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[Illustration: VILLARS: THE GRAND AND THE PETIT MUVERAN]
_Beautiful Switzerland_
VILLARS
AND ITS ENVIRONS
_Painted and Described by_
G. FLEMWELL
_Author of “Lucerne” “Chamonix” “Lausanne”
“Alpine Flowers and Gardens” &c._
[Illustration]
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
1914
Beautiful Switzerland
_In this series have already appeared_:
LUCERNE
CHAMONIX
VILLARS AND CHAMPÉRY
LAUSANNE
PAINTED AND DESCRIBED BY G. FLEMWELL
_Other volumes in preparation_
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
Villars: The Grand and the Petit Muveran _Frontispiece_
St. Maurice: The Château and the Rock of Dailly 8
Bex: The Croix de Javernaz and the Dent de Morcles 14
Les Plans: Avalanche falling from the Grand Muveran 20
Leysin, seen from Les Ecovets 24
The Chamossaire, seen from Villars 30
In the Village of Chesières 36
Mont Blanc and the Aiguille Verte, from Bretaye 40
The Dent du Midi, from Villars 46
Villars: The Mountains of Savoy 50
Villars: A Peep of the Dent de Morcles 54
Champéry: The Dent du Midi 60
[Illustration]
VILLARS AND ITS ENVIRONS
There is no more interesting district in the Rhone valley, perhaps
even in the whole of Switzerland, than that which lies around the
north-western entrance to the upper and main portion of the Canton of
Valais—that impressive, narrow entrance formed by the buttress cliffs
of the Dent de Morcles and the Dent du Midi, just inside of which
nestles the ancient town of St. Maurice. For this district is compact
of great variety. It holds examples of all that goes to the making of
Switzerland’s fascination. It holds the fertile plain with its broad,
rushing river, the Rhone; it holds, in Aigle and St. Maurice, two
châteaued towns with long and active histories of their own; it holds,
in Bex, one of the most delightful spots imaginable for spring and
autumn; in Leysin, a world-known mountain health resort; popular mountain
pleasure resorts in Villars, Chesières, Gryon, Les Plans, Champéry and
Morgins; and, in the natives of the Val d’Illiez, it holds a distinctive
race with a distinctive tongue. Moreover, it contains, in the huge
erratic blocks near Monthey and near Bex, remarkable vestiges of the
great glacier which one time filled this valley and flowed on over what
is now Lac Léman;[1] it has noble peaks in number and of no mean order
for the climber; it possesses at least three glaciers which, though
small, are full of individual interest and beauty; and it harbours a
flora so rich as to have become renowned. And yet all of this, and more
besides, is packed within a comparatively restricted area. One reason
for this great variety in so small a compass is the curiously striking
fact of the Rhone dividing Vaud from Valais, and thus at the same time
dividing to a marked extent what is wild and truly Alpine circumstance
from what is relatively tame and rural. For Champéry, although at some
650 feet lower altitude than Villars,[2] its _vis-à-vis_ across the
valley of the Rhone, partakes of the rude Alpine character of Valais,
whilst Villars has what may be called the civilized setting so generally
characteristic of Vaud. The difference may be noted in their respective
vegetations—in the trees and flowers. For instance, at Champéry the
bell-gentian (_Gentiana excisa_) and the yellow pea (_Lathyrus luteus_)
can be found within a few minutes of the hotels, whereas at Villars one
must walk at least an hour and a half higher up to find the gentian,
and the pea I have not found there at all. Or again, Villars possesses
fine deciduous trees in quantity and its pines are perfect park-like
specimens; whilst at Champéry deciduous trees are inconspicuous and
the pines are of the rugged Alpine order. Villars possesses the finer
panorama—one of the finest in Switzerland, particularly in winter—but
Champéry provides the truer Alpine pictures, especially in summer.
Indeed the very variety of this district—historically, geographically,
botanically sets a difficult task before so slight a volume as this
present. However, an attempt must be made towards adequacy. No time can
be wasted, and we had best start at St. Maurice and work diligently round
in a circle by way of Bex, Les Plans, and Villars, thence to Aigle and
Leysin, ending up with Monthey, Morgins, and Champéry, meanwhile knitting
the whole district together with general and comparative facts.
ST. MAURICE
[Illustration: ST. MAURICE: THE CHÂTEAU AND THE ROCK OF DAILLY]
The scene as one approaches St. Maurice from the north-west is among the
most noted in Valais. The old castle hugging the cliff to the right and
dominating the swift and troubled Rhone rushing low beneath the ancient
stone bridge, with the great sheer Rock of Dailly to the left—it is a
memorable picture, particularly in spring, when the wild wallflowers
and laburnum deck the castle cliffs, and the young tints of spruce and
larch soften the stern aspect of the fortress. Fortress? Yes, the Rock
of Dailly, buttress of the Dent de Morcles, is a veritable Gibraltar,
designed to stop and crush all invasion by way of the Simplon and the
Grand St. Bernard. From an arrant civilian’s standpoint it would seem
an absolute impossibility for an invading army to live to pass the
narrow defile of St. Maurice. Those innumerable and mighty guns hidden
in the face of that grim precipice are apparently able to overwhelm
all intruders, and the defile of St. Maurice would seem as safe to-day
as when in olden times it was closed by a great gate. One has only to
watch at nighttime the firing practice, illuminated by searchlights
and directed against the forests and cliffs high upon the Dent du Midi,
to be impressed with the awful deadliness of this rock-fortress. It
seems, of course, a sacrilege so to insult the lovely, peaceful Alps;
it seems a gross, insensate outrage upon a land pre-eminently designed
to wean men from the cult of war.[3] But of its practical effectiveness
in case of need there can be no manner of doubt. Napoleon to-day would
have to go round some other way to get to Italy; he could not now use
Switzerland as a convenient passage. And yet, and yet, it seems to me a
shame when I remember the delightful months I spent upon the summit of
the Rock of Dailly some five-and-twenty years ago, and think that now
it is closed to mere civilians, that the magnificent prospect, with a
sheer drop down upon the Baths of Lavey, is now only examined by the
trainer of far-reaching cannon, and that the exquisite carpet of Alpine
flowers around the Dent de Morcles is trampled under foot by companies
and battalions. It is sometimes hard to reconcile one’s quiet ideals
with the stern exigencies of life, and perhaps this is particularly
so in Switzerland. It was on the slopes high above Dailly, now a vast
manœuvre ground for troops, that I once fled hurriedly in the front of
a stampeding herd of cattle driven mad by flies, and that I only just
escaped destruction by scrambling on to the roof of a friendly cheese
châlet. Needless to say, I do not rank such incidents among my quiet
ideals.[4]
St. Maurice can boast of as long a history as any town in the country.
Looking backwards it is lost in the mists of Time, and it only reveals
itself with real distinctness when the Romans made the town the centre
of their activities in Valais, and Julius Cæsar threw up walls and
fortifications around it and gave it the name of _Tarnade_ or _Ager
Tarnadensis_. The well-known savant and archæologist, Dean Bourban, of
the Abbey of St. Maurice, says that the road which crosses the bridge
and runs beside the Rhone, through the defile, through the town and on
to Martigny and the Grand St. Bernard, is the selfsame road used by the
Gauls on their way to Italy, and by the Romans on their way to Gaul and
Germany. There is at Bourg St. Pierre, the last village on the road to
the Grand St. Bernard, an ancient milestone, marking the twenty-fourth
mile between Aosta and Martigny on the great military route which ran
from Milan, through St. Maurice, to Mayence in Germany. On the front
of the old town hall of St. Maurice is an inscription saying: “I am
Christian since the year 58”. According to tradition St. Peter crossed
the Grand St. Bernard and preached Christianity throughout Valais, and
if this be fact, then he must of necessity have been to St. Maurice.
But the town’s present name was not then in existence; it is derived
from the massacre in 302 of the Theban Legion commanded by Maurice. The
massacre is said to have occurred in what is now the Bois Noir, about
two miles out along the road to Martigny—a wild sparse forest of stunted
pines beneath which the lovely rosy springtime heather (_Erica carnea_)
luxuriates. This forest was the scene, too, of the terrible rockfall in
1835 from the summit of the Dent du Midi, which mountain, in its grandest
and most gaunt aspect, dominates this part of the valley, having as
_vis-à-vis_ the Dent de Morcles.[5] The old Abbey of St. Maurice, built
upon pagan foundations, was for centuries a spoilt child of the Church.
Endowments and gifts were showered upon it by Charlemagne and other kings
and princes, and its actually existing treasure is priceless, including
as it does specimens of gold and silversmiths’ art from the sixth to
the seventeenth centuries.[6] High up on the side of the precipitous
cliffs at the back of the abbey is an ancient hermitage. As one looks
at it from the town there appears no sign of a path or even of a ledge
for the chapel; but on closer inspection one finds a steep and stony
way up, bordered at intervals throughout its length by Stations of the
Cross. When I visited it some years ago the hermit was absent, but there
were rats in abundance. Pilgrimages to this chapel used to be frequent
(I believe that it is closed at present), and I understand that on these
occasions freshly broken stone was strewn about the path, and that those
who felt their consciences in need of drastic measures went up the whole
way on their hands and knees.
Ten minutes’ climb above the Château of St. Maurice (now the gendarmerie
and prison) is the beautiful Fairies’ Grotto, one of the natural wonders
of this district. It is noted locally as having been the residence of
Frisette, the good fairy, after her troubles and vexations with the bad
fairy, Turlure, who, if my memory serves me, frequented the woods and
pastures around Bex. The Canton of Valais is remarkably rich in legend.
If we accept the result of the patient and exhaustive researches of Mme
F. Byse, Milton must have made himself familiar with certain of these
fairy tales when he was at Bex on his way from Italy; for _L’Allegro_ is
held to contain conceits and fancies gathered from this district. Emile
Javelle, the famous author-alpinist (his title for himself was _clubiste
inutile_!), in writing of his first ascent of the Dent du Midi, tells
of his guide’s fear of the dreadful, fiery, devastating dragon that for
ages had inhabited the very district through which they must pass that
of Bonaveau and the _vallon_ of Susanfe, above Champéry. I myself have
had narrated to me at midnight creepy hair-lifting stories of the doings
of malevolent spirits doomed since ages to frequent certain old châlets
around Champéry, notably those on the high plateau of Barmaz—upon which
châlets I involuntarily keep one careful eye whenever I am in their
neighbourhood. On another occasion at Champéry, in early morning, a
hurrying man, with awe in his eyes, breathlessly gave me to understand
that a boy, whilst sound asleep, had been transported on a blanket in
the dead of the previous night from his bed in a châlet high above the
village to the bed of the torrent far below the village, and that he had
awakened to find himself lying among the boulders with the icy water all
but dashing over him.
But we must be moving on. To reach Bex we may either cross the bridge,
the other side of which is the territory of Vaud, and follow the road
that winds along the base of wooded cliffs, or else after crossing the
bridge turn to the left up a path that leads through the earthwork
fortifications and then through vineyards to the sweet-chestnut woods of
Chiètres and the timbered hill crowned by the remnants of the castle of
Duin; or, if we are game for a long, delightful Alpine walk, we may leave
St. Maurice by the south-eastern exit, cross the Rhone to the Baths of
Lavey—boasting of evil-smelling but curative waters—past a picturesque
waterfall, then up the ever-ascending road to the village of Morcles
(taking its name from the great Dent which towers above it), thence a
path leads up through the forest and across the pasture-slopes to the
famous Croix de Javernaz[7]—famous for its grand view down the Rhone
valley to Lac Léman and the Jura Mountains, and for its wonderfully rich
Alpine flora; from there the descent is continuous until the highroad is
struck at Bévieux, whence a tram runs in a few minutes to
BEX
[Illustration: BEX: THE CROIX DE JAVERNAZ AND THE DENT DE MORCLES]
As a town Bex is somnolent; a sort of old-world slumber which is scarcely
dissipated even when the hotels are at their fullest. Perhaps that mood
agrees best with the eminently dream-like landscape. I know no scene
in Switzerland that is more suggestive of the studied and bewitching
pose of stageland than that from the slopes of Montet immediately at
the back of the town. On the left the Croix de Javernaz and the Dent de
Morcles, with steep woods flowing to the plain; on the right the gaunt
_Cime de l’Est_ of the Dent du Midi, its base enveloped in a filmy blue
haze; and just in the centre of the picture the chestnut groves on the
hill of Chiètres, topped by the old Tour de Duin cleanly defined against
the opening in the cliffs at St. Maurice—an opening cut as if on purpose
to disclose the snows and ice of the Aiguille du Tour and the glaciers
of Trient and Des Grands. Seen in spring, when cherry blossom powders
the woods, or when the apple trees are rosy-white and the fields all
starred with flowers; seen in autumn, when the year’s last burst of
life fires the beech and cherry and burnishes the larch and chestnut;
seen at sunset, when the whole broad foreground is in cool-grey shadow
and the sun’s red glow rests only on the glaciers beyond St. Maurice;
seen at such moments as these this landscape is truly one of fairyland,
one of which one can never tire, and which surely will bring to Bex
an ever-increasing popularity. At present this easy-going little town
(except when the _foehn_[8] sets its châlets ablaze—as has happened three
times recently—or when its river, the Avançon, rising in vernal wrath,
throws down the bridges and floods the streets!) is mostly renowned
for its salt mines and baths. These salt mines are in the abrupt cliffs
beyond Bévieux, and are said to have been discovered by a goat, which was
noticed to be licking the rocks with most persistent relish. As goats
are notoriously fond of salt, this tale may be quite true. To those who
do not mind a rather damp scramble within the bowels of the cliff, these
mines are well worth a visit.
But Bex is also renowned for its wild flowers. It was whilst director
of the salt mines that Haller wrote his _Histoire des Plantes de la
Suisse_. Milton could have been no keen observer of such things if he saw
only fields of daisies! The hepatica (red, white, but mostly blue) in
the woods about Bévieux are simply marvellous, relieved as they are by
the carpet of dead beech leaves and by innumerable clumps of primroses,
blue, white, and lilac violets, rich crimson and peacock-blue vernal
vetch, yellow-and-white boxleaved polygala, and the lovely profusion of
white and blush-tinted wood anemones. There are fields, too, of Star of
Bethlehem on the plain towards the Rhone, where also the rare yellow
tulip may be found. The brilliant-orange _Lilium croceum_ and the curious
and very local Snake’s-head Lily are to be found in the neighbourhood,
but I had better not say where. The gorge of the River Gryonne, at
the back of the hill of Montet, is crowded in early spring with the
beautiful Snowflake. _Astrantia major_ and _Trollius europæus_ (the
Globe Flower) luxuriate together by the hill of Chiètres. But perhaps
the hill of Montet is the paradise _par excellence_ of the botanist and
flower lover. Here are orchids in abundance and variety—the Frog, Fly,
Bee, Spider, and the yellowish-white Helleborine among others; _Gentiana
verna_ carpets the short turf with heavenly blue; the tall yellow gentian
is on the open summit; _Erica carnea_ grows on the steep hillside beyond
the forest, and the shady woods that descend upon Bévieux are simply
packed with Lily-of-the-Valley; the gem of this hill, however, is the
mass of bright-blue Lithospermum, in colour almost rivalling the vernal
gentian; why its Latin Christian name should be _purpurea_ I really
cannot tell.
This, then, is what Voltaire, in his love of town life and society, was
pleased to look upon as being buried alive in the “caverns of Bex”![9]
Can we really be at a loss with Nature as she is at Bex? It would seem
impossible. That Nature has shortcomings is only natural, and I think we
may say, as says the inspired Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore, in _The
Gardener_:
“Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!
The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.
The toys that you make for your children are fragile.
You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you
for that?”
Nature at Bex may not be perfect, but certainly in very many respects she
is as perfect as she can be, and we are by no means deserting her though
necessity obliges us to pass on to
LES PLANS
For Nature in most lavish mood accompanies us. No matter at what season,
the two and a half hours road from Bex to Les Plans is full of beauty for
the eye and mind, but if there is one season above the others when this
beauty is the more bewitching it is that of spring. Oh, why—a thousand
times why!—is spring in the Alps so neglected by travellers seeking charm
and pleasure? Why are the Kursaals crowded in spring by those who, at
Custom’s bidding, are waiting for a later, more healthy and resplendent
season? Time will come when Custom in this matter will surely be sent
to the rightabout, and Alpine spring will be as sought after as now is
Alpine winter. It is only about twelve years ago that we who wintered on
the Alps were looked upon as mere eccentrics; yet these few short years
have proved that we were in truth the favoured pioneers of a season
that is actually becoming prime rival to that of summer. In very faith
I feel that so it shall be with spring, and that a few years hence a
new and fascinating experience will have revealed itself to a hitherto
indifferent world.[10]
As one emerges from the timbered gorge, one is confronted at once by the
jagged mountains of the chain of the Grand Muveran; not as they appear
in summer, with bare, forbidding precipice and scree, but as they can
appear in springtime only, clothed about in winter’s dissipating snows
and gladdened by an immediate foreground of glistening crocuses on the
brown orchard slopes of Frenière. At this point, looking back, one has
a splendid view of the giant hill that carries Villars upon its breast;
but the village that one sees with its old church tower clinging to the
side at a height of 1133 metres, and seemingly in difficulty to restrain
itself from slipping into the gulf, is Gryon, where Juste Olivier, one
of Switzerland’s most tuneful poets, spent his last years and sang
imperishable songs—songs that have found a place in the heart and life
of the people, particularly when the theme is the _mi-été_ festivities
at Anzeindaz and Taveyannaz. These midsummer fêtes are held annually in
connection with the cattle and cheese industry: they are delightfully
typical of old-world custom, and the poet has done much to render them
impervious to the destructive note of modern sophistication. Both
pasturages lie on the mountains between Villars and Les Plans, and are
easy excursions from either of these places and from Gryon. Anzeindaz
is the more wild and romantic of the two, its surroundings lending
themselves admirably to these picturesque timeworn merrymakings; for the
pasturage lies at the foot of the rugged Diablerets, at the foot, too,
of a glacier, and at the base of a wild col which, although this is a
closed district against hunters, is a spot that knows well the poachers
of eagles. There can be little doubt of which way Juste Olivier would
cast his vote with regard to the railway that it is proposed shall
desecrate these fascinating wilds, dissipating their guileless, primitive
associations. He would be on the side of the angels; and the angels are
on the side of the _Heimatschutz_ or League for the Preservation of
Natural Beauty.
[Illustration: LES PLANS: AVALANCHE FALLING FROM THE GRAND MUVERAN]
Les Plans lies snug upon a verdant, watered plateau surrounded on all
sides but one by lofty mountains. To the west rises the steep glacier of
Plan Névé and the massive form of the Grand Muveran, beloved of Eugène
Rambert, famous alpinist-author-botanist, whose name, together with those
of Juste Olivier and Jean Muret, is graven upon the Muveran’s sheer
precipice at romantic Pont de Nant. At this latter place—only a brief
walk from Les Plans—there is a most interesting Alpine garden belonging
to the University of Lausanne; it is especially charming in spring, with
floral gems of purest hues backed by the translucent ice and snow of the
Glacier de Martinet and the Dent de Morcles.
We must now return to Bex and there take the mountain railway up to
Villars. It is an exceedingly picturesque line, winding about through
woods and pastures, and providing at each turn a changing, ever-widening
prospect. The mountains to which we have become accustomed in the plain
take upon themselves superior proportions, and their increasing majesty
and mystery come as an inevitable, surprised delight. But, for the
journey, I will confide you, without apology, to the tender care of a
versatile and well-known devotee of this lovely neighbourhood, my friend
Mr. D. R. Kelleher, who in his own quaint way will transport you to
VILLARS IN WANING SUMMER
“The incident occurred in a mountain train carrying slowly, as is its
wont, up the wooded slope, a ‘conducted’ party of English tourists.
A little grey-eyed man was sitting in the corner, opposite a
prosperous-looking woman dressed in a black dolman and clinging with
traditional awe to her umbrella. Both were manifestly thrilled by the
scenes through which they were passing, and not a little bewildered
by the profusion of wonders in Alp, tree, and sky. At last the lady,
devastated by her curiosity, broke silence in the following scene:—
The Lady (_looking anxiously through window at clump of pine
trees rich with yellow cones_): “John, look at yon trees with
the fruit on.”
The Man: “Eh, but they look like bananas.”
The Lady (_lighting up with a bright idea_): “Ask guide, John.”
The Man (_turning to guide, a sad person, long stricken by
stupid questions_). “Mister, are thoose things bananas?”
The Guide (_unable to rouse himself_): “I don’t know.”
The Man (_confidentially to his wife_): “He says he don’t know.”
The Lady: “It makes no odds, John, they’re ower-ripe anyhow—but
the place is grand!”
And ‘the place is grand’ so truly defines the scene _en route_ to
Villars, the phrase is so simple and comprehensive and so true, that
we have been lucky to get it from the lady frae Lancashire even at the
tail of her lazy mental attitude. In one sense it is the highest tribute
that has ever been paid to our fairy fastness of Villars-sur-Ollon—this
conception of the fir trees magic-laden with golden tropic fruit. If you
do not believe it, take the train at Bex, in the little Rhone valley town
of wooden houses where one dare not smoke ‘_en cas de vent_’ for fear
that a spark flying loose should ignite the street and render you liable
to a fine of six francs and confiscation of your pipe. And surely, if you
want the most thrilling of all personal adventure-stories with which to
startle your own village on your return from a daring holiday, this will
suffice:—
“‘Strange places? Yes, I reckon I’ve seen some! I remember one night I
lost a two-franc piece in a street in Bex. I struck a match to find it.
Suddenly a wind blew out the light, and a policeman came rushing round
the corner and arrested me. I was fined six francs for striking a match
in a gale—the wind was no more than a draught from a window—and in the
dark the policeman himself picked up the two-franc piece and walked off
with it.’
“But I must not keep you too long with the fantastic, for already your
train is passing Gryon, built like a bird’s nest in the hill, and soon
Villars itself is reached. There get out, and having drunken of the
panoramic ecstasy from the Diablerets round to the mountains of Savoy,
walk down the road towards Chesières, snugly sleeping a hundred feet
below Les Ecovets. You must not go as far as Chesières however, for
having crossed the viaduct over the deep ravine a little beyond Villars
I want you to turn round quickly and tell me your candid opinion of the
picture—as soon as you can get your breath. For here, surely, if ever you
are sensitive to your environment, Beauty will take you to her breast.
The clustering fir trees, framed about with velvet plots of green under a
clear, blue-grey sky; the suggestion of the infinite in the peaks tossing
in the heat-haze like a wild sea beyond the verge of a far-away coast;
the chastening awe of the Glacier of Trient and the undertone of the
gorge-water below rising like the spirit of reflection bred of the dense
solitude of hill and sky—all these fine miracles about you! For this is
the charm of Villars, that it lies a kind of lagoon of quiet beauty amid
the circling terror of pitiless frost and snow. ‘Domestic felicity’ best
describes the atmosphere of this little hill-town, the wrath and terror
of rock and glacier mellowed by distance and yet near enough to heighten
by contrast the soft rapture of Villars reposing in the arms of its
hills. Go up another day to Les Ecovets, and, looking across to Leysin
and the Tours d’Aï and away to Lac Léman and the dim-blue Jura mountains,
say if ever ruler of the world claimed more glittering conquest than this
of yours. For whether you are mountaineer or one of the people who ‘never
walk’, the groves of Les Ecovets will always lure you. Painter, poet,
rhapsodist or mere plain, blunt man, you there will find inspiration such
as is not written in any book. It must indeed have been at Les Ecovets
that the little English child, waking suddenly from a noonday sleep,
wished that he were always ‘with Christmas’; for the magic of all pines
that ever mimicked an Alpine glade on paper, the glamour of all the
berries that made your long-ago December a lustrous time in hearth and
hall, and the mystery of all Christmas memories of other climes is here
consummated in Nature’s own most ideal, most artistic scheme. I know no
place like Villars for health and holiness: the high health of crystal
air and shining peak, the strange holiness of solitude and the silent
eloquence of the sky-embracing mountains; for there in the palpable hush
are the mystic pipes of Pan that charm us on with tunes played ‘not
to the sensual ear’ but are ever making for the spirit ‘ditties of no
tone’.”
[Illustration: LEYSIN, SEEN FROM LES ECOVETS]
I scarce know what more to say of Villars after the moving eloquence of
my friend; I am at a loss for simile and dainty word. And yet, more must
be said. Not of Villars in the spring and summer—though the secretive
little pine-surrounded lake of Chavonnes above Bretaye, and the steep
slopes of the Chamossaire, glorious with purple viola and blue gentian,
call insistently for notice—but of Villars in its sun-drenched robe of
snow; for in winter Villars is amazingly transformed and its panorama
need fear no rivals in the Alps. There is a grander and more Alpine
note in winter; there is greater mystery, austerity, sublimity in the
wonderful alignment of peak and col and glacier; there is, too, a greater
suggestion of power and vastness in the open landscape than there is in
summer; and yet, the while one admires this wide-flung, steely grandeur,
one is bathed the livelong day in glorious sunshine, there being no
hours of shadow as at many winter resorts in the Alps. A cloudless day
at Bretaye on the Chamossaire slopes, where ski-jumping is organized and
whence Mont Blanc and his attendant Aiguilles are seen quite intimately,
is a revelation in Alpine winter scenery—the deep ultramarine forests,
the crisp and radiant snow, the intense warm-blue shadows, over the whole
of which reigns a purity that is dazzling. But I must make way for a keen
and skilful all-round sportsman, well known as a leader at
VILLARS IN WINTER
“A few years ago Villars in winter was wrapped in slumber
as far as the outside world was concerned. St. Moritz,
Grindelwald, and Château d’Oex had long been known to winter
sportsmen, but Villars and its vast possibilities from the
point of view of sun worship and sport could not long remain
unknown to the ever-increasing army of winter revellers in
the Alps. In 1906 the tide set in and one hotel opened
its doors for a few weeks, and in spite of the long sleigh
drive from Aigle, the diminutive rink, and other drawbacks
incidental to the first opening of a new winter centre, the
few score visitors were so delighted with their experience
that the name of Villars was fairly launched upon the flood
of popular esteem. The railway from Bex was run in winter for
the first time in 1909, and since then the development of this
sunny sports-place has been astonishing. Not only are all the
hotels crowded, but numerous châlets and private pensions have
sprung up, and the neighbouring resorts of Chesières, Arvèyes,
Gryon, and even the diminutive village of Huémoz—a few miles
farther west—now look upon the winter season as more important
than that of summer. This result is in great part due to the
wonderful natural position of this centre, unsurpassed by any
in the Alps. Sheltered from the north by the range of the
Chamossaire, and on the east by that of the Grand and Petit
Muveran, the Dent Favre and the Dent de Morcles, there is a
magnificent view towards the south on the Dent du Midi, the
Glacier du Trient and the Aiguilles Verte and Dru, and the
horizon is wide and open enough to allow a minimum of seven
hours’ sunshine in December, and the absence of wind enables
skaters and curlers to lunch on the rink without wrapping up
in mufflers and overcoats. But the situation is only entitled
to part of the credit for the prominent place taken by Villars
in the list of Alpine winter resorts. A great deal is due to
the wonderful organization of the sports and the bold policy
of those responsible in spending large sums in making and
equipping one of the finest skating rinks in Switzerland and
the finest toboggan run outside the Engadine. The icemen are
the most skilled in their profession; the skating instructors
are past masters in their respective styles; and the ski-ing
professional attached to the Sports Club is one of the most
distinguished runners and jumpers in the country. But besides
these paid professors, Villars has the advantage of having a
committee of organization, every member of which is an adept in
one or more branches of sport.
“Sport is indeed an amusement but also a business at Villars.
Visitors coming out from the fog and gloom of an English winter
are satisfied for the first few days to revel in the glorious
air and sunshine, to potter about on skates or skis, or to
toboggan in desultory fashion, but when they have got their
ski-ing and skating legs and have learned to take the rink
corner of the ice-run without failing, they become filled with
enthusiasm to go for a long ski expedition, to do the ice-run
against time, or pass one of the skating tests in either
English or International style, or perhaps they are tempted by
the array of silver bowls or challenge cups. This is where
the work of the committee comes in. Each Sunday afternoon a
body of athletic, serious-looking men—presumably taking their
pleasures sadly like true traditional Englanders—may be seen in
earnest deliberation in a remote corner of a certain smoking
lounge. It is the Villars Parliament, and the result of its
protracted sitting is anxiously awaited by the hundreds of
visitors who crowd around the ‘Programme for the Week’ posted
on notice boards in each hotel. For ski-ers there may be a
run to Bovonnaz, a gymkhana at Bretaye or a competition for
the Villars Golden Ski or Villars Ski-ing Cup, or perhaps a
test of the B.S.A. For skaters there may be an ice carnival, a
hockey match or an ice gymkhana, or an N.S.A. test. Tobogganers
may perhaps be able to risk their limbs in a race against
time on the perfectly engineered but rather appalling-looking
ice-run, and curlers may perhaps note that they have a chance
of getting even with the Morgins or Montana Curling Clubs,
against whom each year out and home matches are arranged. And
when the day’s work is over, and ski-ers, skaters, curlers,
and tobogganers are back in their respective hotels, feeling
‘splendidly fit’ after a bath and a meal, think you that they
settle down to an armchair and a pipe or a novel? Not they!—the
winter sportsman and sportswoman work hard during the day,
but the evening finds them still restless for amusement. The
programme must therefore show a succession of fancy-dress
balls and _cotillons_, bridge drives and bowling matches, or
the committee will be called a band of slackers, or perhaps
they may receive a deputation of fascinating young ladies who
wish to know why there has been only one masked ball during
the week in such and such hotel, or perhaps some charming old
ladies want to know why they have not been catered for in the
matter of bridge or whist. Nor does the rush and movement
slacken throughout the season. No matter whether one arrives in
December or February one always feels that the season is at its
height. And so it goes on until the ice begins to get soft and
the rink has to be closed for a couple of hours in the middle
of the day, and the ice-run is only open till ten o’clock, and
ski-ers have to start out betimes to make sure of good snow,
and at last, say towards the end of the first week in March,
the ice is no longer skateable, the snow is too soft for long
expeditions, and the first flowers appear upon the Chamossaire.
Spring has come, and the winter sportsman, if he is not also a
botanist or flower lover but _is_ a child of Custom, will turn
his face towards his home, thinking that the Alps are ‘done
for’ until July.
[Illustration: THE CHAMOSSAIRE, SEEN FROM VILLARS]
“The only sport which Villars has hitherto lacked is
bobsleighing, and this has now been remedied by the
construction of a bob-run nearly three miles long. The new
railway from Villars to Bretaye enables bobbers to take full
advantage of this run, and also gives a great impetus to
ski-running, as it brings the ski-runner to a height of 6000
feet, and he is then fresh for the Chamossaire—the classic
run and the scene of the Villars Golden Ski race—or the Chaux
Ronde, whence there is a wonderful view of both the Oberland
and the Mont Blanc chain. He can also more easily do the
long day’s trip to Château d’Oex by way of Lac Chavonnes, La
Forclaz[11], and the Col des Mosses, which is one of the most
interesting of expeditions, though it should only be undertaken
by a fairly expert runner.
“The snow on the Chamossaire is generally in fine condition
until the middle of January, but it is exposed to the full
heat of the sun, and the Chaux Ronde on the opposite side of
the valley affords better running except after a fresh fall
of snow. Among other ski-runs to the north of Villars are La
Truche (5886 feet) and the Plan Chamois (6194 feet), which may
be done in two and a half or three hours with one hour for the
descent. The route lies through Chesières and Les Ecovets,
where there are some excellent north slopes for practice.
The snow on this run is best after a fresh fall or late in
the season, when the sun has changed the hard crust into the
watery surface on which the expert can run almost as well
as on powdery snow. The Chaux de Traveyannaz is one of the
best runs in the neighbourhood and can be done in three and
a half or four hours, with descent to Gryon in about one and
a half hours. The best day’s expedition is that to Bovonnaz,
and the easiest way to do it is to take the early train to
Gryon, thence to the top in two and three-quarter hours, and
back to Gryon in about one and a half hours. The snow on this
run is nearly always in perfect condition and the country is
distinctly more Alpine than that on the Chamossaire side.
Chamois are nearly always to be seen on the other side of the
ridge separating Bovonnaz from the Grand Muveran, and on one
occasion a ski-runner got a good snapshot of a herd of these
shy animals lazing in the sun just on the other side of the
ridge, quite unaware of his presence until they heard the click
of the shutter. What a relief it must have been to them to find
afterwards that it was only a snapshot!
“Villars, whose rink is the second largest in Switzerland, is
now regarded as the most important centre of English figure
skating.[12] The English Figure Skating Club has a portion of
the rink reserved for its members, and tests of the N.S.A. are
held weekly, there being nearly always available a number of
first-class judges. Mr. E. F. Benson, the well-known novelist,
has made Villars his winter quarters for several years. He
is a gold-medallist of the N.S.A. and has done a great deal
for the encouragement of English figure skating. His advice
and assistance are always at the disposal of the novice whose
aspiration is to get into one of Mr. Benson’s ‘figures’: as
a ‘caller’ of interesting figures he has no superior. The
_Sanctum Sanctorum_ of the vast rink would not seem itself
without the bronzed and hatless head and the white-gloved,
immobile hands of this great exponent of the smooth and
ungymnastic art of English figure skating. Easy? Try it! Its
very calm, rigid, and unemotional facility is its enormous
difficulty.
“But the International skaters are not neglected; for they,
too, have their enclosure, and it is generally occupied by a
number of seriously active practitioners. There is also an
intermediate or amphibious class of skater which has not made
up its mind which style to adopt, and these—they are known
facetiously as ‘Baby Wobblers’—are allowed to use the waltzing
enclosure by passing quite a simple test.
“Then, the weird cry of the curler is loud in the land; for
curling is perhaps the most flourishing and most highly
organized of all branches of sport at Villars, and the
Henderson Bishop Cup for ladies and the Holmes Tarn Cup for men
are among the most coveted of Villars trophies.[13] A word must
be said of a recognized and quaint institution at Villars—the
Curlers’ Court. The ceremony of initiation into the ranks of
‘made curlers’ takes place in the dungeons of the Hotel Muveran
and is sufficiently terrifying to the novice. The Court is
generally held after the initiation ceremony; the president
is styled ‘My Lord’ and his assistant is his ‘Officer’. The
rules of the Ancient Order of Curlers are strictly observed and
any breach of these rules is visited by a fine ranging from
five centimes to one franc. Thus one may be fined for having
a bald head or a bad cold, another for not being as handsome
as he might be, or for the size of his boots; speaking or
rising without his Lordship’s permission is also fineable.
A well-known skater—one of the few honorary members of the
Villars Sports Club—is frequently fined for not paying more
attention to the noble pastime of curling. When the Court rises
(with the President’s permission, of course), the fines are
auctioned for the benefit of the club and frequently realize
large sums. All of which savours not a little of Mr. Punch’s
famous set of rules for the Bushey Art School; and it is all
so very, very serious.
“Ice Hockey has become very popular in Switzerland of late,
and Villars was one of the first centres to join the Swiss
Ice Hockey Association. Matches are played annually against
neighbouring clubs, and teams occasionally come from Zurich
and even from such distant places as Brussels and Prague. The
scene on the rink when a match is in progress is one of great
animation, the enclosure being surrounded by a crowd of skaters
of both sexes who shout themselves hoarse encouraging the
Villars team. The ladies frequently have matches against the
men, who play left-handed, and also against the boys. It is
here that La Combe and the Château de la Rosey from Rolle,[14]
and Sillig’s school from Vevey have won some of their spurs.
“I have mentioned the ice-run on which only skeletons[15]
are allowed, but there is also an equally well made though
smaller and easier run on which only ordinary Swiss _luges_ are
allowed; and this is used chiefly by ladies and children. Races
are held regularly, and as this run lies parallel with the
skeleton run for a great part of its length, the same telephone
can be used for timing these races.
“As I have already said, the spirit of activity is
indefatigable at Villars. When the day’s outdoor excitement is
over there comes more excitement indoors. The Dramatic Club
gives several performances each season on the fine stage at
the Hotel Muveran, among its repertoire being _The Villain of
Villars_ and _Violet goes to Villars_, both from the facile and
ingenious pens of Captain and Mrs. Holmes Tarn, and far above
the usual amateur productions.
“I must, however, cease. Indeed, I have no permission to go
further. Much more could, and really ought to be said, but
perhaps the foregoing is sufficient to show what Villars can do
for winter sportsmen.
“G. C. DOBBS.”
[Illustration: IN THE VILLAGE OF CHESIÈRES]
Yes; more undoubtedly could be said. In fact, a book such as this could
well be written about each of the places we are visiting. But necessity
is inexorable, and we must leave this very night for Aigle, though
high fête is in the air and the huge rink is illuminated with Chinese
lanterns, and a masked and costumed cortège, led by the stentorian
strains of the village band, with Mr. Dobbs as majordomo at the head, is
shuffling and gliding slowly round preparatory to dispersal for a display
of gorgeous fireworks. Had it been daylight we might have walked down by
way of Chesières and Huémoz to the large village of Ollon, home of the
accomplished painter, Frédéric Rouge, one of Switzerland’s most sincere
and virile draughtsmen, and thence to our destination. As it is, we must
return the way we came and take train from Bex to
AIGLE
A quiet old market town to-day, and _chef-lieu_ of the largest district
in Vaud, Aigle in 1529 was selected by Berne, after the disputation in
the Cathedral of Lausanne, as the starting-point for the preaching of the
Reformation, and it was here that Farel, Calvin’s noisy mouthpiece, made
his first proselytes. The many-towered old castle, standing upon higher
ground at the back of the town and amongst the vineyards, dates from the
thirteenth century, but was burnt by Berne and afterwards rebuilt by her
in 1534; to-day the great central tower serves as a prison, and in the
body of the building is held the district court of justice. Not many
years ago certain recesses in the woods at the back of Aigle were famous
as the haunt of the lovely and scarce brown and gold Lady’s Slipper
orchid; but, alas! that is of the past. Aigle at present is mostly noted
among strangers for its golf links and the skating that is to be had on
what is known as the Old Rhone—an ancient bed of the river now running a
mile or so away; it is also the station at which one alights for Leysin,
Sépey, and the Vallée des Ormonts. Much as I would like to walk up the
picturesque Ormonts valley to Ormonts-Dessus and Vers l’Eglise at the
foot of “_le bastion titanesque et dévasté des Diablerets_” (quoting
M. Jules Monod, of guidebook fame) and study the flora of which Mr. H.
Stuart Thompson, the well-known botanist, speaks so highly, and hear from
the peasants stories of the bellicose demons who infest the wild summits
and war among themselves, using huge rocks as missiles; much as I would
like to visit Sépey and the ruins of the Château d’Aigremont, where there
is a subterranean passage in which it is said the last Lord of Aigremont
is shut up with an awful horned ram, and is engaged in counting and
recounting his hoarded treasure; or to push on to the Col des Mosses
amongst the exquisite fields of flowers; or—— But it cannot be! We must
adhere to the programme and must now take the electric railway that
mounts to
LEYSIN
There is a note of sadness in the journey, notwithstanding the extreme
beauty of the landscape; for Leysin is one of the most noted stations in
Europe for the treatment of pulmonary disease. With its numerous and
huge sanatoria dotted about near the forests above the old village and
its church, built in 1445, upon the southern slopes of the curiously
striking Tours d’Aï, whose gaunt and ruddy cliffs dominate the whole
and protect it from the bitter north and north-east winds, Leysin is a
veritable sun-trap and has long been known as a successful agent in the
fight which the skilled doctors wage for health. The perspective, too,
must aid considerably both patients and doctors in the struggle, for it
is second only to that from Villars. Perhaps it is in winter that Leysin
is seen at its brightest and best, and Mr. L. A. Emery, President of the
Leysin Sports Club, has kindly contributed the following authoritative
information about this famous centre when it is stirred by the spirit of
WINTER PASTIMES