Tempora mutantur . . . Vergil knew the proverb; yet what a theme for his idyllic muse had he foreseen the restoration of the crumbled ruins of his Tiber city to recall the Golden Age! Even Nemi must be drained for its gold and galleons . . . . ‘Tempora mutantur........’ There is a hungering for the charm of antiquity, a charm which progress cannot destroy. Nor is it peculiarly Roman. The castles and cathedrals of Old England, signs of a lingering greatness, call to the heart of every genuine traveller with the same age-old voice.

Older civilizations, too, are not without this attraction. What of Spain, relic of the Ice Age, one might say? There is no need to resurrect her former glory by excavative endeavour, for the Plaza de Toros still rears its lofty, red-brick walls in disdain over the presumptive football ground that has ranged alongside. The gaudy artistry of cigar-box lids has yet its inspiration; the mantilla still survives, on occasion, the ubiquitous toque; nor has the automobile altogether ousted the bullock-cart off the country lane.

Of course, one does not realise this immediately. Every country has its own type of ‘red tapestry,’ and at Irun one makes acquaintance with the peculiar Spanish texture. It is a nuisance. International relationship seems to demand it. But why, in these enlightened days?

Then, the fresh beauty of the Pyreneean scenery soothes one’s ruffled feelings, and Iberia’s stronghold is entered.