Hotel de la Poste, Pierrefitte—The Gorge—Its majestic beauty—The resemblance to the Llanberis Pass—Mrs. Blunt becomes poetical—Zinc mines—Le Pont de Médiabat—Entering the town—The Rue Richelieu and Hôtel du Parc—Winter's seal upon them still—Thermes des Oeufs—Thermes de César—The Casino and Esplanade des Oeufs—A good dinner and the menu—The start for the Col de Riou—The Grange de la Reine Hortense—The pines—Miss Blunt's "exhortation to the first snow"—The dogs and their gambols—Defeated, but not discouraged—To the Cérizey Cascade—The baths of La Raillère, Petit St. Sauveur, and Le Pré—Cascade du Lutour—The Marcadau gorge—Scenery—Pic de Gaube—At the Cérizey Cascade—The Pont d'Espagne and Lac de Gaube—Pont de Benqués—Lutour Valley—Various excursions up same—The "Pare"—Allées de Gambasque—The Peguère—The "Pagoda" Villa—Promenade du Mamelon Vert—The road's up again—Blows and blasts—The bishop's arrival—Enthusiasm, pomposity, and benedictions—The pilgrims at large—They start on an excursion—The market and Hôtel de Ville—The grocer's opinion—Pyrenean dogs and their treatment—The dog-fancier—Smiles and temper—Bargaining displaced—No dog after all!
A Landau with four horses was ready after lunch, to transport us and our baggage to Cauterets; but having enjoyed Argelès very much, we were none of us particularly glad at the prospect of the change. The road as far as Pierrefitte, lovely as it is at this season of freshness, discloses no other views than those previously described, but when we turned sharply to the right, after passing the Hôtel de la Poste, and began the ascent towards Cauterets, then our eyes had indeed a rich treat. It would require the most dismal of dismal days, with sluicing rain and clouds low down on every beautiful crag and snow-tipped summit, to make anybody born with a soul above his dinner, complain of the grandeur of the gorge, or impugn the unceasing variety of dashing waterfalls, foaming river, freshly-opened leaves, white heather, and bright, flower-decked fields.
The same wild majesty as the Llanberis Pass presents, strikes one here: the enormous crags in threatening attitude far up the heights, the chasms and fissures brightened by a patch of young grass or a small tree, and, nearer the road, the scattered boulders luxuriantly covered with moss and fern, belong to both alike; and, while the bushes of snowy heather, the constant splash of the cascades falling over the rocks in feathery spray, and in the distance the hoary-headed monarchs of the range reaching up towards the sky, make this different from the familiar Welsh scene, it is only a difference that greatly intensifies the beauty and the charm of this Cauterets gorge.
Even Mrs. Blunt, who as a rule prefers the matter-of-fact to the poetical, was lifted out of herself, for she suddenly clutched me by the arm, and pointing in the distance, murmured something about "summits proudly lifting up to the sky," and being quite unused to that kind of thing, it took me some time to recover from the shock.
A little over three miles from Pierrefitte,—where a glimpse at the zinc mines and the wire tram in connection with them can be obtained—the road passes over the bridge of Médiabat, and some yards beyond becomes identical with the old route, which until then lay below us. The new portion (made in 1874) only extends for about two miles, as it does not commence till after the zigzag rise from Pierrefitte leads into the gorge, but the engineering of the whole has been admirably carried out, and the ascent of nearly 1,700 feet in the six miles does not tell severely on the horses. Now in an almost straight line, now by zigzags, we gradually neared the town, the gorge widening at the same time, though the peaks, some covered with trees, some snow-covered, seemed to bar the way completely at no very great distance.
We were quite close before we could really be said to have seen the town, and ere we could form any opinion of it we drove up the Rue Richelieu and found ourselves at the Hôtel du Parc. Monsieur Villeneuve, the jovial and experienced host, and his pleasant spouse, came out to welcome us, and although the hotel had only been open four days, made us as comfortable as they could.
[Illustration: CAUTERETS.]
Cauterets (3,254 feet) was only just waking into life, only two or three hotels, one or two hair-dressers, one confectioner's, one tobacconist's, and one or two grocers' shops were open; while of the bathing establishments, the "Thermes des Oeufs," the largest, and the Thermes de César, were the only ones showing signs of renewed life. The Esplanade des Oeufs, [Footnote: "Oeufs" because of the water's scent resembling "rotten eggs."] a large tree-planted space in front of the principal "thermes" (just mentioned)—which serves as casino, concert-hall, and theatre as well—seemed utterly deserted; whereas in summer, with the band playing, the trees in full leaf, the booths opened, and the crowds of visitors, the scene must be the gayest of the gay. We had just time to notice so much, on the afternoon of our arrival, before the sun set behind the huge mountains which surround this charming spot and the hour of dinner arrived. This dinner was so excellent, so well cooked and served, that, although we despise with a deep-rooted scorn the wretched class of individuals who make their dinner their main object in life, we nevertheless consider that we are only paying a merited tribute to thechefin saying that the cooking was always of a high standard, and quoting as a specimen the evening'smenu(May 1):
SOUP.Gravy.
FISH.Salmon, with sliced potatoes and melted butter.
MADE DISHES.Hashed Veal. Sauce Piquante.Sweetbreads and green peas.
ROAST.Chicken.
VEGETABLES.Asparagus. Potatoes (new).
PUDDING.Sago.
ICE, &c.Vanilla cream.Cheese, Jelly, and Biscuits.
When we woke the following morning, the sun shining from a cloudless sky proclaimed an "excursion morning." Accordingly, we sent for a guide, to inquire if a visit to the Lac de Gaube was practicable. The guide arrived, and disappointment ensued. It was possible to go if we didn't mind a few miles of snow, two feet deep and upwards. But we did mind very strongly, and said so. Then the burly native spoke again, and said that the Col de Riou was an easy trip, that we could take horses to within a short distance of the summit, and that when we got there the splendid view would include St. Sauveur, Argelès, Barèges, Gavarnie, &c. &c. And we answered the burly native in his sister tongue (patoiswas his mother tongue), or as near to it as we could, and said, "Have three horses ready by half-past ten at this hotel, and we will start." Then, delighted, he smiled and bowed, and disappeared down the street.
At eleven o'clock the cavalcade started, and a noble cavalcade it was: Miss Blunt on a strong dark bay pony, Mr. Sydney on a similar-coloured horse, and myself on a grey, formed the van; then came our burly friend (by name Pont Dominique), and another guide (Berret), carrying the lunch; and the rear was brought up by a small brindled bull-dog, and a smaller specimen of unknown breed, which was nevertheless a capital harmony in orange and white. In this order we left the Rue Richelieu and ascended the Rue d'Etigny, passing under several wreaths and crowns, with which the streets were decorated. We had previously noticed these grand preparations on our arrival, and though sensible of the good feeling that apparently prompted these attentions, we thought they were somewhat superfluous. But that is (as they were) by the way. Having soon reached the last of the houses, we gained the Rue du Pauze Vieux, and turning sharply to the right, ascended to the two establishments known respectively as the Pauze Vieux and Pauze Nouveau. And here a paradox—pause, view, and be convinced! The Pauze Vieux is the Pauze Nouveau and the Pauze Nouveau is the Pauze Vieux. Should any well-educated citizen of any country under the sun (or daughter) be disposed to doubt, let him examine the buildings for himself, and he must agree.
Half-an-hour after starting we reached the cottage known as the "Grange de la Reine Hortense," the view from which is excessively fine. Looking down towards the town, the mighty Cabaliros (7655 ft.), forming a semicircle, stood above on the right; to the left of this semicircle reared up the Monné (8938 ft.), the highest mountain in the vicinity, from which other peaks make another similar formation, ending with La Brune, beside which, but more to the left and immediately over the town, rises the Peguère, covered with irregularly-heaped crags, and pines. The town itself looked very neat and compact: the Mamelon Vert (a small hill to the right) and the chief thorough-fares being easily distinguished. Far up the Lutour valley, to the extreme left, the Pic de Labassa, or de la Sèbe (9781 ft.), and the Pyramide de Peyrelance (8800 ft.), completed the chief points of the scene in that direction; but far away in the opposite one we could easily see the Argelès valley and the Gothic church of Lourdes. Behind us, seemingly facing the Cabaliros, were the Col de Riou (6375 ft.), our would-be destination, and the Pic de Viscos. Winding up the hillside, and passing banks blue with the large and small gentian, we entered the pines, which made a pleasant change. As at the Col d'Aspin, [Footnote: Vide Bigorre, p. 42.] the rising sap filled the air with its refreshing odour, and the occasional glimpses of blue sky, mountain, and valley, through the gently waving branches, were very charming.
[Illustration: ASCENT OF COL DE RIOU]
We had not proceeded very far through the trees when we reached a break, where one of the party felt that at least something had been gained. There, partly on the track, partly on the loose stones above it, lay a bank of snow, and so delighted was Miss Blunt at having attained the (present) snow-line—say about 4600 feet above sea level—that her feelings were not to be in any way damped or suppressed, as they burst forth in an
Emblem of Purity,Chilly as Charity,Oh, what a joy your deep whiteness to view!Something is gain'd at last,But you are melting fast,Why does the cruel sun put you to stew?
Tell me, O long-lain snow,What of the vale below?What do you think about people and things?Do you love forest-trees?Or love you more the breeze?Tell me what bird you think most sweetly sings?
What? You've no heart at all?Cannot help where you fall,Caring not if you swell to a huge size:Minding not how you rush,What you break, whom you crush?Surely such feelings you ought to disguise.
Ah, well! we won't discuss,Useless to make a fuss;For, after all, I am glad that we met.Emblem of Purity,Chilly as Charity—But I won't roll in you. No! you're too wet!
The two dogs were amusing in their absurdity. They were perpetually endeavouring to detach stones from the side of the pathway, so as to have the pleasure of pursuing them down the steep. At times, when the hill was thickly strewn with leaves or particularly steep, they completely disappeared, though violent pulsations among the scattered branches and the aforesaid leaves told us they were not lost, but only temporarily buried.
When we had barely mounted another 400 feet, we came upon regular banks of snow, right over the path. This was quite unexpected, and we had to decide whether to leave the horses and tramp through the snow, or to return. We chose the latter—although the Col de Riou stood out seemingly very practicable of ascent—and, returning on foot, the horses and guides following, with the dogs here, there, and everywhere, we reached the "Grange de la Reine Hortense" and proceeded to lunch. After giving a very good account of thepatésandwiches, and not forgetting the guides and the dogs, we made our way slowly back, defeated perhaps, but certainly not discouraged.
Although neither the Lac de Gaube nor the Pont d'Espagne were attainable, the Cérizey Fall, which is about one third of the distance to the lake along the same route, was kind enough to put itself at our disposal. Not wishing to appear ungrateful, we availed ourselves of a fine afternoon to order round the horses and our two guides, and started about two o'clock. For some time we followed the road known as the Rue de la Raillère, which leads to the baths of the same name from the Place St. Martin; crossing the river by a very unpretentious bridge, not far from the town. Leaving La Raillère behind, and passing in turn the drinking establishment of Mauhourat—near which the Gaves of Lutour and Marcadau form the Gave of Cauterets—and the baths of Petit St. Sauveur and Le Pré, and gaining as we mounted a good view of the "Cascade de Lutour" on the left, we entered the Marcadau valley, or (more properly) gorge. The scenery, similar somewhat to that at the entrance to the Cauterets gorge from Pierrefitte, is nevertheless wilder and more severe. The occasional bright fields and frequent mountain streams, with their merry music, disappear; but the lofty heights, the gloomy firs, the mighty crags and boulders, and the snow-peaks beyond, remain. After a great amount of very rough and steep ascending—the Pic de Gaube (7644 ft.) the while standing conspicuously before us—we reached the small hut that is intended as a shelter, near the fall. Dismounting and taking the narrow path to the right over the stones, immediately above the hut, we obtained a capital view of this noisy cascade. Other views were obtained by us from above, by clambering over the stones and boulders at the side of the torrent; but this is the best of all. From the hut (mentioned above) one hour's good walking, over anything but a pleasant track, brings one to the Pont d'Espagne, and it requires another forty minutes to reach the Lac de Gaube.
[Footnote: The lake is full of excellent salmon trout, and there is a small inn on its shores, where visitors can stop the night in summer. The Vignemale, from whose summit the view is wonderfully vast, rears up above the lake.]
As horses can be taken for the whole distance when the road is free from snow, our feelings at not being able to proceed can be better imagined than described! By Mauhourat, whither we presently returned, the Pont de Benquès crosses the Marcadau, and the track to the left leads up the valley of the Gavé de Lutour. We did not pursue it very far, as the workmen were busy repairing it, and it is also very rough and steep. Several favourite excursions, however, are reached by it, among which may be mentioned the Cascade de "Pisse-Arros" (forty minutes from Cauterets), the "Fruitière" (two hours from Cauterets), the Lac d'Estom, 5847 ft. (three hours from Cauterets), the Ravin d'Araillé (three hours forty-five minutes), the Lake of Estom Soubiran, 7632 ft. (four hours thirty minutes), the Lake of Estibaoute, 7744 ft. (four hours forty five minutes), and the Col d'Estom Soubiran (six hours thirty minutes).
[Illustration: LAC DE GAUBE.]
Instead of again crossing the bridge below La Raillère, we kept to the left, along what may have beenoncea Roman road, but which wasnowat any rate a track both unpleasant and dangerous.
For some distance, large boulders, soil, and smaller stones overhung it, and seemed as though the least rain or slightest push would bring them down. Gradually this unpleasantness ceased, and as the road widened we passed a few villas and entered the "Parc," which, according to the natives, is part and parcel of the Esplanade des Oeufs, the great summer resort in front of the Casino, from the back of which a pleasant path of very gentle gradient ascends for about a mile to the "Allées de Cambasque," up the flank of the Peguère; and to the Cabanes (huts) de Cambasque beyond.
Although there is but little level road for enjoying a ride, we nevertheless managed to pass a short time very pleasantly on horseback. Leaving the Esplanade des Oeufs on the left, we took the road passing between the back of the Hôtel d'Angleterre and a curious chalet, built with a pagoda beside it, and little bridges in communication. Following this road, which is known as the Promenade du Mamelon Vert, [Footnote: The Mamelon Vert is a green hill near the entrance to the town.] and in turn passing the "Café du Mamelon Vert"—near which the track to the Cabaliros branches off—and the commencement of the path to Catarabe, we bore down to the right at the back of the Mamelon, and crossed the Gave by a rickety wooden bridge—shortly to be superseded by one of stone—into the Pierrefitte road. Down this, through the fine gorge within sight of the mines, and then back to the hotel, constituted the remainder of the ride.
Our stay at Cauterets was not without excitement, though certainly that excitement was not of a pleasant kind. We soon discovered that the decorating of the streets was for the benefit of the "Confirmation Procession," for which the Bishop was coming from Tarbes. The Rue Richelieu was "up" all along one side for the laying of gas-pipes, and, by way of diversion, every now and then—usually when we were at dinner, or wanting to look out of the window—a penny squeaking trumpet would sound, then a lad would rush about and close all the shutters, leaving the rooms in darkness and the inmates in suspense, till it ended in a series of loud reports, accompanied by the distribution of various specimens of granite in all directions. The authorities stopped this nice performance when the Bishop was expected, as the mere chance of "blasting" a Bishop would have been too painful for the Catholic workmen's feelings, especially as they hoped for a benediction! As soon as word arrived of the approach of "Monseigneur's" carriage, the curé and chief dignitaries of the town, accompanied by a brass band, a detachment of firemen, and a small regiment of women—decked in hoods of blue or red or white—passed down the muddy street, bearing banners, and a gilded canopy with white plumes. In a few moments they returned, the band playing, the banners waving, the abbés and choir singing, and in the centre of the throng, with two curés in front of him under the canopy, came the new Bishop of Tarbes, resplendent in violet watered silk, trimmed with beautiful lace, gloves of the same hue, with ring on the outside of the right hand, which he perpetually kissed to the admiring spectators. Miss Blunt, who was for once able to look out of the window in safety, had a special one all to herself, and of course she didn't mind any amount of explosions after that!
Then we had other excitements, in the shape of wretched bands of pilgrims, who, having a spare day, came up from Lourdes to see the mountains. They invaded our salon, drank beer at eight o'clock in the morning, and looked on the whole—in spite of their rosettes of black, red, and yellow—as disreputable a lot of individuals as ever turned religion into farce. Whether it was quite worth while suffering their presence for the fun of seeing them mount, when starting for their excursion, is open to question, but that it was a unique and comic sight we were all agreed. The hotel garden, filled with guides, horses, donkeys, and pilgrims; the delicate exhibition of ankles and feet —such feet; the chairs to help the rotund damsels; the swarm of natives round one especially fat woman, who got down after all; the beaming face of the host, and the gloomy looks of a very fat man, just the size for a small pilgrim tea party; not omitting the priest, whose flowing robe nearly hid hisbetter half(viz. the donkey), made a scene worthy of reproduction in the pages of 'Punch.'
Although we strolled about a good deal, we found but little of interest in the town itself; perhaps the most fascinating spot was the Patisserie Suisse, in the Rue César, just below the baths of the same name. The Hôtel de Ville is a fine building, and in summer perhaps, the market, which stands in a street to the left of it, may present an animated spectacle; but at this time it had the appearance of a large monkey cage, with good strong iron railings in front, a few cabbages and onions, and a small group of ancient and much-wizened native specimens inside.
We enjoyed our stay, however, in the midst of all the wild scenery immensely, and think that but few people, if they came during the month of June, would be prepared to differ from us. There are always some of course, and before coming we had the pleasure of meeting two of them, in the shape of a retiredgrocer(or something of that kind in the wholesale line) and his wife. They both declared that "Cauterets was a vile 'ole, with 'igh streets and showy 'ouses, and that a sensible 'uman being wouldn't stay there ha _h_our;" but it must be mentioned in their favour, that the day on which they went was rather damp, and there was only one grocer's shop open. If anyone should be disposed to take their verdict as more conclusive than ours, we can simply say, "Believe neither, but go and see for yourself."
There is one other subject worth mentioning, in regard to which we had a trifling diversion on the morning of our departure. The true breed of Pyrenean dogs may be seen at Cauterets, and puppies obtained by any people who wish to have a specimen of this fine race. The great secret in rearing them is to avoid meat of any kind, and feed them on bread with a little milk, or very thin soup. It is not the climate of England, as has so often been alleged, which gives them consumption, but the change to rich diet from the meagre fare which in the mountains they always receive.
The prices vary so much, that it is wisest for a stranger to enlist the services of some trustworthy native to arrange the purchase, rather than to do the bargaining himself. Pups from six weeks to three months sell at from ten francs to one hundred, but a really fine specimen of two and a half months ought to be bought for thirty-five francs. Dogs of six months and upwards are expensive; as much as five hundred francs being asked for them in the season.
As Miss Blunt had a great desire to become the possessor of one of these fluffy creatures, whenever any were seen inquiries were always directed at once with regard to their parentage and price. Happening to perceive a woolly tail disappearing behind a workshop in the Rue de la Raillère a few hours before we had to start, we passed up a short entry beside the aforementioned workshop, and asked to see the owner of the dogs. In a few seconds he stood before us, a weather-beaten Frenchman, who, as well as his clothes and his intellect, had seen better days—a man about five feet six inches high, with face deeply lined; moustache, goatee, and hair, all somewhat sparse and grizzled; a blue berret (the native hat) in his hand; his shirt fastened by a single stud, barely hiding what had been once a brawny chest; his loose trousers half-covered by a leathern apron; and his two coats both threadbare, and decorated with ribands in an equally worn-out state—such, bowing and smiling as he approached, was the proprietor alike of the dogs and the workshop. In spite of his poor appearance and idiosyncrasy—almost approaching to madness—he had a certain dignity of manner which we could not fail to notice. But he was very trying to deal with. Whenever the price was the object of our inquiry, he began in the following strain: "Very good, very good; which does Monsieur like? which does Ma'm'selle prefer? The finest of course? Ah yes, the finest! Ah, very good; take your choice, Monsieur; take which you please. The finest dogs in the world! See! see! Monsieur" (and here he pointed to the ribands on his breast), "I gained the prize at the Paris Exhibition!—at the Paris Exhibition!—the exhibition open to all the world—I, with the dogs I had brought down from the mountains and bred myself, I gained the prize. Ha! ha! there were two Englishmen, two of your fellow-countrymen, who thought they would beat me; but no, no, Monsieur, it was to me you see (pointing to his breast again), Monsieur, that they gave the prize." At last, however, he named fifty francs as the price of either, which was very excessive, and when I suggested ten—which was proportionately low—he proceeded to take off his apron, roll up his coat-sleeves, and then, looking at me fiercely, said, "So, Monsieur, you take me for a ten-franc man, do you? You think to mock me, do you? I, who gained the prize at the Paris Exhibition, the exhibition open to all the world, for the finest dogs, you think I will sell my puppies at ten francs, Monsieur? No, Monsieur. I will not sell you one for ten francs, and I do not wish to have anything more to do with you." And then he, who five minutes before had been shaking my hand with delight because I knew the owner of the parent dog (of his puppies), with a lofty wave of the hand motioned me to depart. Before doing so I soothed his offended dignity by a mellifluous explanation, and he once more, but somewhat loftily, offered me his hand as I bade him farewell. So, in spite of the pleasant diversion, Miss Blunt did not get her dog!
Rain at starting—A blighted view, yet lovely still—Pont d'Enfer —Nature's voice—Sère and Esquiez—Luz—Its situation and status—An old house—The ancient Church of the Templars—La Chapelle de St. Roch—Pyrenean museum—Hôtel de l'Univers—Château de Ste. Marie—"The Jackdaw's Causerie"—A new "Diet of Worms"—The new bathing establishment—To Barèges—Pic d'Ayré—Esterre—Viella—Betpouey—Mill conduits—Cercle des Etrangers—Opinion of the town—Grand Etablissement—Promenade Horizontale—Hospice de Ste. Eugénie—"The Jay of Barèges"—Wood anemones—Hepaticas—Valley of Lienz—Pic de Lienz—Pic d'Ayré's summit—Pic de Néouville—Mountain rhododendrons —Anemone vernalis.
Although we had beautiful weather all the while we remained in Cauterets, directly we prepared to depart down came the rain, the mists descended over the hills, and until we reached Pierrefitte we were unable to obtain more than momentary glances at the beauty we had so delighted in, before. Having crossed the Gave de Barèges by the Pont de Villelongue, we were soon in the gorge, the rocks on the left of which were blasted for five miles, when the road was constructed. Notwithstanding that it still rained, the clouds were a little higher, and our view consequently less contracted.
[Illustration: THE GORGE NEAR PIERREFITTE.]
The beauty of the scene was indisputable, and yet it was a beauty less wild and majestic, and more unequal, than that of the Cauterets Gorge. The heights on the left had frequently the barest and most uninteresting appearance, when on the other side the eye was enchanted with the varied spring tints on the trees massed together up the slopes from the river, whose limpid green pools or foaming rapids gave such a charm to the picture. The old road is seen in many parts, and several of the old bridges, but the one about three and three-quarter miles from Pierrefitte, at a point where the Gorge widens—known as the Pont d'Enfer, and built partly of wood as well as stone—is by far the most interesting. The scenery in its vicinity was particularly beautiful. The wild quinces, with their white blossoms mingling with those of the cherry and the light green of the maples, larches, elms, birches, and limes; the bright fields above, and the ever-lovely river below; with the massive crags and a babbling waterfall, rendered this part especially—as well as several others in a lesser degree—enchanting.
An enthusiast might easily write a book on the beauty of this gorge alone, but in this age he would probably find few readers; of those who did look at his book the greater number would find it probably too highly-coloured, while the more enthusiastic ones would lament its lack of warmth. Not wishing to incur the displeasure of either, we refrain from saying a great deal about the splendour of this drive; knowing that to a lover of the beautiful in Nature, all we have left unsaid Nature will herself say ten times more impressively.
After passing the monument in honour of the "Reine Hortense," which is five miles from Pierrefitte, and crossing the Bridge de la Hiladère, we soon caught sight of some villages on the left, where poplars—stiffly prominent in all directions—spoil much of the picturesqueness of the surroundings. The villages of Sère and Esquiez, that we saw when nearing Luz, are ancient and worthy of a visit. Together they formed a "chef-lieu" before the eleventh century, and the Roman church in each, but especially that of Sère, is exceedingly interesting. A few moments, during which we crossed a marble bridge over the Gave de Bastan, and, bearing to the left, we were in Luz.
Denominated by various titles, from a "poor village" to a "small rustic town," Luz is by no means an insignificant place. It doubtless owes a great deal to its situation in a pleasant hollow among the hills, with a pleasant landscape on all sides, and its appearance is certainly more quaint and rustic than poor. Undoubtedly there are several old houses, some looking particularly unsafe; undoubtedly the streets are often very narrow; and perhaps the inhabitants on the whole may be far from wealthy; but with all this Luz is not a poor looking village. On a market-day the streets in the vicinity of the old church, built—partly in the 12th and finished between the 15th and 16th centuries—by the Templars, assume a wonderfully gay appearance, and towards the back of the church we noticed one old house whose balconies, if a trifle warped and weather-beaten under the thin covering of white paint, were nevertheless bright with pots of geraniums, wallflowers, and stocks.
The church itself is most interesting, and was at one time very formidable also. Surrounded by a high wall pierced with loopholes in a double row, lies the graveyard, which is only a narrow strip between the ramparts and the church, the body of which lies between two towers. Under the higher of these, facing north, and built for defence with loopholes and embrasures, is one of the church doors, which leads to the high altar steps in a direct line from the entrance into the churchyard. Further to the right, but also facing north, is the most remarkable entrance, the inscriptions on the arch dating from the 12th century. On the extreme right is a door leading into the chapel, built in the 16th century, and dedicated to St. Roch. We found the inside interesting, without possessing any very striking features.
[Illustration]
The effect from the main gallery is perhaps best, and the smaller ones running along the sides have a weird and aged appearance. Near the entrance to the church, low down, is shown what was once the door for that wretched race of beings, the "Cagots."
[Footnote: We found it difficult to obtain any reliable information about these creatures. They seem to have led an existence like the lepers in Palestine, being avoided and despised by the inhabitants generally, and they appear to have been both diminutive and ugly.(See St. Savin, p. 73).]
The Chapelle de St. Roch, which we passed into from the gallery in the main building, is the most striking of the two. The gallery and stairs were in a very shaky condition, and two candle-stands near the latter seemed to have been in their prime many generations ago. The vaulted roof, with the curious wooden groins, and the ancientbénitiernear the door, are worthy of inspection. Without scrambling up the tower to the "Pyrenean Museum," but not forgetting to examine the old bell-tower and its bells facing west, we walked down to the left and joined the main road.
The ancient Castle de Sainte Marie—a very interesting and historic ruin—being in the vicinity, we followed the principal highway to the right, and passing the much-recommended Hôtel de l'Univers, were soon in the proximity of the château, which, standing alone on the summit of a pointed hill, was charmingly conspicuous. The path, after winding up the hill, leads to an entrance at the back, which is locked, the castle being now the property of the Précepteur of Luz, who, however, is always willing to accommodate strangers by allowing them to enter, as well as to inspect his garden, and the very striking image of the Virgin which he has had perched on the front walls. A great number of jackdaws have taken up their quarters in the old towers, and as one of them kept continually cawing as though anxious to be heard, we append what we made out to be the meaning of his chatter (it is said they never speak withoutcause), which we call
Caw, caw! cried the jackdaw, and cawed again,As he circled out of the ancient tower:Caw, caw! and he circled thrice over the plain,And cawed once more as he reached his bower.
Caw, caw! I was born in this fortress old,As old as the hills, some folks might say;Five hundred centuries, caw, have rolledSince first it stood in the light of day.
Caw, caw! just to think I have built my nestWhere the Black Prince ruled in such royal state.Caw, caw! I wonder if ever he guess'dThat this would in time be his castle's fate.
Caw, caw! but I never could quite perceiveWhy one tower is round and the other square.If I'd been the prince, I can well believeI'd have made the architect build a pair.
Caw, caw! by-the-bye, there was old Coffite[1]And Jean de Bourbon, that fought so well;And 'tis said that the prince underwent defeat—At least my mother this tale would tell.
Caw, caw! they've finished with siege and fight;The castle's too old for that, of course;They go in for piety on the right,[2]And we caw away till our voice grows hoarse.
Caw, caw! I'm a Catholic right sincere,But somehow or other I cannot seeWhy they put up the Virgin's statue[3] here—The place is as wrong as a place could be.
Caw, caw! I must see how my youngsters lookIn their quiet nursery 'mid the stones;Next week they'll be able "to take their hook,"[4]And—but there they go with their squeaking tones.
Caw, caw! cried the jackdaw, the world is vain,But I love to dwell in my ancient tower.Caw, caw!—why the wretches want feeding again,They've a "diet of worms" nearly every hour.And he cawed as he flew to the nursery bower.
[Footnote 1: It is said that Jean de Bourbon, Comte de Clermont, andAuger Coffite of Luz, took this castle in 1404.]
[Footnote 2: The author does not hold himself responsible for the jackdaw's slang, which refers to the statue.]
[Footnote 3: This statue is in honour of "Notre Dame de Lourdes."]
[Footnote 4: Again the jackdaw indulges in slang!]
Leaving the jackdaw to pursue his paternal duties, we descended again to the town, and sheltered awhile from a shower under the balcony of the new and gaudy-looking bathing establishment, that stands in the outskirts, towards St. Sauveur. These baths, which are only opened during the summer, are supplied with water from Barèges, whither we were only waiting for a fine day to make an excursion. But fine days just then were rather hard to find, so we contented ourselves with one that did not look very ominous, and taking a good lunch with us, started in a landau and four at ten o'clock.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF STE. MARIE.]
The road after leaving Luz follows the course of the Gave de Bastan, skirting in turn the base of the Montaigu [Footnote: Not to be in any way confounded with the Montaigu near Bigorre. The French mountain vocabulary is so defective, they often call several heights by the same name.] and that of the Pic d'Ayré, and, passing through the villages of Esterre (2 miles), Viella (2-1/4 miles), and Betpouey (3-1/2 miles), winds in steep zigzags up to Barèges (4064 ft.).
This valley, after what we had seen, did not give us much pleasure; its appearance on the whole being sterile, though after leaving Luz as far as Esterre, the brightness of the fields and trees, and the splashing of the water overflowing the miniature mill conduits, made a pleasant landscape.
The actual distance from Luz to Barèges is barely four miles, and yet so great is the height of the latter (1600 ft. above Luz) that it was nearly one o'clock when we pulled up at the Cercle des Etrangers—the only specimen of a hotel or café open—for our lunch.
After a pleasant meal we made a move to inspect the town and its environs, and were not long in forming an opinion, at any rate, on the former, which we think most visitors at this season of the year would be inclined to endorse. One long ascending street lined with houses all shut up, occasional breaks where a narrow alley or the roads to the hospitals and promenades branched off, the bathing establishments under much-needed repair, the dirty-looking river dashing down behind, on the left; the beech boughs clad in dead leaves rustling on the slopes, in the opposite direction; and a few natives here and there, very untidy and sleepy-looking, as though with difficulty awaking from the "dormouse" state, complete the picture of Barèges, which we need hardly add is in itself a most desolate and dreary-looking place. In mid-summer, with the sun shining and the trees in full leaf, an improvement in the scene would be noticeable; but very few, except invalids specially recommended for a course of the waters, are at anytime likely to stay there more than a few hours.
[Illustration: BARÈGES.]
We took the road leading up, to the right of the "Grand Etablissement," to the Promenade Horizontale, the great summer rendezvous, and passing the "Hospice de Ste. Eugénie" began the ascent up the easy zigzags of the "Allée Verte." We had not made much progress when we startled, from what was doubtless a contemplative mood, a very fine jay. He did not seem to like the disturbance at all, but kept flying from branch to branch in the vicinity, repeatedly uttering his guttural cries.
As the tenor of his thoughts—uttered in rather a shrill treble—seemed to bear considerably on topics of general interest, in spite of the apparent selfishness that was the key-note of the whole, we think it expedient to let posterity enjoy the enlightenment we received from
Lawks a mussy! and shiver my feathers!Why this is a wonderful sight;In spite of my earnest endeavours,I can't quite get over my fright.
'Tis so long since the strangers departed,They ne'er would return, I had thought;So no shame at their coming I started,Though perchance I felt worse than I ought.
Still to think through the days cold and lonelyI've wandered about at my will,With no one to chase me, and onlyThe need to prevent getting chill.
Well, I say—when I think of the quietAnd rest that is now at its close—I have doubts of enduring the riotAfter such a long time of repose.
It is not that I hate to see pleasure,It is not that the world I detest;But I like to have comfort and leisure,And not to be teased and oppress'd.
I don't mind the smell from the fountains,—Though a rotten-egg scent is not sweet—For I always can fly to the mountainsAnd seek some umbrageous retreat.
Then the season for shooting is over,So the sportsmen[1] will leave me alone,And I'll pose as a Go(u)ld Jay in clover,Avoiding a _dollar_ous tone.
To my doctor, perhaps, 'twould be betterThe final decision to leave;And I'll follow his choice to the letter,He's a bird I can always believe.
That reminds me 'tis time for my dinner,And as I don't wish it to wait,As sure as I'm saint and no sinner,I'll be off at my very best rate.
[Footnote 1: The jay, with all its sophistry, did not apparently know that French sportsmen only kill what they can eat, and therefore its fears would in any case have been groundless.]
And with a concluding chuckle the bright bird disappeared. We were by this time beyond the "Forest Administration" hut, and close upon the snow, which lay in narrow but deep drifts among the trees, the wood anemones and fine hepaticas growing in groups close by.
As we gradually progressed, the snow occupied the greater part of the way, and we were forced to betake ourselves to the extreme edge; and when at last we emerged into the Vallée de Lienz, trees and branches had to be scrambled over to avoid a wetting, although we were obliged to cross one or two drifts after all. Getting clear of the trees, we came in full view of the imposing Pic de Lienz (7501 ft.) on the left, and the rounded summit of the Pic d'Ayré (7931 ft.). Passing the two cabins constructed among the rocks in the open, we crossed the swift brook and began the ascent of the inferior but well-wooded hill below the Pic de Lienz. There is no proper path up to this Pic (as to most others), and the grass is rather bad for walking; but the views up the valley to the mighty Pic de Néouville (10,146 ft.), and the whole range behind the Pic d'Ayré, are very grand. We only went to the bend just before the summit of the Col, resting awhile among a huge pile of boulders, brightened by bushes of the mountain rhododendron, before commencing to descend. A fine specimen of the rather rareAnemone vernaliswas a prize that fell to us as we carefully balanced ourselves on the slippery tufts which so often, carrying the feet along at an increased speed, cause the owner to find himself rather unpleasantly acquainted with mother earth. However, we reached the huts again in safety, and made considerably shorter cuts on our way back to the town, encountering a solitary sheep with a very young lamb at one of our sharp turns.
We arrived at the café just in time for tea, and then the horses were put in and we rattled back, having, in spite of the barrenness of Barèges, spent a very pleasant day.
Pont de Pescadère—Sassis—Gave de Gavarnie—St. Sauveur—Hotel de France—Pont Napoléon—Napoleon's pillar—Bee orchids—Chapel of Solferino—The view from thence—Ne'er a hermit but for gold—Luz Cemetery—Luz Post Office—Short cuts—Pharmacie Claverie—Jardin à l'Anglaise—Ascent of Pic de Bergons—Villenave—The shepherds' huts—Lunch—Snow, its use and abuse—On foot—"Excelsior"—Dangerous footing—The last crest but one—The view—Gavarnie and Argelès in sight—A lazy guide—A "fast" bit—Mountain flowers—Mr. Sydney to the fore—A short walk and a good view—To Sazos and Grust—The bathing establishments—Sazos: the old church—The belfry—Chiming extraordinary—Various promenades—Gems of hill and vale.
At the bridge known as the Pont de Pescadère the road from Pierrefitte forks; the branch to the left leads to Luz, while the road to St. Sauveur branches off to the right, and passes through the village of Sassis, above which is the more important one of Sazos. Then, keeping to the riverside till within half a mile of the town, it throws out a branch over the Gave de Gavarnie to Luz, and bending in the opposite direction, winds steeply past the baths to the hotels.
Like many of the villages in Japan, and especially along the great Nakasendo, St. Sauveur possesses one single street. The resemblance continues further with the fine scenery, but there it ends. The look of the houses and the comfort of the Hôtel de France find, alas! no parallel yet in the interior of that wonderful country.
[Illustration: ST. SAUVEUR.]
We came to St. Sauveur direct without stopping at Luz, but as the latter is the larger town—in fact the mainstay of the former, and also the nearer to Pierrefitte—we have given it precedence. For situation and all other qualifications, except as a residence in winter, St. Sauveur easily bears away the palm. The morning after our arrival, when the sun was shining brightly, we walked up through the remainder of the diminutive town to the Pont Napoléon, one of the most remarkable bridges in the Pyrenees. The bridge itself is 216 feet above the river, and sixty-nine feet wide; but it is not so much the construction —though that is well carried out—as the position, which especially attracts on a lovely spring morning. The river, of a beautiful light green tint, wandering down the valley towards Pierrefitte, the trees with varied foliage crowding the slopes above, the glimpse of Saint Sauveur with its church, and the hills with the snowpeaks beyond, on either side—made such a gloriousensembleas we were not slow to appreciate.
[Illustration: PONT NAPOLÉON, ST. SAUVEUR.]
But this was not all—nor nearly all—for not only had we the view of the grand rocky gorge from which the river issues above, but we could also take the easy gradient down to the riverside itself, which leads from the near side of the bridge, as well as survey the loveliness from the terrace at the base of the arch, on the side beyond. Having crossed this fine piece of engineering, and passed the pillar surmounted by an eagle erected in honour of Napoleon III. and the Empress Eugénie, we found the road led at right angles in both directions. The one to the right, to Gavarnie, we hoped to take thither later; the one to the left, leading to Luz, we followed there and then. After curving once or twice within view of the bridge, it bifurcates, forming an upper and a lower route, both of which lead to Luz, if desired. The lower, which is the direct route from Gavarnie to Luz, we abstained from taking, preferring the upper road to the right, which leads past fields resplendent with flowers (among which the "bee" orchid is noticeable), to the chapel of Solferino.
The view from the hill on which the chapel is built is an excellent one. Looking towards Luz, several small villages may be seen up the Barèges valley, with the Pic de Mont Aigu, and the Pic d'Ayré (7931 feet) on the right, and—immediately over against the town—the Pic de Néré on the left. Looking towards Pierrefitte, other small villages, and the whole of the Luz valley; on the left, St. Sauveur, and, above the almost indistinguishable village of Sassis, the Col de Riou, with the Pic de Viscos beyond. Looking towards the Pont Napoléon, the Pic de Bergons (6792 ft.) towers up on the left, and on the right may be easily noted the toothed Pic du Lac Grand the Col d'Aubiste, and the loftier Pic (8863 ft.) of the same name, besides a glimpse of pastures and foaming cascades as well. There is very little in the chapel itself except its history and its cold atmosphere. It is supposed to be an exact copy of the ancient Hermitage of St. Peter, which formerly stood on the same spot. The bones of the last good man, for whom "gaieties had no attraction whatever," and who consequently shut himself up for "years and years" in the dismal building, were collected by Napoleon III.'s command, and buried under the statue erected in front. There is a woman that calls herself the guardian (not angel) of the place, and demands a small gratuity in exchange for any amount of unnecessary talking; judging by her appearance, we decided she wasnota hermit nor a particularly small eater either, though her stature was decidedly diminutive. Two tracks lead from this hill to Luz. One winding down on the left forms the branch route to St. Sauveur, the other, to the right—which we took—passes the cemetery, and leaving the new church in the same direction, leads to the back of the ancient fane of the Templars, through the town.
After transacting a little business at the post-office (there is none at St. Sauveur except in the season), which stands in one of the principal streets traversed on the route to Barèges, we returned to St. Sauveur by another way. The ordinary short cut from Luz to St. Sauveur crosses the bridge over the Gave leaving the Gavarnie road on the left, and turning sharply up a short distance beyond the river, joins the high road above the "Pharmacie Clavarie," near an ornamental pillar. We, however, bore up the Gavarnie road till, reaching a cottage, we pursued the narrow path obviously conducting to the river, over which a wooden bridge—whence a pretty view can be obtained,—leads to the Jardin à l'Anglaise. This garden, much frequented during the summer months, brought us in turn, by means of zigzags and steps, close to our hotel, and though it may be slightly longer than the "short cut," we certainly found it prettier and more agreeable.
There is one excursion from St. Sauveur, which is not very difficult nor laborious, and which well repays the certain amount of exertion that is at all times associated with ascents. This is the ascent of the Pic de Bergons. Although we could tell before we started that the snow would prevent us from reaching the summit, we nevertheless had hopes of arriving very near it; and finding a beautiful day, as it were, staring us in the face, we ordered round the horses and a somewhat aged guide, and were in motion by ten o'clock. Reaching the further end of the Pont Napoléon, we found the path striking off immediately before us, and the work began. The gradient for several minutes rose rather sharply, and as the road was anything but a pleasant or even one, the labour for the horses was considerable; but they went very willingly, until, at our arrival at a couple of cottages, we halted to give them a few minutes' rest.
Until then we had been winding up the face of the hill, but after leaving the cottages, the track bearing round to the side brought us above Luz, over which and the whole valley we had a splendid view. Not far from this point, the path from Luz,viâVillenave, joined in, but no improvement in the general unevenness and stoniness of it was effected. With a barren gorge on our left, and the green pastures with the snow-peaks of Bugaret and Maucapéra towering behind them, straight before us, we followed the disagreeable zigzags, our horses always on the very edge, as though courting our overthrow, till, finding on reaching the "cabanes" some shepherds kindly and well disposed, we repaired to the shelter that their cow-house wall afforded, to eat our lunch. The meal was a success, as such meals, when the victuals are good and the appetites hearty, usually are, and thevin ordinaire, cooled to a pleasant extent with snow from a neighbouring drift, tasted like nectar. But the same snow which was so delightful in the claret, interfered sadly with our locomotion, and having finished our luncheon, we had next to dispose of our horses, and commence the rest of the ascent on foot. Striking straight up from the hut, we soon attained a narrow track winding up the wooded hill to the left, and without much difficulty or exertion, found ourselves within view of St. Sauveur, and a great part of the mountains and valleys. However, we were yet some way from the summit, or even the highest attainable point (the summit being unattainable on account of snow), so we pulled ourselves into form, and whispering to one another to have "courage," we moved upwards again. A small rocky backbone was next attained, but still the higher crests remained, and seemed to say, "Excelsior." The guide got lazy, and preferred to study a little geology to mounting any higher, so we left him to pursue his researches and strode on. Between the next point, gained after some little work, and the last crête below the actual summit, several banks of snow lay, and rendered progress difficult. In two places a sharp decline, with no chance of clutching anything in case of falling, presented itself to dull our hopes, but by dint of using the alpenstocks well, and making deep tracks in the semi-melting snow, we reached the desired crest, with nothing but the white and inaccessible summit above. The view was a very fine one, and fully justified all expectations, although our lazy guide was effectually shut out from our gaze. The miniature town of St. Sauveur looked like a tiny model, with every accessory that could add to its charming position. To the left, high above us, the mighty Barbe de Bouch (9624 ft.) stood out just below the clouds, in which the still loftier and very stony Pic d'Ardiden (9804 ft.) was partially hidden. Further in the same direction the familiar forms of the Pics d'Aubiste and Litouèse, and further yet, the Tour and Casque of the Gavarnie Cirque, stood out as snowy and as clear as the most eager sightseer could wish. Over the town itself the Pic du Lacgrand, and down the valley to the right, the Col de Riou and the Pic de Viscos, were plainly visible; while the town of Argelès and the hills beyond it, required no glass to point out their position at the end of the splendid gorge. Over against Luz the Col d'Arbéousse and the Pic de Néré (7880 ft.); with the Pic Bugaret (8859 ft.), the Maucapéra (8893 ft.), and the massive Mont Arrouye (10,299 ft.), facing them, above the hut where we had lunched, added their attractions to swell the beauty of our view.
When we thought we had really taken in all that we could, we did not stay on our lofty perch much longer, fearing the result of our guide's geological researches; however, we found him still fairly well, and very little less lazy, so took him for a little jolting down a rather "fast" bit, which not only woke him up, but brought us quickly down to our shepherd's hut again. Partly riding and partly walking, the rest of the descent was successfully accomplished, including the gathering of gentians, bee orchids, mountain violets, and bothPolygalae; [Footnote:Polygala roseaandP. amara.] while Mr. Sydney triumphed in the very laudable effort of showing the lazy guide how things could be managed, by arriving at the foot of the mountain some twenty minutes before him. A very short trot brought us to the hotel in time for some half-past five tea, having taken seven and a half hours over our trip, including the hour spent for lunch.
Between the Hôtel de France and the Pont Napoléon a narrow path strikes up to the right, almost opposite a large white house a short distance beyond the church; this we found a very pleasant quarter of an hour's walk, leading by an easy gradient to a good point of view. Box plants, with their bright leaves here and there changing into a rich red, lined the way, and many flowers, including gentians, added their charm. From the rock at which we terminated our walks, a fine view of the Pic de Bergons, two cascades, the gorge towards Gavarnie and St. Sauveur, the Pont Napoléon, and a small defile on the immediate right, was our reward.
Another pleasant promenade and not a very long one, which we much enjoyed, was to the villages of Sazos and Grust, in the direction of the ascent of the Col de Riou and the Pic de Viscos. We followed the high road down through the town, passing in turn the Roman-like and commodious baths, the path leading to the Hontalade establishment on the left, and the Pharmacie Claverie on the right; and just before the branch route from Luz joins in, took the left track up the side of the hill. Pretty views of the different valleys unfolded to our gaze as we continued on our way, while a splendid vista of villages lay before us when we reached the platform space on which an iron cross is erected, a short way below Sazos. The village itself, as well as that of Grust, which lies within easy distance above it, is a quaint, old-fashioned place. The church is the chief attraction; in fact, immediately Miss Blunt found herself within the ancient exterior portal, she demanded paper and pencil, and although all the paper forthcoming was the back of an envelope and a telegraph form, managed to turn out an efficient representation of the old Roman fane. In exploring it afterwards at our leisure, we were struck by several peculiarities which produced mingled feelings. Inside the doorway, two curious flights of steps lead to the narrow galleries and the belfry, the final flight being totally devoid of either "sweetness" or light. Having examined the bells and heard the clock strike three, we began the descent. In the darkness we certainly did clutch a vertical rope, but could that simple act—we ask in a whisper—have had such an unusual effect as causing the clock to repeat its striking? For, whether or not, before we reached the ground, the three strokes rang out again. The carving over the altar is good, and the general effect of the whole church is likewise; but the supposed model of the grotto at Lourdes, and the awful painting in the side altar on the left, certainly do not add to its beauty.
The children regarded us with inquisitive looks as we came away, but seemed to wish to keep at a safe distance. Whether the double striking of the clock had had a peculiar effect on them we did not, however, wait to inquire, but after taking a drink at the fountain, proceeded on our homeward way.
Any one making a lengthened stay can find out plenty of similarly enjoyable walks; in fact, one of St. Sauveur's chief charms lies in its favourable situation for such pursuits. The neighbourhood is very rich in flora, small jonquils, daffodils, oxslips, hyacinths, violets,polygala, potentilla, anemones,Ramondia pyrenaïca, Primula farinosa,large and small gentians,linaria,and bee orchids being among the easiest to find.
Before we started on the great drive to Luchon, we successfully accomplished a delightful day's outing to Gavarnie, but as it is full of interest and majesty, we give it a chapter to itself.
A "falling glass"—The wonderful echo—Cascade Lassariou—Sia and its bridge—Pont de Desdouroucat—"Changing scenes"—Bugaret torrent—The Piméné—Bué—Gèdre—Brêche de Roland in the distance—The "Grotto"—Scenery at fivepence per head—Daffodils—Lofty summits—Cascade d'Arroudet—Chaos—Valley of the "Ten Thousand Rocks," Amoy—A dirty avalanche—The Sugar-loaf—Travellers' troubles —Importunate females—Hôtel des Voyageurs—Poc—Guide or no guide—Chute de Lapaca—The guardian summits of the Cirque—Cascade du Marboré—Chandelles du Marboré—The Cirque—Its marvellous beauty—Reluctantly returning—"The Guide's Auction"—"Two women enough for a market, and three for a fair"—A Yankee tale—Sketching and flowers—Tempers and appetites.
There is no excursion from Luz or St. Sauveur for which it is so necessary to have a fine day, or which is so wonderfully unique, as that to the Cirque of Gavarnie. We were forced to wait several days; the barometer always, stupidly enough, wanting to fall, until on the third day of the moon it slowly began to rise, and gave us hopes for a start on the following morning. The following morning arrived, and with it a heavy fall of snow, decking the hills quite low down with a white mantle, and gloomily screening the view.
However, about nine o'clock, the sun burst forth, the clouds rose, the blue sky appeared, and we felt that our opportunity had come. The lunch and the landau, with four horses, were ordered for ten o'clock, and at 10.15 we were on our way. Through the town, past the church and over the fine Pont Napoléon we went, our hearts—eager to appreciate —finding no lack of food.
Keeping along the base of the Pic de Bergons, with the Pic du Lac Grand rivalling it on the other side of the defile, we soon sighted the chasm and cascade of Rioumaou on our left, and reached the Pas de l'Echelle. At 1 metre 50 centimetres, or 43/4 feet, from the extremity of the ornamental facing which marks the place, we pulled up, to try the magnificent echo, and were in no way disappointed. Our voices came back particularly clearly, but from the coach-box the sound was stronger. On ahead again, still by the base of the Pic de Bergons, with the mighty Col and Pic d'Aubiste (8863 ft.) majestic across the river; till, at the foot of the Pic, where the sparkling Cascade de Lassariou comes tumbling down, the wretched hamlet of Sia, with its "quatre moulins" and very fine bridge, broke into view. Traversing the Pont de Sia—distant about three miles from Luz and built when the new road was made two years ago—we kept the right side of the Gave, and, with the Pic de Litouèse towering above us, reached the Pont de Desdouroucat (4 3/8 miles), and again passed to the opposite bank, leaving the remains of the old route on the side whence we came. The sky was clearing more and more, and before us, over Gavarnie, it was one pure expanse of blue. The gorge was very wild, but with a wildness of piled-up crags and blackened sides that the beautiful winding river and the spring tints helped to beautify and subdue. Presently the massive Brada, up the grand Gorge de Bacheviron, came in sight on our left, and as we passed the insignificant hamlet of Pragnères (43/4 miles), where the torrent of Bugaret dashes down into the Gave, the Brada looked more massive still. Thus it continued all along the route, every bend of the road bringing something new—whether a cascade, a valley, or a lofty peak, always something to claim attention and praise. At such a bend, shortly after quitting Pragnères, the great snow-crowned Piméné (9193 ft.) seemed to bar the way; while at another, the hamlet of Bué and the Col de Bué appeared on the right, and at another, again, Mont Ferrat (10,575 ft.), up the Héas valley on the left. Not very much further, when bending into Gèdre, we obtained a splendid glimpse of La Tour and La Casque du Marboré and the Brêche de Roland. Gèdre (8 miles), like all the rest of the villages or hamlets in the vicinity, is a miserable, poverty-stricken-looking place, but with picturesque surroundings. It is a good centre for numerous excursions—notably that to the Cirque de Troumouse—and possesses an excellent botanist as well as a celebrated grotto.
[Footnote: The grotto's notoriety is gained, perhaps, by its imposture; it is in reality no grotto, but a very pretty bit of scenery nevertheless, on a fine day.]
Stopping at the house by the bridge, we were escorted by the good woman into her garden and down some steps to a platform, whence the so-called grotto was to be surveyed. It is a very picturesque spot. The lofty walls of perpendicular rock, the overhanging bushes and flowers, the trees above, the field beyond, and the blue water of the Gave de Héas foaming beneath, are charming enough, with the aid of rays of sunlight, to make the spot famous, and the good woman chuckle as she pockets the half-franc per head.
[Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF GÈDRE.]
Starting again, we commenced the zigzag ascent past the church—the road winding among fields golden with daffodils, mingling here and there with the lovely blue of the gentians and the pinkPrimula farinosa—towards the base of the Coumelie, the mule-path to the Cirque de Troumouse leading through a field above us, as we reached the zigzag's top. Still gently ascending round the foot of the Coumelie, the pointed summit of the lofty Taillon (10,323 ft.) came into view ahead, with the grandiose Campbieil (10,418 ft.) up the Héas valley; and the Pic de Saugué immediately above on the right, from whose height the splendid Cascade d'Arroudet, dashing past the shepherds' cottages, launches its foaming showers into the river below. A few more graceful curvings of the road and we entered the region so aptly termed "Chaos." Attributed to an earthquake at the end of the fourteenth century, rightly or wrongly, the fact nevertheless remains that one of the huge buttresses of the Coumelie became detached from the main summit, and dashed down in enormous blocks to the valley below. There they lie, the road passing between, in the wildest and most indescribable confusion. Here a heap piled one above another, there a mighty shoulder split in twain by a conical fragment which rests in the breach that it made; some towering above the road, others blocking the river below, a few isolated and many half-buried; but all combining to form as wild and wonderful a chaos as the eye could wish to gaze on, but which the pen must fail to describe. Far away on the shores of China, at the port of Amoy, is another scene which, though it must yield the palm to this, is nevertheless one of a similarly wild nature. The "Valley of the Ten Thousand Rocks," as the spot is called, in the midst of which stands a joss-house (or temple), may be reached in a pleasant walk from the harbour of Amoy, by way of the wonderful Rocking Stone, and along paths lined with aloes and cacti. There the grass grows between the confusion of boulders, and the Chinamen's incense ascends to the blue sky; but these points of difference from the Chaos of Gavarnie, though tending to subdue part of the barren wildness, nevertheless still leave a resemblance between the two scenes that is worthy of record.
[Illustration]
Leaving this "boulder" region behind us, we passed through a huge avalanche that stood in frozen filthiness far above the carriage on each side of the road, while immediately over us on the left rose the mountain from which it had come—rightly named the Sugar-loaf—and opposite, on the right, the serrated summit of the Soum de Secugnac (8442 ft.).
At this point one of the many nuisances which ought to be classed under the head of "Travellers' Troubles," commenced. In the distance, but coming swiftly towards us, or rather as swiftly as a broken-winded, raw-boned, jolting apology-for-a-horse would allow, wasawoman, and alas! in her train were several others; a few on or with donkeys, but more on foot. In vain we told them that we would engage no donkeys at all, and no horses till we reached our destination; in vain we bade them allow us to "pursue the even tenor of our way" in peace, and hush their high soprano tones. It was one perpetual babble in praise of their horses, their donkeys, and their capabilities as guides, with the constant repetition of the names of the surrounding peaks, which we already knew perfectly well. When we reached the gorge which opens up on the right, as though the earth had been split by some mighty shock, and through which the majestic Vignemale (10,821 ft.) was perfectly visible, the storm of voices directing our attention to the sight was as loud as it was unsolicited. But happily we were then close to Gavarnie, and crossing the bridge with a momentary glimpse at the Cirque, we drew up at the door of the Hôtel des Voyageurs.
After lunching and engaging our steeds, with an intelligent guide, who answered to the euphonious name of "Poc," we left the greatly disappointed donkey women still making a terrible clamour, and started for the Cirque.
As far as finding out the proper route goes, and that is a long way, no guide whatever is required, but in order to learn the names of the various peaks and other interesting facts, it is distinctly necessary to have one, unless the traveller possesses a very elaborate plan of the vicinity.
Leaving the new bridge to the left, as well as a very ancient one, and the plashing fall known as the "Chute de Lapaca," we turned round in the opposite direction, and passing the "Hôtel de la Cascade" and a wooden hut, again turned to the left, down what, though an execrable road, led, nevertheless, to the object of our desires. At this turn the Pic d'Aspé reared above us on the right, succeeded by barren hills covered with loose stones, but as we proceeded, the famous central excursion—the Piméné (9193 ft.)—came in sight on the opposite side, followed by the Brêche d'Allanz, the Pic Rouge de Pailla (9107 ft.), Pic d'Astazou (10,106 ft.), the Cylindre (10,916 ft), and even the Marboré (9964 ft.) itself.
Between the Marboré and the Epaule de Marboré (10673 ft.), nearer the centre of the Cirque, the celebrated Cascade du Marboré, (1380 ft. in height) dashes during the warmer months. The curious summits known as La Tour (9902 ft.) and La Casque (9862 ft.), almost equidistant from the centre of the Cirque, on opposite sides, stood clearly before us, with the snow lying below each in the serrated shapes which give rise to the term "Chandelles du Marboré." The Brêche de Roland was—as it always is from this view—invisible, hidden behind the Pic de Sarradets (8993 ft.); but the Fausse Brêche beyond, and more to the right the magnificent Taillon (10,323 ft.), and the Pic de Gabiétou, with the Port de Gavarnie—a peculiar shoulder-like rock, below them both—filled up the semicircle in all its wonderful entirety. When at last we reached the point whence the whole can be viewed to most advantage, we did not require the assertion of the guide that we were in enjoyment of one of the best days of the year, to increase our admiration and delight.
The amphitheatre, standing before us like the ruins of some mighty arena, in which the throngs of eager men and women and the blood of the dying gladiator had long given place to the purifying snow; the summits around uplifted towards the blue sky; the cascade, no longer dashing as full of life and hope, but frozen in its course and hanging in icicles between the rocks; the few uncovered crags scattered here and there, relieving the dazzling whiteness of the "glace éternelle"; the sparse trees down the outer slopes struggling to free themselves from their winter cloak; the cloud of frost scintillating in the sunlight as a mass of loosened snow rushed into the depths below;—was not such a scene as this, presented to our gaze in unveiled splendour, more than sufficient to bewilder in the intensity of its majesty and loveliness?
Yet even this was not all. The silence, the solemn and perfect silence, that reigned over the whole, only broken by the dull sound of the falling avalanche or the shrill voice of the restless crow, was so evident and so powerful, and combined so impressively with the marvellous beauty of the surroundings, that the heart could not fail to recognise the sublimity of Nature and the omnipotence of Nature's God!
We stayed there for a long time, and with great reluctance turned our horses' heads from the scene; while even when we had done so, we stopped at nearly every bend of the road for another look.
[Illustration: THE CIRQUE OF GAVARNIE (IN SUMMER).]
The exact distance from the hotel to the extreme end of the Cirque is calculated at 33/4 miles, but we traversed little more than two-thirds of that distance, on account of the depth of the avalanches, which were then melting far too quickly to allow of dry walking any further.
Arriving again at the hotel, the chatter of the women over some new arrivals was as deafening as ever. Our good guide Poc considered it was not to be borne any longer, so having counted the women and their asses, he cleared a space in preparation for a mock sale at which they were all to be put up, and having got us in front as make-believe purchasers, proceeded with the business, which we called
This way, sirs, this way! Will you please to walk up?The auction I'm ready to start:I'm instructed to sell all these valuable lots,And the bidding I hope will be smart.
You see by the catalogue, forty clear lots—Thirty women; ten asses; some small.To proceed then, we'll take them, sirs, just as they are,Say forty fine donkeys in all.
They've plenty of sinew, and as to their voice,I think about that you well know.The first lot then, gents; shall we say fifteen francs?Well then, ten; but that's rather too low.
In our country for ladies we've heaps of respect,But we've fully enough and to spare;And we know that "two women a market will make,And that three are enough for a fair."[1]
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Now then, gents, please be sharp! No advance? No advance?The candle[2] burns fast to the end.Ten francs for this wonderful native—ten francs!Why, surely, that's nothing to spend!