The Spanish loaf has not that mysterious sympathy with butter and cheese as it has in our verdurous Old England, probably because in these torrid regions pasture is rare, butter bad, and cheese worse, albeit they suited the iron digestion of Sancho, who knew of nothing better: none, however, who have ever tasted Stilton or Parmesan will join in his eulogies of Castilian _queso_, the poorness of which will be estimated by the distinguished consideration in which a round cannon-ball Dutch cheese is held throughout the Peninsula. The traveller, nevertheless, should take one of them, for bad is here the best, in many other things besides these: he will always carry some good loaves with it, for in the damper mountain districts the daily bread of the natives is made of rye, Indian corn, and the inferior cerealia. Bread is the staff of the Spanish traveller’s life, who, having added raw garlic, not salt, to it, then journeys on with security, _con pan y ajo crudo se anda seguro_. Again, a loaf never weighs one down, nor is ever in the way; as Æsop, the prototype of Sancho, well knew. _La hogaza no embaraza._ [Sidenote: THE OLLA.] Having secured his bread, the cook in preparing supper should make enough for the next day’s lunch, _las once_, the eleven o’clock meal, as the Spaniards translate _meridie_, twelve or mid-day, whence the correct word for luncheon is derived, _merienda merendar_. Wherever good dishes are cut up there are good leavings, “_donde buenas ollas quebran, buenos cascos quedan_;” and nothing can be more Cervantic than the occasional al fresco halt, when no better place of accommodation is to be met with. As the sun gets high, and man and beast hungry and weary, wherever a tempting shady spot with running water occurs, the party draws aside from the high road, like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; a retired and concealed place is chosen, the luggage is removed from the animals, the hampers which lard the lean soil are unpacked, the table-cloth is spread on the grass, the _botas_ are laid in the water to cool their contents; then out with the provision, cold partridge or turkey, sliced ham or _chorizo_--simple cates, but which are eaten with an appetite and relish for which aldermen would pay hundreds. They are followed, should grapes be wanting, with a soothing cigar, and a sweet slumber on earth’s freshest, softest lap. In such wild banquets Spain surpasses the Boulevards. Alas! that such hours should be bright and winged as sunbeams! Such is Peninsular country fare. The _olla_, on which the rider may restore exhausted nature, is only to be studied in larger towns; and dining, of which this is the foundation in Spain, is such a great resource to travellers, and Spanish cookery, again, is so Oriental, classical, and singular, let alone its vital importance, that the subject will properly demand a chapter to itself. [Sidenote: A SPANISH COOK.] CHAPTER XI.