Part 11 (2/2)
From another situation we could look down on Luchon and from this point were endeavouring to reach the little hut, where fodder and a few provisions can be found in the season, when an ancient shepherd bawled out in _patois_ that the place was as yet tenantless, for which we felt thankful to that peasant, as it saved us a long tramp through rather deep snow, though for that same reason we were unable to reward his forethought as it deserved. Leaving him to pursue his guileless way, we descended into the beech grove for our lunch, and finding grateful shade at the foot of a fine fir, we opened the saddle-bags and proceeded to regale ourselves, finding some snow that we brought from the top very useful to cool the rather heated claret. After nature was satisfied we quickly descended past the previously busy scene, and when near the high road again came in view of some woodmen loading a cart with logs. To do this the logs had to be brought to an eminence above the cart, and bullocks were employed to drag up the wood. The men were treating them most cruelly, and once or twice they lowed so piteously, that we have translated it into
”THE OXEN'S APPEAL.”
Working and toiling the whole of the day, Working and toiling without any pay, Only perchance a few mouthfuls of hay, From earliest dawn till late.
Held by the horns 'neath this c.u.mbersome yoke, Firmer fixed thus than a ”pig in a poke,”
Feeling the ”p.r.o.ng” and the lengthy stick's stroke, Ours, alas, is a terrible fate.
When straining our utmost, you bring the stick down On our miserable backs; and you swear, and you frown, Never thinking the sun is just ”doing us brown,”
As the furnace will do when we're slain.
We cannot pull more than we can, you must know, And we cannot pull fast if we can but pull slow, So why should you spike us, and ill-use us so, And make our hides tingle with pain?
We serve you well always, draw heaviest loads, And never complain of the worst of bad roads; While you in return use those blood-drawing goads At ev'ry conceivable time.
Be sure that no quicker or wiser are we, But we _do_ sometimes think if we got our horns free, The position in which you would probably be, And you would not p.r.o.nounce it sublime.
So listen, we pray, to our modest appeal: With kindness more proud of our work we should feel; And if those fierce blows you still ruthlessly deal, You'll make our flesh horrible stuff; For though steaks are good beaten, that's done when they're cold, And we're certainly not, nor as yet very old; But as some day we'll have to be butchered and sold, We had better be tender than tough.
If you'll try our plan--that is enough!
At twenty minutes past one we had repa.s.sed the graceful Jardin des Quinconces, with the weeping willows overhanging the lakelet, and were within the cool precincts of the hotel.
Having a couple of hours to spare another morning, we wended our way towards the Orphanage, ”deep in the lilac grove.” Turning off from the road, we followed the narrow track over the rustic bridge, and were received anything but hospitably by a huge white dog. We calmed him in time, however, and proceeded to inspect the buildings, but found nearly everyone shut up, though the little church--elevated above the rest--was, unlike them, thrown open. Its very rusticity and simplicity gave it a religious air which to us so few Roman Catholic edifices seem to possess. The badly-spelt and feebly-worded address to the Pope, to which he has affixed his signature, that hangs in a frame near the door, we did not consider much of an attraction, though to the members of the little congregation it would doubtless be a very holy relic.
Forsaking this peaceful retreat, we climbed up the ascent behind, within view of the statue of the Virgin, but soon descended again, as the sun was at that time particularly ”baking,” and we were not doughty enough to pretend to resist it. After a cool spell near the chapel-door, watching the ”painted ladies” [Footnote: b.u.t.terflies, of course!] playing with the lilac blossoms, we trudged slowly back again.
One of the pleasantest as well as most interesting of our trips in the Pyrenees was from Luchon to the little Spanish village of Bosost, and as it is one of the princ.i.p.al pillars that uphold the chief t.i.tle of this volume, it deserves a detailed mention.
This time the favourite hour of ten was not early enough for starting, so we were on horseback by 9.15, going very leisurely, being quite undesirous to force the pace, as the day was warm even at that hour.
Up the Rue d'Espagne for a short distance beyond the Hotel Richelieu (which hotel, from all we have heard, though large, is not too moderate nor owned by too polite a proprietor), and then we took the turning to the left, which (as the signboard tells) leads to St. Mamet. Without waiting to enter the old church to see its frescoes, we pursued the road branching off to the right, which presently left the Orphanage behind in the same direction. A few minutes later we had pa.s.sed the frontier (French) custom station, and leaving the isolated Castelvieil (2514 ft.) for a short time on our right, and later in our rear, we bore up the Vallee de Burbe. We had only progressed a short distance when a huge rock was visible in the centre of the road, evidently a very recent gift from the adjacent height. Our horses having been so little used, were very fresh and rather fond of shying, and our guide's, which was an Arab, not only s.h.i.+ed at the impediment, but wheeled round with the intention of going homewards. As we managed to make our own, however, pa.s.s quietly, the obstreperous one, after a brief struggle, was induced to follow their example. A little further on, we met a fine team of Spanish mules in their full picturesque trappings and bells. The two men in charge of them were dressed a little untidily, but their attire was equally picturesque, the coloured waistband, turban, and knee-breeches producing a very bright effect.
The bright yellow-green of the beeches, mingling with the dark and gloomy olive shade of the firs; here and there fields laden with the blue columbine and the ”overrated” asphodel; the boulder-strewn slopes on our left, and the snow-ridges on the right; and the strong, fresh, and foaming cascade of Sidonie tumbling down beside us, made a very delicious contemplation as we went on our way.
Our guide in a most ”gallant” manner got off his steed to gather Miss Blunt a few flowers, but when he endeavoured to a.s.sume his former elevated position, the ”Arab” didn't see it. In fact he _would not be_ mounted, and the unevenness of the track added not a little to the success of his manoeuvrings. ”Luis” had not been six months a ”jockey” for nothing, however; so he lulled his steed into a sense of security by walking beside it for some time in circus fas.h.i.+on, with his right hand grasping the off side of the saddle, until a large stone showed its head at the side of the road. As they pa.s.sed, he ran up the stone and was in the saddle before the animal realised that he was beaten, and when he did, it seemed to humble him to that degree that he never attempted even a curvet.
The number of lizards we disturbed was something wonderful. None of them were very large or very striking in colour, but they made up for this in animation; and their fearful trepidity and hurry to get anywhere out of sight was wonderful.
Just before entering the sunlit beech glades we overtook a n.o.ble cavalcade, consisting of three ladies on three donkeys, with a fat old woman leading the way on foot. They had their lunch with them, and apparently intended--judging by a certain hungry look they had--to make their repast at the earliest opportunity. The young and beautiful lady bringing up the rear was probably ignorant of the ludicrous figure she made with her ”ultra” fas.h.i.+onable arrangement of steels, that gave her the appearance of having a large clothes-bag under her dress, or we don't think she would have started on the excursion in such a garment.
If a member of the ”Rational Dress Society” had seen her, there would probably have been an ”exhibition” on the spot, and a general one--with all the latest ”improvements” (?)--at Luchon a few weeks later.
After traversing a number of beautiful glades we entered the Firs--the Black Forest as it is called,--where bears are hunted in the winter, and through which the road ascends by a series of zigzags to the summit of the Col de Portillon (4275 ft.), and then descends for a short distance to the frontier, marked by a huge boulder, with the French flag on one side and the Spanish on the other. As we reined in the horses opposite to it for a moment, no one could dispute that we were indeed ”'twixt France and Spain.” But we did not stay to enjoy this enviable position long; and pa.s.sing on, endeavoured to realise that we were no longer in France by fixing our eyes on the _Pyrenees Orientales_; we could also see the Poujastou (6332 ft.) on our left, the Couradilles (6513 ft.), the Mont Segu, the Cecire, [Footnote: We had only our guide's authority for these names] and further forward the Entecade on our right. A short distance down the road there lay the Casino du Portillon, not yet opened for the summer gambling, and not very much further (viz., about a mile from the frontier), the Spanish custom-house, and the Casino de Roulette. Here the road divides, the branch to the Vallee d'Aran and Bosost bearing to the left, and the other, to Viella and the Artiques-Tellin, in the opposite direction.
Pa.s.sing some ruined houses and fertile slopes in our descent, we soon obtained a fine view up both ends of the Aran valley, with the diminutive Garonne winding through, and Bosost snugly situated on the slopes of a hill round a bend in the road. The sun was pouring down in all his midday strength as we pa.s.sed the roadside chapel of St. Antoine and entered the antiquated little village of Bosost, stopping at the Fonda de Espana for lunch.
This inn, from the road, was as much unlike an inn as anything we ever saw, and its ways and pa.s.sages were somewhat unique; but upstairs there was a large room with a wide terrace facing the river, which only wanted an awning over to be rendered delicious. We were unfortunately too early in the season for this luxury, so had to content ourselves with lunching in the room, with wide-opened doors. When the provisions were spread out, in rushed the guide with an official doc.u.ment, and a franc to pay for having invaded Spain. We gave him the money, and asked to taste some honest country wine, which resulted in the domestic bringing us something rather strong, like new port, which did not go badly with water.
After the repast had pa.s.sed pleasantly, we strolled out into the village, Miss Blunt being equipped with the requisites for a brilliant sketch. Unhappily, the subject was not easy to find, though we marched through most of the streets; but having visited the ancient church--with its chime of bells, like many others in Spain, arranged on a wheel--we found a spot by the side of a huge elm from which there was a good view of the sacred edifice. But it was a case of sketching under difficulties, as the whole or at least the greater part of the village children crowded round us, some carrying smaller children in their arms, some playing with flowers, others cutting bits of wood, and one and all managing to do their utmost to bother poor Miss Blunt. She accordingly finished the sketch as quickly as possible, and we all returned to the hotel to keep out of the oppressive heat.
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