TRAVEL TALK

Evening Star, Issue 20322, 2 November 1929, Page 2

TRAVEL TALK

No. IV. [Written by the Her. H. 0. Fenton, lor the ‘Evening Star.’] A little bit of petty officialdom annoyed me in Bilbao. Although it is no longer necessary to have one’s passport visaed in England when journeying to most European countries (needless to say Germany is an exception), the Spanish authorities demand the endorsement of one’s _ passport by the police authorities within forty-eight hours of one’s arrival in Spanish territory. Accordingly on the afternoon after I had reached Bilbao I hied in to the police station, where half a dozen officials were occupied in such strenuous occupations as rolling cigarettes and studying comic, papers. They told me that stamping or passports could only bo undertaken between the hours of 12 and 2, and that I must come back next day. Now that meant breaking into one precious day of one’s holiday, and effectively barred an excursion by auto bus. I had a good mind not to bother about registering at all, but there came a time when I was glad that I did conform to regulations., For a few _ days after, when travelling in a train, a well-dressed man entered the carriage, turned down the lapel of his coat, and exhibited a sliver star in the manner of the most approved American detective stories. I thought he was a railway inspector, and got out my ticket. But I noticed the other three men hunted up some papers in their pocket hooks. Then I tumbled to things. He was after “ Reds ” and similarly misguided individuals who are “ agin the Government,” and seek to foster the spirit of revolution. I replaced my ticket and got out my passport. The official looked neither at the name ol the country which sponsored me nor at the home-grown photograph of myself, taken in the sun and making my face appear like a side of bacon, very fat and somewhat streaky, but he went straight for the police endorsement. 'And so did every other similar official I met on subsequent journeys. And Spain seems to contribute to the support of quite a number of these State detectives.

On one of the numerous pleasant day trips that can be made from Bilbao I struck a festa at a village called Mundaca. Dressed in their Sunday togas everybody was out to amuse themselves, ahd. it seemed to me, they, seemed to spread themselves in being kind to the stranger that was within their gates. But Spain is a land where kindness of • this sort is universal. I am mentioning this vallage because I saw there the finals of a pelote tournament. Pelote, or, as it is more usually styled in' English, pelotta, is the national game of Spain, and is played against* any convenient wall or in a court resembling a fives court. Many churches exhibit notices forbidding the. playing of pelotta against their walls, but I did not notice that the inhibition has the slightest effect. Pelotta has points hi common with both , fives and. real tennis, and is played; with rather a hard ball, which is smitten either by the bare or .gloved hand. Sometimes the. glove is strengthened, like the pad of a wicket-keeper, at cricket, and almost becomes a bat. ~, • This particular match was notable for the amount of ‘side’’ put on by the players. I suspect their best girls sere.

among tho excitable and tightly-packed crowd. A player would sit down at the end of a hard rally and allow his friends to fan his face and give him sips of lemonade. There was fierce competition for tho honour of tying a shoo string that had come undone. A player overbalanced and foil. One wondered whether tlie local hospital could stand the strain of attending to him. And one quite expected to see the fire brigade sumoned to cool down all four players. However, as ono side made a splendid recovery and won by a single point, the game was well worth watching. For some reason there carao into mind an .incident that happened some years ago on the Riviera. Two swell lawn tennis players were doing the round of the tournaments. Ono was English and the qthcr French. For obvious reasons I cannot give their names, so let them be known as E. and F. Thev met in tlie final of tho last of the big tournaments, and quite early in the match F. fell and sprained his ankle, thus, apparently giving the match to E. by default. ‘No,” said E. magnanimously; “F. was leading, so I scratch,” and the silver pot was duly handed over to F.,.the Englishman receiving every known kind of kudos for his sporting action. Rut the manager of tho hotel on whose courts the tournament was played gave mo some inside information. E. and F. had arranged at the beginning of the season which of them should win at each of the tournaments. F. was to win at the particular match I saw. Tlie sprained ankle was a put up job—l beg .your pardon, I should have said a preconcerted arrangement. The ankle was not sprained at all. (I met F. that same night running about like a kitten, only ho did not know that I knew the fraud that had been practised.) The players were simply too bored to finish the match, so they hit on this means of securing tho prize with honour, but without labour. Said the manager to me: “I wish Tony Wilding were hero to knock the heads off both of them.” When I left Bilbao and said a rather hearty good-bye to the charladies of the bank. I noticed my hotel hill was made out to “Dr Fenton Herbert.” A bill to any other name would sting no less. This is the first time I have been given the degree of doctor, but once I was knighted by a sweet little damsel of Holland, who addressed an envelope to mo with the superscription “Dear Sir H. 0. Fenton,”