He took train to Hendaye, the little frontier town, at the mouth of the Bidassoa, crossed the river in a boat, stepped on to Spanish soil, and climbed the hill on which stands Fuenterabbia.
Later he passed again to the French shore, and lunched at the hotel.
Then he took a carriage, and drove up the gorge of Bidassoa, enjoying the wild mountain scenery as much as he had enjoyed anything in his life.

The road bridged the river; it brought him into Spain once more, and on as far as to the Spanish village of Vera, where he lingered in the mellowing afternoon.

All round him were green slopes of the Pyrenees, green with pasture and with turf, with bracken, with woods of oak.

There came by a yoke of white oxen, their heads covered with the wonted sheepskin, and on their foreheads the fringe of red wool tassels; he touched a warm flank with his palm, and looked into the mild, lustrous eyes of the beast that passed near him.
"Vera, Vera," he repeated to himself, with pleasure in the name.

He should remember Vera when he was back again behind the counter in Fulham Road.