays seemingly more fiercely than before. The reflection of how agreeable would be a respite from its fury was weaving itself into my thoughts when I swooped suddenly down upon a railway at a hamlet named Gobantes. I had no hope of covering all Spain afoot. Away among the hills to the north the whistle of a locomotive that moment sounded. I turned aside to the station and bought a ticket to Málaga. ”
“ In the slender calle Rosario itself the stillness was never supreme, but tempered always by the droning of a passing ajero with his necklace of garlic, an itinerant baker, or a blind crone hobbling by with the fifth or the tenth of a lottery ticket, crooning in mournful voice, "La lotería! El numero trienta seis mil quinientos cincuenta y cinco-o-o. Who will win a fortune in the lotería-a-a?" Then above all else the soft, quarter-hourly booming of the cathedral bells to mark the passing of the day, like mile-stones on a wandering highway. ”
