I am always planning in my mind new kinds of guide books. Or, rather,
new features in guide books.
One such new feature which I am sure would be very useful would be an
indication to the traveller of how he should approach a place.
I would first presuppose him quite free and able to come by rail or by
water or by road or on foot across the fields, and then I would
describe how the many places I have seen stand quite differently in the
mind according to the way in which one approaches them.
The value of travel, to the eye at least, lies in its presentation of
clear and permanent impressions, and these I think (though some would
quarrel with me for saying it) are usually instantaneous. It is the
first sharp vision of an unknown town, the first immediate vision of a
range of hills, that remains for ever and is fruitful of joy within the
mind, or, at least, that is one and perhaps the chief of the fruits of
travel.
I remember once, for instance, waking from a dead sleep in a train (for
I was very tired) and finding it to be evening. What woke me was the
sudden stopping of the train. It was in Italy. A man in the carriage
said to me that there was some sort of accident and that we should be
waiting a while. The people got out and walked about by the side of the
track. I also got out of the carriage and took the air, and when I so
stepped out into the cool of that summer evening I was amazed at the
loneliness and tragedy of the place.
There were no houses about me that I could see save one little place
built for the railway men. There was no cultivation either.
Close before me began a sort of swamp with reeds which hardly moved to
the air, and this gradually merged into a sheet of water above and
beyond which were hills, barren and not very high, which took the last
of the daylight, for they looked both southward and to the west. The
more I watched the extraordinary and absolute scene the less I heard of
the low voices about me, and indeed a sort of positive silence seemed
to clothe the darkening landscape. It was full of something quite gone
down, and one had the impression that it would never be disturbed.
As the light lessened, the hills darkened, the sky took on one broad
and tender colour, the sheet of water gleamed quite white, and the
reeds stood up like solid shadows against it. I wish I could express in
words the impression of recollection and of savage mourning which all
that landscape imposed, but from that impression I was recalled and
startled by the guard, who came along telling us that things were
righted and that the train would start again; soon we were in our
places and the rapid movement isolated for me the memory of a
singularly vivid scene. I thought the place must have a name, and I
asked a neighbour in the carriage what it was called; he told me it was
called Lake Trasimene.
Now I do not say that this tragic site is to be visited thus. It was
but an accident, though an accident for which I am most grateful to my
fate. But what I have said here illustrates my meaning that the manner
of one’s approach to any place in travel makes all the difference.
Thus one may note how very different is Europe seen from the water than
seen from any other opportunity for travel. So many of the great
cathedrals were built to dominate men who should watch them from the
wharves of the mediaeval towns, but I think it is almost a rule if you
have leisure and can take your choice to choose this kind of entry to
them. Amiens is quite a different thing seen from the river below it to
the north and east from what it is seen by a gradual approach along the
street of a modern town. The roofs climb up at it, and it stands
enthroned. So Chartres seen from the little Eure; but the Eure is so
small a river that he would be a bold man who would travel up it all
this way. Nevertheless it is a good piece of travel, and anyone who
will undertake it will see Louviers and will pass Anet, where the
greatest work of the Renaissance once stood, and will go through lonely
but rich pastures until at last he gets to Chartres by the right gate.
Thence he will see something astonishing for so flat a region as the
Beauce. The great church seems mountainous upon a mountain. Its apse
completes the unclimbable steepness of the hill and its buttresses
follow the lines of the fall of it. But if you do not come in by the
river, at least come in by the Orleans road. I suppose that nine people
out of ten, even to-day when the roads are in proper use again, come
into Chartres by that northern railway entry, which is for all the
world like coming into a great house by a big, neglected backyard.
Then if ever you have business that takes you to Bayonne, come in by
river and from the sea, and how well you will understand the little
town and its lovely northern Gothic!
Some of the great churches all the world knows must be seen from the
water, and most of the world so sees them. Ely is one, Cologne is
another, but how many people have looked right up at Durham as at a
cliff from that gorge below, or how many have seen the height of Albi
from the Tarn?
As for famous cities with their walls, there is no doubt that a man
should approach them by the chief high road, which once linked them
with their capital, or with their nearest port, or with Rome—and that
although this kind of entry is nowadays often marred by ugly suburbs.
You will get much your finest sight of Segovia as you come in by the
road from the Guadarama and from Madrid. It is from that point that you
were meant to see the town, and you will get much your best grip on
Carcassonne, old Carcassonne, if you come in by the road from Toulouse
at morning as you were meant to come, and so Coucy should be approached
by that royal road from Soissons and from the south, while as for Laon
(the most famous of the hill towns), come to it from the east, for it
looks eastward, and its lords were Eastern lords.
Ranges of hills, I think, are never best first seen from railways.
Indeed, I can remember no great sight of hills so seen, not even the
Alps. A railway must of necessity follow the floor of the valley and
tunnel and creep round the shoulders of the bulwarks. There is perhaps
one exception to this rule, which is the sight of the Pyrenees from the
train as one comes into Tarbes. It is a wise thing if you are visiting
those hills to come into Tarbes by night and sleep there, and then next
morning the train upon its way to Pau unfolds you all the wall of the
mountains. But this is an accident. It is because the railway runs upon
a sort of high platform that you see the mountains so. With all other
hills that I remember it is best to have them burst suddenly upon you
from the top of some pass lifted high above the level and coming, let
us say, to a height half their own. Certainly the Bernese Oberland is
more wonderful caught in one moment from the Jura than introduced in
any other way, and the snows on Atlas over the desert seem like part of
the sky when they come upon one after climbing the red rocks of the
high plateaux and you see them shining over the salt marshes. The
Vosges you cannot thus see from a half-height; there is no platform,
and that is perhaps why the Vosges have not impressed travellers as
they should. But you can so watch the grand chain of old volcanoes
which are the rampart of Auvergne. You can stand upon the high wooden
ridge of Foreze and see them take the morning across the mists and the
flat of the Limagne, where the Gauls fought Caesar. Further south from
the high table of the Velay you can see the steep backward escarpment
of the Cevennes, inky blue, desperately blue, blue like nothing else on
earth except the mountains in those painters of North Italy, of the
parts north and east of Venice, the name of whose school escapes me—or,
rather, I never knew it.
Now, as for towns that live in a hollow, it is great fun to come upon
them from above. They are not used to being thus taken at a
disadvantage and they are both surprised and surprising. There are many
towns in holes and trenches of Europe which you can thus play “peep-bo”
with if you will come at them walking. By train they will mean nothing
to you. You will probably come upon them out of a long, shrieking
tunnel, and by the high road they mean little more, for the high road
will follow the vale. But if you come upon them from over their
guardian cliffs and scars you catch them unawares, and this is a good
way of approaching them, for you master them, as it were, and spy them
out before you enter in. You can act thus with Grenoble and with many a
town on the Meuse, and particularly with Aubusson, which lies in the
depths of so dreadful a trench that I could wonder how man ever dreamt
of living and building there.
The most difficult of all places on which to advise, I think, would be
the very great cities, the capitals. They seem to have to-day no noble
entries and no proper approach. Perhaps we shall only deal with them
justly when we can circle down to them through the air and see their
vast activity splashed over the plain. Anyhow, there is no proper way
of entering them now that I know of. Berlin is not worth entering at
all. Rome (a man told me once) could be entered by some particular road
over the Janiculum, I think—which also, if I remember right, was the
way that Shelley came—but I despair of Paris, and certainly of London.
I cannot even recall an entry for Brussels, though Brussels is a
monumental city with great rewards for those who love the combination
of building and hills.
Perhaps, after all, the happiest entries of all and the most easy are
those of our many market towns, small and not swollen in Britain and in
Northern Gaul and in the Netherlands and in the Valley of the Rhine.
These hardly ever fail us, and we come upon them in our travels as they
desire that we should come, and we know them properly as things should
properly be known—that is, from the beginning.