Their whitewash saves the distant towns from the effect of sinking into
the earth, or irregularly rising from it, as in Old Castile, and the
landscape cheered up more and more as we ran farther south. We passed
through the country of the Valdepenas wine, which it is said would so
willingly be better than it is; there was even a station of that name,
which looked much more of a station than most, and had, I think I
remember, buildings necessary to the wine industry about it. Murray,
indeed, emboldens me in this halting conjecture with the declaration
that the neighboring town of Valdepenas is "completely undermined by
wine-cellars of very ancient date" where the wine is "kept in caves in
huge earthen jars," and when removed is put into goat or pig skins in
the right Don Quixote fashion.
The whole region begins to reek of Cervantean memories. Ten miles from
the station of Argamasilla is the village where he imagined, and the
inhabitants believe, Don Quixote to have been born. Somewhere among
these little towns Cervantes himself was thrown into prison for
presuming to attempt collecting their rents when the people did not want
to pay them.
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