Chapter VIII: Part 8

But the scene is scarcely less beautiful, though different, when, the sky being clear, and especially on those evenings which are slightly touched by frost, the moon averts her face; for then the stars assemble with a twofold brilliancy, sparkling with a lustre which is unknown in our dull and foggy northern clime. Venus first of all appears like a great lamp in the west. We have had simultaneously other planets shining brightly, and particularly Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars, the last two having been in the winter of 1877–78 in close conjunction, but ruddy Mars not being so full as we had at Interlachen seen it some months before, when it was nearer the earth. The sky glows with constellations, chief among which stands prominently out Orion, which rises from the sea in the south–east, and passes slowly and majestically over the firmament to the north–west, every star in it, with generous but governed emulation, stinting not its oil and burning with redoubled energy. Then, almost right below Orion’s belt, Sirius, the largest and most beautiful star visible from earth, radiates in full intensity, shining and scintillating with a luminous green splendour which has emanated from that grand orb twenty–two years previously—a light so strong that it casts a streak or tail across the Mediterranean like that of the moon, though fainter and less. Then overhead are galaxies of glory, in the midst of which the Milky Way, the nearest of the nebulæ (for it is that to which we ourselves belong), stretches over the great expanse its belt of pearly sheen, the dwelling–place of countless myriads of starry habitants whose light as now seen dates back to a period anterior to the creation of man—all of them far too distant to be discernible by the unassisted eye. Cold though the evenings sometimes were, I was often tempted to turn out and see the matchless sight. The promenade was close by, and there all was open to the view.

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Visitors, however, are no sooner settled in a place than, according to immemorial usage, it seems to be their paramount duty to escape out of it and see its environs, and perhaps I shall best illustrate the locality by describing some of our excursions.

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Besides the main road which leads in one direction to Monaco and Nice, and in the other to San Remo and Genoa, and another road up the Carrei valley to Turin, and roads which go a short way up the Boirigo and Gorbio valleys, there is not much opportunity for varied driving; but the mountains which connect themselves by their ridgy tentacula with the very coast, afford innumerable excursions on foot and on donkeys, and parties, often large in number, are daily in good weather to be seen starting on such expeditions. The donkeys are patient, sure–footed, know every inch of the way, and require little encouragement by means of the whip. There are many roads or paths constructed expressly for them up and over the ridges, although rather intended for the rural traffic than for excursionizing. The animals are let out for hire at 5 francs per day, or 2½ francs for the half day, the day being considered divided by the lunch or dinner hour of twelve, and detention of half an hour beyond twelve reckoned as a whole day. Girls or boys, sometimes women or even men, attend the donkeys and act as guides, expecting a trifle of a fee to themselves—generally half a franc per donkey per day, and half that for half a day. There are plenty of carriages of all kinds, but principally light basket–carriages with one or more horses. The only other mode of conveyance is the railway. Steamboats do not touch at the port, and boating is not much indulged in, the open sea not being particularly safe, although near shore usually placid, and offering imposing views towards the land.

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A few days after our arrival, we joined a party of friends for Castellar, which is about three miles distant. We started after lunch, about half–past one, having six donkeys for those who rode. It was the 2d of December, and the day was overpoweringly hot. The ascent commences at once from the town, and the mounting was almost continuous, diversified, however, by stretches of level path. For protection of the road, which would otherwise be soon worn away, it is, like most other donkey paths, in its steeper parts paved sometimes with the small round stones commonly called petrified kidneys, which are very trying to the feet of the walkers, at least till they get accustomed to them. After we had gone up a short way, we obtained the shelter of trees, which lessened the fatigue. It was a lovely walk the whole way, the views at every turn being so fine; the sky overhead, bright, clear, blue, against which the bold outlines of the adjacent mountains broke in most picturesque lines; while, whether we looked down the thickly–covered slopes below or across the ravines to the wooded slopes of the Berceau above, or to the hill ridges fringed with trees or capped by picturesque buildings, it was a scene of grandeur and beauty blended; while the silver–lined blue–green of the olive leaf, mingling with the dark green of the pines, and the grass and the wild shrubbery, combined with the bright glitter of the sun through the branches to make it fairy–land. Notwithstanding the shade afforded by the trees, I felt the ascent very hot work, and perspired at every pore. At last, in about an hour and a half, we reached Castellar, perched upon the summit of the rock or acclivity, which is 1200 feet above the level of the sea. We found it a very curious old Italian village—a type, however, of others which we subsequently saw. It consists of two long narrow streets, and of three ranges of miserable old houses, offering wretched uncomfortable holes for the inhabitants, the wretchedness being probably to some extent redeemed by the natural purity of the air. On the outside walls, the windows, where they exist, stand high, and are small (in many places merely loopholes for guns), the town being so built as to afford some protection against the roving expeditions of the Moors. Poor and miserable as the place looks, it has, like all such villages, a grand church—that is, grand in comparison with the dwellings and with the apparent poverty of the people. The church is adorned by the usual spire, which forms a feature of the little town or village, which, though picturesque at a short distance, does not afford as much scope for the pencil of the artist as some other similar villages. From the platform on which the town stands, we obtained a splendid view of the mountains of Mentone and of the bay below. After halting a very brief time, the party descended, to be back before sunset—a precaution essentially needful to be attended to by those who are subject to any weakness in the chest, and by no means to be neglected even by those in robust health, as just before sunset, and for an hour afterwards, a cold clammy air descends or envelopes these regions. Going and returning occupied altogether about three hours. We returned highly satisfied with this our first expedition. On the way down, the graceful towers of the churches at several points came prominently into view.

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After this hot day, we had two continuously wet days. The rain poured heavily, the wind blew violently from the south–west, and the torrent beds of the rivers were filled to an extent I never saw subsequently. The rain was no doubt very beneficial to a country which gets so little, while the flood must have proved useful in clearing out the bed of the river, with all its accumulations of dirt, soapy washings, and olive refuse. As the stream in flood brings down with it soil from the mountains, on this and on other similar occasions, the rivers, by carrying out what they hold in solution to the sea, discolour the water, and the sea was a deeply–marked brown for a considerable distance on and along the coast. The waves were high, and dashed grandly on the shore, and broke beautifully over the pier. Only on one occasion during this winter were they so violent as to dash over the promenade. We were informed it was a good sign that the winter should commence, as it had done, with heavy rain, as it generally ensured a long continuance of fine weather further on in the season. There were a few wet days in November and December, and all January and February we had it, nearly continuously, fine, dry, and open. The clearness of the atmosphere of Mentone is one of its great recommendations. There are no fogs such as we have at home, though what seemed to be the mistral produces an approach to them; but there are occasional cloudy days, and when the sun gets behind a cloud, the air is cold, sometimes keenly so. Wet days, however, are exceedingly useful to the visitor for keeping up correspondence, which the attractions out of doors tempt him to neglect in fine weather.

During one of the days of the week upon which it did not rain, I took a walk with a friend to the gorge of St. Louis. The road was very muddy, in consequence of the rain which had fallen; indeed, it is very seldom this road is in an agreeable condition. It is laid with soft limestone, which is ground down by heavy carts laden with enormous stones which are being conveyed from the rocks from which they are blasted to the breakwater. The dust so formed lies about three inches deep upon the road. Every horse, carriage, and cart which passes raises a cloud; but when the wind blows, it becomes insufferable, and there is hardly any possibility of brushing the dust out of one’s clothes. Rain converts the dust into mud, and when the mud has obtained a consistency by being baked in the sun, it forms into hard ruts trying to the pedestrian.

The gorge was fully two miles distant from our hotel, and was a frequent point to which we subsequently walked or drove. To reach it from the west end we may pass through the Avenue Victor Emanuele, where the shops are, and its continuation, the Rue St. Michael. The road then skirts the water by the Quai Bonaparte (so called after Napoleon I., who constructed the Corniche road, of which this is a part), and looking up, we saw the old town with its ridge upon ridge of high old dingy houses, like so many terraces one over the other—a very hanging garden (though garden is anything but the suitable word) of old roofs and chimney–tops; while, looking over the parapet wall, the water lying 15 or 20 feet below, a fine view of the bay and little harbour is had. But this part of the road is always under shade after twelve o’clock, and is exceedingly trying to invalids. I have often thought that the municipal authorities might effect a vast improvement if they would construct a diagonal road across from its commencement at the well to the Hotel de la Paix. The water is very shallow, apparently only a few feet deep; and though it would be a work of time and would require much material, it would really be of vast importance to Mentone, as then the invalid could walk or drive either to or from the east bay at any time of day without danger. The space intervening between the embankment so to be formed and the Quai Bonaparte, might afterwards be filled up and converted into a large public garden. The operation, however, would be costly, although the stone for forming it is at hand. But taking things as they are, the road continues in front of the various hotels I have already mentioned. Whether it was that the air here is more confined than in the west bay, I know not, but we never could walk along this long dusty stretch without a feeling of languor such as was not experienced in other and much longer walks, so that we were always ready to take rest on one of the seats placed by the roadside. After proceeding a good way, the road at the east bend of the bay divides, and one fork winds up to the gorge and on to Italy. The other fork turns aside into a promenade (now in course of formation), as yet short, by the margin of the sea and along the rocks of the coast, which will, when completed, become, as even now to some extent it is, a very agreeable accession to the amenity of the east bay, where there are not so many nice walks as are in the neighbourhood of the west bay. Reaching the gorge, which forms a dividing ravine between the mountains of the Berceau and Belinda, and is crossed by a bridge, conspicuous from most parts of Mentone, standing about 200 feet above the stream below, and a good deal more below the rocks towering above, we can at the north end of the bridge place one foot in France and the other in Italy. The Italian _douaniers_ have a station–house a little beyond, perched prominently on the summit of the rock. The French _douaniers_ have theirs on the road near to the junction of the above–mentioned two roads, the two houses being stationed considerably apart, as if to prevent the possibility of quarrel.

The view from the bridge is remarkably fine, and should be seen in the morning, as when the sun gets round to the west or south–west, it throws much of the scene into the shade, and is, besides, too dazzling to behold. The harbour lies under us, a good mile off, with its few ships and boats, and the picturesque old town; beyond it, the west bay, Cape Martin, and all the panorama of mountains which stretch to the north and north–west of Mentone, the aspect of whose outlines and rugged tops, being so near, changes at every different point of view.

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In the afternoon of the same day, we took a walk up one of the valleys. These valleys are all favourite walks to those residing in the west bay. The views from the bridges which span them at the mouths of the river or rivers, supposed to run below them, are each different from the other, and are exceedingly picturesque. The one next to us was the Carrei or Turin valley. The torrent bed of this river course is confined from its mouth, where it is narrowed (speaking from recollection) to about 60 or 80 feet, and for a considerable way up and beyond the railway viaduct, by sloping bulwarks of masonry. After this the bed, no longer so confined, widens very considerably, and about a mile from the mouth gets broad and bare; farther up still, it narrows again, and becomes the rocky bed of what sometimes may be called a river, but usually is nothing but a small stream. Within Mentone the bed is crossed by two wooden foot bridges, one wooden suspension bridge for carriages and foot passengers, and a railway viaduct. Looking up and northward from the wooden foot bridge which spans the river course at its mouth, and placed for the purpose of connecting two portions of the promenade, one of the grandest views in Mentone is had.[21] On either side of the spectator the Eucalyptus and Spanish fig trees, the flowering aloes and other trees of the public gardens, offer a leafy inclosure; and carrying the eye along upon the left side up the right bank of the Carrei to the railway viaduct, and beyond it, we observe the tall plane trees of the avenue leading to the railway station casting their shadows over the road, and in the afternoon over the river course, giving the aspect of agreeable shelter from the sun. On the right side, like theatrical side scenes run in one behind the other, bright–looking villas with their coloured jalousies and red–tiled roofs, diversified by an occasional one in blue lead and French roof, project out of gardens,—the Hotel du Louvre and the Hotel des Îles Britanniques, in the rear of all, being by a bend of the river scarcely visible from this bridge. Then a mountain ridge within half a mile from the bridge crosses the view above 1000 feet high, and crowned by a monastery (St. Annunciata), and with slopes here concealed by olive, lemon, and orange trees, in regular terraces, and there broken and exposed by rock and steep earthy–looking sides, as if washed away, and dotted elsewhere by coloured houses, and with straggling pine trees bristling up from the immediate background; while behind all this, as a grand back scene, rising boldly out of rounded, verdant, or stony slopes, mingled and varying in aspect each hour with the course of the sun, which throws the shadows in the morning westward and the afternoon eastward, and sometimes bathes them in light, and sometimes veils them in shade, the rocky, rugged heights of the mountains (seen here in part only), some of them only two to three miles distant, tower up, thrown, in lines clear and strong, upon the limpid blue sky tying cloudless and serene above. The subject is one which frequently engages the pencil or the brush of the amateur; but the situation is public, and one cannot attempt a sketch without inviting inquisitive looks by crowds of those who are too polite to stop and hang over one’s head in heaps, like the wondering and intently watchful, concerned, and admiring _gamins_ of the street, but who are rude enough sometimes to pass repeatedly back and forward, shaking the bridge with every footfall, and jostling each other and the artist for a look over the shoulder as they pass. The scene is one which I never could tire of beholding. It has been photographed, but photographs never give a mountain view with the clearness and effect of a good drawing.

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But leaving the bridge and proceeding to the Avenue de la Gare, we find on inquiry that this is the commencement of the road to Turin, which is nearly 100 miles off, although about half way it is met by a railway from Cuneo to Turin, and is now all but superseded for traffic by the coast railway towards Genoa, the direct line to Turin branching off at Savona, making a distance by rail of about, according to my calculation, 183 miles. This road is the only one up the valleys which can be traversed for any distance. A strong current of air frequently blows down the valley and renders it occasionally in its shady parts a cold walk for the invalid, who must in winter months carry wraps for use when either he gets out of sunshine or the sun retires behind a cloud. This current is, I presume, the cause of the west bay being cooler than the east. It is, however, a charming walk up the road, level for nearly two miles, and the greater part of the way—indeed, almost the whole of it—being fringed with trees. For a little distance after passing under the railway viaduct, pretty houses, in gardens full of orange and lemon trees covered with fruit, are seen on both sides of the river; and in spring, women are constantly met bearing on their heads to town immense basketfuls of lemons and oranges. Farther on, and on emerging from the shade of the monastery hill, a curious range of oil–mills has been placed like steps one over the other on the slope of the hill, driven each by a separate water wheel of large diameter—the same water, apparently, by an economical arrangement, driving the wheels successively as it falls. Some way beyond these mills, the road begins to ascend and to wind, and, as the valley closes in, thickly planted with trees on both sides, seems to become more and more inviting; while peeps are had of Castellar, high overhead, on the right, embosomed among olive groves. Rocky mountains, bold and bluff, oppose themselves nearer and nearer to the spectator; the small village of Monti and its white church and long spire is attained, and after some miles by a zig–zag road, the summit, upwards of 2000 feet high, and three miles from the sea, is won. An excellent excursion by carriage along this road is to the picturesque village of Sospello, 22 kilometres, or about 14 miles distant from Mentone, passing and visiting by the way the curious old town of Castiglione, which lies perched up among the mountains (inaccessible by carriage) at a height, it is said, of over 2500 feet above the sea.[22]

The valley of Carrei, partly from its proximity to our hotel, was with us a favourite walk, and could be visited also by a more sunny road for a short way on the east bank of the river course. Here, as elsewhere, the municipality have placed wooden seats, which are very acceptable to pedestrians. Sometimes a whiff of cold air blowing down the valley proves too trying to allow of sitting long; but one scarcely tires of the bright glad sun, or the view of the hill slopes and verdure with which they are covered all the year through, or of the bold mountains, on the foremost central one of which may be discovered—particularly with the aid of a glass, for it is at first hardly distinguishable by the eye from the rocks on which it rests—the ruined castle of Ste. Agnese, elevated like an eagle’s eyrie high up on the apparently inaccessible summit.

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A trip to Ste. Agnese is generally taken by all who are not infirm. Though not so arduous as the ascent of the Berceau, of the Grand Mont, or of Mont Agel, which all command extensive views, but can only be undertaken by the able–bodied, it is a somewhat fatiguing excursion, and most people perform the ascent on donkey back. On the 13th December, the morning and day being fine, we started, a party of twelve, with eight donkeys and two donkey–drivers. To reach the point from which the ascent begins, we proceeded along the Nice road westward to the Boirigo valley. The view from the bridge across this valley was then (even still is, notwithstanding the erection of buildings on each side, some of them lofty and uninteresting, has somewhat contracted the view) much more open and extensive than that from the Carrei bridge. It took in west, north, and east, the whole panorama of mountain, twenty–eight peaks and pinnacles, enumerated in Giordan’s little _Mentone Guide_ (1877), being counted from the bridge. A road runs up each side of the river course, which is hemmed in like the Carrei by bulwarks of masonry. The road upon the left bank does not proceed above a mile, when—at a picturesquely–situated olive–oil mill, embosomed among olive and lemon trees, and bordered by a pretty stretch of the channel of the river, lying at the bottom of a dell closed in by wooded hills on both sides—it is shut in and becomes a donkey path buried among the trees of the valley, the river in the ravine below meantime narrowing correspondingly. The walk by this delightful path through the woods arrives at an old stone bridge leading to the village of Cabriole, whence by a steep ascent Ste. Agnese may be taken. The road upon the right bank terminates more speedily, entering at a large pottery upon ‘the primrose valley,’ the river course of which, delightfully shut in by high banks, is usually all but dry. Up both valleys we have had many pleasant strolls. On the present occasion, proceeding only a short way beyond the railway viaduct, we left the last–mentioned road, and, ascending by a steep donkey path, gradually gained the top of a ridge, along which, at a gradient gently inclining upward, a walk lies, protected, like that to Castellar, by trees, and looking down on the Gorbio valley—on the one side, its great plain thickly planted with olive trees, and terminated at its north end by the town of Gorbio, as if resting on an island peak; and on the other, on the Boirigo valley and the monastery heights. It took us some time to reach the base of the mountains, when the path became rough with loose stones, and steep and toilsome. Nearly three hours elapsed from the time of our leaving the hotel till we reached one of the mountain roadside chapels, with which the country abounds, constructed not only to point religious feelings, but as covered places of refuge from a storm. As usual, a cross stood by it, bent to the north–east, indicating that south–west were the violent and prevailing winds. This chapel, which could easily have held all our party and more in a storm, was a short way below the town of Ste. Agnese, and afforded a convenient resting–place ere proceeding farther. We had from it a good view of Ste. Agnese, which, being placed back on the north side of the mountain, is not visible from Mentone. It stands about 2100 or 2200 feet above the level of the sea. The castle, now in ruins, on the summit, is above 300 feet higher. As a stronghold it was no doubt almost unassailable; for on one side the rock may be said to be perpendicular, and the other sides are, as I learnt from the ascent, very steep. The town of Ste. Agnese, which we had yet a good pull to arrive at, is another of those curious villages which are seen in the Riviera. From a little distance it has a deserted, ruinous look, and the place does not improve upon nearer acquaintance. Of course, notwithstanding the apparent poverty of the inhabitants, it has a grand church with a spire to it, and we had chanced to light upon a fête day; for, as we were sitting on the rocks beyond it at lunch (brought with us as usual on such excursions, and forming no unacceptable part of their enjoyment),[23] we cast our eyes down upon the steep hillside below, and there we saw winding up, quite a number of priests and people with images, banners, and other insignia. On reaching the plateau on which we were, they halted to rest, and then formed into procession, one priest bearing in front a large crucifix with a figure of our Saviour on it, life–size; and all chanting, proceeded to the church.

Resting some time, a few of us ventured to climb to the castle. An interesting legend (fully narrated in Pemberton’s _Monaco_, p. 351) attaches to it. During the latter half of the tenth century, Haroun, a bold African chief, in command of a formidable fleet, was cruelly ravaging the coast and carrying off captives, among whom was a maiden of Provence called Anna, of illustrious birth and marvellous beauty. The vessel bearing her to Spain had been taken after a bloody battle, in which her father and two brothers were killed. Haroun had first pitied and protected her, and then fell violently in love with her. His jealous wife, divining the fact from his altered demeanour, gave orders to bind her and have her by night cast into the sea. Discovering this in time, he saved Anna’s life, and in his rage caused his wife to be strangled. Arriving opposite Ste. Agnese, and struck by the advantage of the position, he landed with 100 men and his captives, the natives flying before him, ascended the mountain, and built the fort. Here he importuned the disconsolate maid to renounce Christianity and marry him, but in vain; till, finding her one day praying for him, he was overcome, embraced Christianity himself, and fled with her and all his treasure to Marseilles, where they were joyfully received and were married.

The return took rather shorter time than the ascent; but the expedition occupied nearly the whole day from breakfast–time till dark. We might have descended by two or three different routes, but chose the way by which we had come. One of the other routes would have been by going round the mountain and descending upon the east side; but I believe it is very steep, and not much approved by the guides or donkey people. Another route would have been by diverging from the road by which we had ascended and coming down another ridge, called the Arbutus Walk (from the circumstance that it is filled with arbutus trees, with their brilliant scarlet and gold flower and fruit, so tempting and attractive to young people), and terminating in the Madonna Hill, a very favourite walk from Mentone. All in the hotel who had not taken part were eager to hear about our expedition, and we became for the nonce heroes, as famous as if we had made the ascent of Mont Blanc.

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If one were to ascend simply to obtain a view, that from Ste. Agnese, or even from the castle on the top, would scarcely repay the fatigue of the ascent. It is dominated by a chain of rocky mountains, which surround it on every side except that to the sea; and the view towards the sea—that is, towards Mentone—is not more extensive than what may be obtained from many lower points upon which we there look down, and among others the monastery of Annunciata, which seems a long way immediately below, although it stands high, and is a prominent object from Mentone.

To this monastery we paid several visits. It stands on the ridge between the Carrei and Boirigo valleys, and is said at one time—by no means, looking to its position, unlikely—to have been the former site of Mentone and of a castle. The plateau on which now the chapel and monastery are built is above 1000 feet high, and is attained by another of those donkey paths of which there are so many on the hills. In fact, various such paths, more or less steep, conduct up to it from different parts. The main ascent from the Carrei valley is sharp and steep enough, and has the usual allowance of twelve or fifteen chapels or stations by the way—little places like sentry–boxes, in which sometimes objects of worship are placed. A small church or chapel forms an adjunct to the monastery. Its walls are covered over with votive pictures in commemoration of miraculous escapes from great dangers, but of the rudest description. They depict the danger escaped, and the Virgin opportunely appearing in the clouds to interpose and save, and are very singular specimens of art, drawn by the merest tyros—or rather babes—in art. It is surprising how those in charge of the church could allow it to be desecrated by such trashy attempts at the pictorial. The thing, however, is to be seen in many other such churches. Our first visit to this spot was at Christmas–time (29th Dec.), when the monks dress up a little crypt below the chapel in a very curious way, so as to represent the Nativity of our Lord. On a raised platform a country–side is seen, with rocks, and plains, and rustic bridges, studded over by little puppet figures or dolls about a foot high, others in the distance smaller, personating different characters—kings, Roman soldiers, shepherds with some woolly sheep, and Joseph and Mary standing in the midst of all. Near them a little babe lies on the ground, and kneeling before and adoring it a figure, I suppose, representing one of the Magi. Nor are angels wanting to complete the representation; while in a recess in the distant vista a toy Noah’s Ark is set, supposed to be resting on Ararat, satisfactorily proving by ocular demonstration that Noah’s Ark was, at the time of the Nativity, visible. The figures are evidently carved, by the hands of the monks, as the faces differ entirely from those of ordinary dolls, and from each other. It must cost the monks a good deal of labour to make the arrangements; but they have, I presume, little else to do, and it no doubt furnishes an agreeable occupation, which doubtless they grievously want. At stated hours of the day they may be heard with sepulchral voices chanting service; and as they seem to have nothing else to do, I suppose it may literally be said their vocation is, ‘_Vox et preterea nihil_.’

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The most westerly of the valleys is that of Gorbio, which in some respects is the most beautiful, as it is the most secluded of all the three. It has no broad torrent bed like those of the Carrei and Boirigo, and in fact the river can scarcely be seen between its entrance to the sea and a long way up the valley, the road between these points lying at some distance from the river, in a ravine below, winding its course over rocks and among trees which hide it from sight. The valley, everywhere wooded, and river derive their name from the town of Gorbio, which crests a lofty conical–shaped rock or height 1400 feet high, about three miles distant from Mentone. The olive–covered ridges rise also on either side the valley pretty steeply, and hem it in.

On 14th February a party was made up from our hotel to go to Gorbio, sixteen in number, with nine donkeys and three donkey attendants. We left at half–past nine in the morning and got back at five o’clock. There is now a good carriage road for a considerable distance up the valley; but at that time it was only in course of formation, and was very rough. Where the road ceases, the ascent, hitherto gentle, becomes more perceptible; and on arriving at a point below the height on which Gorbio stands, we had to look up to it far above on the summit of its bold abrupt rock. It looked magnificent, and the sketchers of the party longed exceedingly to take it from that point; but the donkeys, or their drivers or riders, had no compassion, and, as it was not desirable to separate on such excursions, the chance on this occasion was lost, though, by starting a little earlier than the party, I got it on a subsequent visit.

The ascent to the top was steep by a donkey path, but the town was very curious. It has been, I believe, the scene of many battles. After inspecting it amidst the gazing of a crowd of idle inhabitants, we adjourned to a grassy bank a little outside, where we enjoyed our lunch, and the four sketchers were recompensed by obtaining a view of the town from an excellent point. As Gorbio is an excursion frequently made, we were surrounded by children, who kept us in a state of siege for coppers, which they are led by the injudiciousness of visitors to expect, and it was no easy matter to shake them off. We had still a great deal before us to do; so, as soon, as possible, the donkeys were remounted, and we proceeded along a mountain path, gradually reaching an elevation several hundred feet above Gorbio, on which we then looked down. All along this path we had splendid views, including one of the village of Ste. Agnese and the mountain on which it stands, which, from that point presenting its edge to us, appeared like a sharp Swiss aiguille. After a long circuit, we reached a point, at which the party dismounted and walked to the top of a hill commanding the valley; and then began the descent by a rough, stony, mountainous path to Rochebrune, about two miles off. Some of our party, keeping too high up, had to descend the mountain so perpendicularly that they could only liken the declivity to the side or face of a house.

Rochebrune rests upon the slope of a hill looking westward, down upon the Corniche road, on Monaco and the sea, between 600 and 800 feet below. The ruins of a castle stand upon a rock, which is said to have slipped down from a cliff 200 or 300 feet above. This, if true, would be a remarkable and unique circumstance. The town itself, which is about three or four miles from Mentone, from which it is a favourite excursion, is very picturesque, and affords many choice bits for the artist, I think more so than any similar town in the neighbourhood. One of our party jocularly proposed to come and spend a fortnight there, and take sketches; but to any civilised person it would be just as agreeable to spend the time, if that were possible, in a rabbit warren, to which another compared it. The view towards Monaco and the hills beyond it is very fine, but requires to be seen before the afternoon sun comes round. There are two ways of reaching Mentone from Rochebrune—one, by going down to the Corniche road a little below; and the other, by descending through terraces of fine old olive trees, one of which, in the pathway leading out of the village, is of immense girth, and must be of great age. It is said that some of the olive trees in this neighbourhood are considered to be nearly two thousand years old. The trunks of these olives are often very curious, from the mode in which they divide or split up and twist about. By either way to Mentone, splendid views are obtained, and the usual course on an excursion to Rochebrune is to go by one route and return by the other. In going by the road, we skirt the tongue of land called Cape Martin.

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One of the most interesting and most usual walks or drives from Mentone is to this Cape Martin—to the point it is above two miles distant; and it is at present, or was while we were there, reached either by the rough, stony beach, disagreeable for the feet, but the shorter way, and pleasant, as passing by the ocean and having the view open to the scenes around. In time, it is expected that the promenade will be extended all along the coast to the cape, which will make approach to it by the shore a most agreeable walk. The other access, much longer, is by proceeding along the dusty high road leading to Monaco to some distance beyond the Hôtel? du Pavillon, and passing under a railway viaduct which crosses the road to a rough side road or avenue which diverges to the left and winds through a delicious plantation of fine old olive trees, with knotted, and gnarled, and divided trunks, and long, vigorous branches which stretch fantastically overhead and interlace; while the sun glinting through them here casts alternate lights and shadows on the white limestone road, and there shoots in streaks through the openings, speckling the forest with glancing radiance, shifting and changing as the olive boughs wave, and their tender leaves turning now their silver breasts and now their green backs to the breeze, shimmer in the light; while the carpet of grass is spread underneath, dotted over with violet and anemone; and the distance is dark, shut out by the thicket of trees, and the background of shrubs, and banks, and hill. As the road proceeds, it again passes under another railway bridge, the trains over which whistle and whirl on, scaring the passers–by, and breaking incongruously on the quiet of the scene, as if winged demons had escaped and in a state of fright rushed in hot and fiery to disturb the tranquillity of the land and break its peace. Then walled gardens are passed, closely planted with orange trees, laden in bunches with their tempting fruit. Still keeping on this rustic road amidst more olive trees, we at last arrive upon an open part, and behold a church of curious design on the one hand, and the blue Mediterranean on the other, and before us the avenue along the margin of the promontory. Here it had unhappily been intended to have built a town, and as a commencement three villas have been erected; but the situation is not only too distant from Mentone, but is on the wrong side of the hill, seeing the sun leaves it in cold shade soon after noon; and thus, though commanding a splendid view all along the coast eastward, they have not found favour, and stand silent and all but deserted. Beyond these villas, and at the entrance to the wooded hill, the carcass of an unfinished Roman arch, intended no doubt as a grand portal to the projected new town, spans the road, which, proceeding by the border of the promontory, and overhanging it, looks down through the trees and rocks to the lovely sea sporting about in little pools, or surging and breaking on its natural bulwarks, while the slopes of the hill above on the right hand side are densely overspread with wood. At the end of the avenue, where the shelter of the hill terminates, the strength and usual lie of the wind are manifested in the bent and twisted forms of the trees, most of which are inclined, curved, or in some cases doubled down, as if bowing in lowly obeisance towards Mentone in the north–east, the south–west winds blowing fiercely across the ocean when they come. The walks through the forest and up to the semaphore on the top are charming, and make Cape Martin one of the most enjoyable of the easy excursions from Mentone, so that the visitors have great cause to congratulate themselves that the building speculation came to nought. If building be ever resumed, it is to be hoped the forest will be spared to the public, and that any houses will be placed on the west or sunny side; although it would be a mistake there too, as it is wholly without shelter from the west. It is not unusual for large parties to come to picnic in the woods and enjoy the scene, bringing their lunch with them. Some houses were commenced on a level plateau at the point, one of them suspiciously like an incipient restaurant, but, no doubt, being found to be too much exposed, were abandoned, and what little was put up is now going to wreck and ruin. It is to be hoped that Cape Martin will never be desecrated by any such concern in the future. Here, at and round the point, the land is surrounded by a belting of rocks and sharp pinnacles, worn so by the breaking of the waves, and upon these pinnacles the sea is continually breaking. In stormy weather, it is beautiful to observe the waves rolling in and striking the rocks with great violence, and dashing high into the air, shivering into millions of shining particles, forming spray, which spreads and scatters in brilliant showers all round. Nor is it less beautiful, when the breeze is gentle, to watch the waves rolling majestically in, the hot sun shining through the long well–dressed line as if it were through purest glass of the brightest sea–green, and then to observe the rearing crests tumbling grandly over as they charge to the death and deliver themselves one after another on the rocky beach, which with a calm steadiness receives the shock.

From Cape Martin fine views are had of Monte Carlo, Monaco, with the more distant Antibes, and even the Estrelles; while north–eastward, as if in long white robes, the young Mentone lies nestling or cradled in at the foot of the high range of mountains which, like gigantic Titans, in mute serenity hang over, and watch and guard with placid pride the smiling, sleepy little town to which they have given birth. With scenery so romantic, the point of the cape has become a very favourite haunt of the artist. It is seldom a visit is paid to it in which, if the weather be fine (for in cold weather one cannot sit long), persons are not to be seen taking sketches or elaborating more finished pictures, for which a capital foreground is furnished by the bent and distorted trees.

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But it would be endless to describe or even to enumerate all the many walks and excursions which are possible from Mentone. These are principally from the western side; but we had occasionally walks in the other direction. I have already mentioned the walk to the gorge of St. Louis. There is another walk which we sometimes had to the rocks below and beyond the gorge, called ‘Les Rochers rouges’ from their red colour. These derive a peculiar interest from their containing certain caves or fissures in the rock, disclosed or opened up by the formation of the railway, out of one of which was exhumed the skeleton, or what is called the fossil skeleton, of a man. This, of course, is held up as evidencing the existence of man anterior to the creation of Adam, by those who believe in the existence of Preadamites. The skeleton is in Paris, and I have seen neither it nor the _brochure_ of Dr. Rivière describing the discovery; but I noticed that the sides of the cave—as it at present stands, after the excavations for the railway—are not more than 20 feet apart at the bottom, the cave extending probably 40 feet inward, and about 50 or 60 feet high; but these eye measurements are sometimes deceptive. It is of very soft limestone, and in other parts of the rocks there are huge stalactites depending. It may therefore be very safely said that stalactite would at an early period form with great rapidity, and speedily cover up what the cave contained. I was informed, however, that the skeleton was found about 9 feet below the surface, in the midst of debris. In these caves, and elsewhere round about, many flint implements have been found, and some of them are collected in the Natural History Museum in the Hotel de Ville at Mentone. The workmen finding them sell them to strangers for a few pence.

Dr. Bennet’s and Mr. Hanbury’s gardens both lie in this direction—Dr. Bennet’s, on the rocks above the Italian _douane_ station; Mr. Hanbury’s, about a mile and a half farther on the road to Ventimiglia. They may properly be called hanging gardens, and are not laid out as gardens are with ourselves. Many tropical plants are growing in them in the open air.

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Our best excursion in this direction was that to the top of Belinda. We started on 31st January 1877, a party of eleven, with six donkeys. The walkers drove to Pont St. Louis, where they were overtaken by those on donkeys. All then proceeded a little beyond the bridge and the station of the Italian _douane_, and ascended by very steep paths to the village of Grimaldi, about 700 feet above the sea, on the slope or shoulder of Belinda, and seen from Mentone picturesquely buried among the olive trees. This is another of those curious old towns with the usual appendage of a church and spire. The slope on which it is built is all but perpendicular, so that house rises over house, and the back base of a house is greatly higher than the front. Clovelly in North Devon is nothing to it. Roads are impossibilities. There are no streets, only narrow paths, or at best donkey tracks, through it. By one of these paths, winding upward, we were led to a point right above the gorge of St. Louis. From this dizzy height, the party, halting, looked down upon the precipitous yawning gulf below, and then across the bay towards Mentone, and upward towards the mountains, which this new position threw into shapes different from any observable from other points. Having taken in this striking view, we are urged to proceed by a very rough path, some parts of which are so uncommonly steep that those riding were compelled to dismount from their donkeys, and manage the ascent, like the others, as best they could; and so, alternately scrambling up pretty nearly perpendicular parts, and alternately winding up and jogging on by gentle ascents, where the donkeys were remounted, and through a forest of young trees, we, in about two hours and a half from the time of leaving the hotel, inclusive of a halt of half an hour at Grimaldi, attained the top of Belinda.

This mountain is, as already stated, 1702 feet high, and the view from the top of it is very extensive. We fancied we saw westward along the French coast, beyond the Estrelles, as far as the Îles d’Or off Hyères. If so, this would be a distance of fully ninety miles. On the east side, we could not see along the Italian coast beyond Bordighera, as the mountains rise and shut out further view in that direction. The huge rocky Berceau towered up in close proximity, to the north; and behind it, away to the eastward, we saw the tops of the snowy Maritime Alps peering up in magnificent white drapery; while between them and the coast lay a peculiar species of high, barren, bleak, desolate–looking mountains, intersected by wild and bare river courses; and more immediately below us, portions of the ramparts of Ventimiglia; and beyond, the long arm of Bordighera, appearing, from this point of view, stunted and different from its aspect at Mentone. The wind was blowing piercingly cold from the north–east at the top, so that we could not gaze at the scene in this direction above a few minutes; but just below the top, on the western slope, we found shelter and sun warmth, and enjoyed our lunch and the splendid prospect. On returning, we descended by a different path, which in many parts might well be termed a _mauvais pas_. It was often so bad and so precipitous that the riders, in dread of their necks, were soon obliged to leave their saddles and walk. At last we reached the Corniche road, near to Mr. Hanbury’s garden, and by this road returned home. From the heights we had seen a cloud of dust hanging over the road to Mentone, in consequence of the wind having risen to a gale. We now were under the necessity of encountering this dust, and, barring the chill blast on the hill–top, it formed the only obstacle to a thorough enjoyment of this most delightful excursion, which occupied altogether between seven and eight hours.

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