ARGELÈS.
Road v. Rail--Scenes, sublime and ridiculous--Hôtel d'Angleterre--
Questions and "The Argelès Shepherd's Reply"--A forbidden path--The
ride to Ges, Serres, Salluz, and Ourous--Argelès church--Route
Thermale--Ges--The tree in the path--"A regular fix"--Serres--"
It's a stupid foal that doesn't know its own mother "--A frothing
stream--A fine view--Pigs in clover--Salluz--Ourous--Contented
villagers--The high road--The bridge on the Pierrefitte road--
Advice to sketchers--"Spring's Bitters and Sweets"--The "witch of
the hills"--Large green lizards--"Jeannette's Lamb"--Round the
Argelès valley--Château de Beaucens--Villelongue--Soulom--The old
church--Hôtel de la Poste, Pierrefitte--St. Savin--The verger and
the ancient church--Cagots--"The Organ's Tale"--St. Savin's tomb--
The Château de Miramont--Jugged izard--Market-day--Sour bread and
the remedy--Arrival of the first parcel.
Although the railway line takes very nearly the same route as the
carriage road, the drive is decidedly preferable, and when it can
be undertaken for ten francs--as in our case--there is little to
choose between the modes of conveyance on the score of cheapness,
especially as a landau can carry a very fair quantity of luggage.
We considered ourselves amply repaid for our choice as we wound
underneath the rocky crags and by the side of the river, anon
ascending the curve of a small hill with the fresh fields below, a
little church or ivied ruin standing out on the mountain-side, and
high above all, the snowy summits so majestic and so intensely
white. There was occasionally a ridiculous side to the picture too,
when we put a flock of sheep in rapid motion in a wrong direction
and the luckless shepherd had to start in hot pursuit--using the
politest of language; or, again, when some natives on tiny donkeys
or skittish mules came by, their faces breaking into a respectful
grin as they wished us "bon jour." Skirting the railway line for a
short distance, we drove into Argelès rather unexpectedly, our ride
having seemed all too short. However, there was our hotel--the
Grand Hôtel d'Angleterre (everything is grand now-a-days)--standing
boldly by the road, with the quaint, though poor-looking village
about it, and for another few days that was to be our abode.
[Illustration] This hotel, though possessing less of a reputation
than the Hôtel de France, nevertheless commands a finer view on all
sides, and is a pleasanter abode on that account. The afternoon was
still young when we arrived, so as soon as we had stowed our
luggage we sallied out for a walk along the road to Pierrefitte. A
short way from the hotel, an old shepherd was standing in the
middle of the road leaning on his staff, with his flock of sheep
all round him, and the dog lolling idly on the grass. The tall
poplars by the roadside waking into life, the merry stream
meandering at their feet, and the back ground of mountains tipped
with snow, filled up the scene. We accosted the old man with a
good-day, and asked him several questions about the weather and
himself, all of which he answered in a genial way, and which strung
together made up
"THE ARGELÈS SHEPHERD'S REPLY."
Good-day, sir! The weather, sir; will it be wet?
You see, sir, I hardly can say,
We gen'rally know at the earliest dawn
What weather we'll have in the day;
But at night--in these mountains--I couldn't be sure,
And I'd rather not tell you, sir, wrong.
And yet, what does a day here or there make to you?
If it rains, 'twill be fine before long.
Have I always looked after the sheep, sir? Why, No!
I've served in the army, sir, sure.
Let me see--ah!--it's now thirty summers ago
Since those hardships we had to endure.
Ay, I fought with your soldiers 'mid bleak Russia's snow,
Half numb'd in the trenches I worked,
And suffered what few of you gents, sir, would know,
But somehow, we none of us shirked.
Was I wounded, sir? No, sir! thank Goodness for that,
Though I've seen some stiff fighting, 'tis true.
In Africa 'twasn't all sunshine and play,
And in Austria we'd plenty to do.
Do I like being a shepherd, sir, roaming the hills,
Just earning enough to buy bread?
Well, I wouldn't have cared all my days, for the ills
And the life that as soldier I led.
No, sir! no! though 'twas well enough then, Peace, you see,
Is the best when one's hair's turning grey!
Will I drink your good health, sir? Ay, proud I shall be,
And, thanking you kindly--Good-day!!!
Strolling on, we soon reached the bridge over the River Gave
d'Azun, and leaving the old structure "whose glory has departed" on
the right, we crossed over and continued along the road for a short
distance, till we noticed a lane leading off to the left, which we
followed. This in time bore further round in the same direction and
suddenly ended at the entrance to a field. However, keeping
straight on, we came in view of the river's bank and to this we
kept, recrossing by the railway bridge below, and then back by the
fields home, completing a round none the less pleasant because a
captious critic might have called it trespassing.
As lovely a ride or walk as can well be imagined, even by an
imagination as fertile as this lovely valley, passes by way of the
four villages of Ges, Serres, Salluz, and Ourous. Although the
weather was rather unsettled, we started one morning about 9.15,
and following the road towards Lourdes for about two hundred yards,
took the sharp turn to the left (with the telegraph wires) up into
the town. Gaining the church, we bore along to the right into the
open "Place," at the left corner of which the Route Thermale to
Eaux Bonnes and Eaux Chaudes begins. For about half a mile this was
our road also, but after that distance, the Ges route branched off
to the right, and the views of Argelès, and the rest of the valley
from it, as we wound upwards, were particularly lovely. The horses
were very fresh, having only lately been brought from the
mountains, after a winter of idleness, and they walked at a fast
pace fretting at any stoppage whatever, which they did not
endeavour to disguise, any more than their inclination to shy at
anything they possibly could. As far as Ges the way is easy to
follow, but it is wise to inquire frequently afterwards, as so many
equally important (this importance is decidedly on the negative
side) looking paths branch off in every direction. The good people
we saw in Ges, a village of thatched cottages looking the worse for
rain, said we should find the "road vile," but this did not daunt
us, and with a "bon jour" we passed on. We had not gone very far,
however, when to our dismay we saw a huge tree right across the
road. Our position was an awkward one. The road was rather narrow
and without any protection; there was only the steep hillside
above, and the steep hillside below. To go up was quite
impracticable, to go down was destruction! My horse approached the
impediment very quietly, and allowed me to break off several of the
worst branches, and then scramble by. Miss Blunt's horse came close
up to it as though intending to pass quietly, but, instead, wheeled
round on the extreme edge of the path in anything but a pleasant
fashion, either for the rider or the observer. [Illustration]
Dismounting and tying my steed to one of the branches on the near
side of the road, I held back as many of the others as possible,
and the horse came up quietly again, but repeated the disagreeable
business, still more dangerously. Having broken off several more,
and again pulled back the others, the skittish animal consented to
pass. But in passing he bent down a very pliant bough, which, when
released, flew back and hit my peaceful steed sharply on the legs.
For a few seconds his efforts to get free were--to put it mildly--
unpleasantly severe, especially as he became with each effort more
entangled in the tree. When the reins were at length unknotted, he
quieted a little, and after being led a few yards, submitted to be
mounted very peaceably, and we descended, with the fresh leaves
above and below us, into Serres. Here we had occasion to remark
that "It's a stupid foal that doesn't know its own mother," as one
pretty little thing would persist in following our steeds, until a
sturdy "paysanne" turned it back. The correct route all this time
was the upper one (or that to the left), and we now came to a very
lovely bit, where two swift frothing streams dashed down beneath
the trees, near a small saw-mill. A fine view up the valley behind
us, to the snow peaks towering over the ruddy hill-tops, was
enjoyed, as we continued along the ascending and uneven path. In
the fields above, some shepherds were driving a flock of sheep, and
a woman, reposing under a huge blue gingham, was watching the
vigorous onslaught of several pigs in a small clover patch. A few
villagers, in their Sunday best, stood by the wayside discussing
some topic with languid interest, which they dropped, to wish us
"bon jour" and tell us the road. More lovely effects of light and
shade over the hills towards Pierrefitte, with filmy clouds
shrouding the tallest summits, and here and there a glimpse of the
blue sky, and we passed into the straggling hamlet of Salluz, after
which the path branched up--still to the left--through the trees.
Winding down again, we came to Ourous, to which apparently the
inhabitants from all the other villages had come, dressed in their
Sunday best, to mass. "Young men and maidens, old men and
children," women tottering with extreme age, were all assembled
round about the old church, looking contented and happy, smiling,
and wishing us a "bon jour" as we rode in a circular direction
through the village, till we reached a spot where the road forks,
the one to the right leading to Argelès, the one to the left to
Lourdes. The former looked so stony that we chose the other, and
had not gone very far before a smooth and broader path to the right
(from which a grand view of the whole valley opened before us)
brought us down to a few houses, between which we passed, and
reached the high-road. A good trot along this, by the side of the
railway line, and we were back at the hotel, convinced that the
badness of the road and all drawbacks were amply--and more than
amply--outweighed by the succession of beautiful scenery.
Two walks, one ending in rather a scramble, branch off immediately
below the bridge, on the Pierrefitte road. The one we took, at a
respectable hour of the morning, which ascends the left side of the
mound, is the prettier by far, as it discloses lovely glimpses at
every turn. We followed it till it branched off in two directions
(the one to the left being the real continuation), but at this
point we turned off into a field, deep in grass and studded with
flowers, where some comfortable-looking boulders invited us to
rest. Miss Blunt,--whose soul thrills with delight at the vastness
and beauty of nature,--never allowed opportunities of committing
the choicest bits to canvas or paper, to escape her; and, some
picturesque display having caught her eye, directly she had located
herself on an accommodating boulder, she was at work. Herrick's
good advice, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may--Old Time is still a-
flying," might be adapted, she thinks, to sketchers in mountainous
regions, and she speaks from bitter experience when she suggests:
"Paint in your snow-peaks while you may,
If clouds are quickly flying,
For those heights now in bright display
May soon in mist be lying."
The beauty of the scene was without alloy, the colouring splendid,
and up the road above us, beyond which rose the hill, a shepherd
was leading his flock of sheep, now and then clapping his hands or
shouting to a straggler, but as a rule walking quietly on, the
whole flock following in a continuous line. Not wishing to be idle,
I took out my pencil to indulge in a poetic eulogy. How far I
succeeded may be judged from the following lines, which might be
called
"SPRING'S BITTERS AND SWEETS."
Here on a moss-grown boulder sitting,
Watching the graceful swallows flitting,
Hearing the cuckoo's note.
Sheep on the hills around me feeding,
While in their piteous accents pleading,
The lambkins' bleatings float.
--Oh, dear! a fly gone down my throat.
Spring's gentle influence all things feeling,
New life o'er hill and valley stealing:
Buttercups, daisies fair,
Studding the meadow, sweetly smiling,
Bees with their hum the hours beguiling,
Breezes so soft and rare.
--Oh, what a fearful wasp was there!
Grand is the view from this grey boulder,
Each high snow-peak, each rocky shoulder:
Charming, yet wild, the sight.
Cherry-trees, with white blossom laden,
And 'neath their shade a peasant maiden,
Comely her costume bright.
--Oh, how these impish ants do bite!
Onward the winding river's flowing,
Its spray-splashed stones in sunshine glowing,
The peaceful oxen by.
From the tall trees the magpies' warning,
As on their nests intent, our presence scorning,
From branch to branch they fly.
--Oh! there's an insect in my eye.
I've done: such pests one really can't defy.
Miss Blunt couldn't defy them either, so, as it was getting near
luncheon-time besides, we retraced our steps, but had not gone very
far before we suffered a severe disappointment. Some fifty yards
below us in the path stood a seeming counterpart of "Madge
Wildfire"; a wild, weird, wizened looking creature, whom we
immediately recognised as a "witch of the hills." Her hair unkempt,
her bodice hanging in tatters from her shoulders, her patched and
threadbare petticoat barely fastened round what should have been
her waist (and a _waste_ it was) by a hook and eye held by a few
threads--even such as this, up the path she came. But what a
miserable failure she was! When she came close to us, instead of
pouring out a torrent of mad words, telling of her woes and wrongs,
or at any rate breaking into a disgusting whine such as
"Oh, gentles, I am mad and old,
My dress is worn and thin;
Oh, give me one small piece of gold!
To clothe my wretched skin;"
she didn't even offer to tell our fortunes, but passed timidly by.
It was enough to have disappointed a saint! and we were only
restored to a pleasant frame of mind by finding Mr. Sydney at the
hotel on our return.
[Illustration]
In the afternoon we took the other path--previously mentioned as
branching off below the bridge over the Gave d'Azun,--which leading
sharply to the right, passes beside the river for a short distance,
and then leads among the fields, finally--like others in Argelès--
losing itself there. Just as the poplars which run with it ceased,
we had a lovely view up a dip between two fertile hills, to the
snow-peaks near Barèges; a narrow path skirts the side of the hill,
on the right, in the direction of the morning's sketching ground,
but this we did not take, making, instead, for the hill standing
immediately above the river. Up this a certain distance we
clambered--scaring a few large green lizards that were sunning
themselves on the stones,--by a sheep track we managed to discover,
till we could look down on a mass of tangled brushwood by the
riverside. Scrambling down to this through the wild vines and
briars, we succeeded, after many fruitless attempts, in gaining the
water's edge. There was no place to cross and the current was far
too swift to attempt jumping, so we had to turn back. While
deliberating on the right path, a little girl, looking very
wretched, with blurred face and torn clothes, came round a corner,
and asked us if we had seen a lamb anywhere. We were sorry we
hadn't, very sorry indeed; all we could do was to endeavour to
recollect a rhyme and adapt it to her case, that we learnt in the
nursery when we were something under fifteen, and, although it
didn't seem to assuage her grief much--probably because she didn't
understand a word of English--we think it ought to be quoted in
case it should be useful to others.
JEANNETTE'S LAMB.
Jeannette had a naughty lamb,
That looked like dirty snow;
And wherever Jeannette went
That lamb would never go.
It wandered from her care one day,
(Oh, stupid little fool!)
It made her cry her heart away
While searching brake and pool.
And Jeannette tore her dress to rags,
And scratched her hands and face;
But of her dirty little lamb
She couldn't find a trace.
The lamb fell in the river deep,
But Jeannette never knew.
Though Satan finds some mischief still,
For little lambs to do.
However, she listened very submissively till we had finished, and
then wandered off again still searching for her lamb, while we
retraced our steps.
There is a drive round the Argelès valley, which on a fine day is
simply splendid, and ought certainly not to be missed. At ten a.m.
a landau with two good horses was at the door, and away we went
towards Argelès station, across the line, over a new piece of road,
and then across a rather shaky, but wholly quaint, wooden bridge
(under which flows the Gave de Pau) to the base of the hills. As we
continued along this road in the direction of Pierrefitte, the
views of the mountains on the Argelès side were especially fine.
The Pic d'Arrens (7435 ft.) and the Col de Tortes (5903 ft.), with
the wild Pic de Gabizos (8808 ft.) with its toothed summits, behind
it--in the direction of Eaux Bonnes: over Pierrefitte the Pic de
Soulom (5798 ft.), the Pic de Viscos (7025 ft.), and far up the
Cauterets valley the Cabaliros (7655 ft.), the Pic de Labassa (9781
ft.), and the Pyramide de Peyrelance (8800 ft. about). An
especially interesting part arrives, as the road approaches the
wonderful old ruin of the Château de Beaucens (with "oubliettes"
towers, a "donjon" of the 14th century, and west walls of the 16th
ditto), which stands on the left, not far from the village of the
same name. Crossing the river again, we just managed to pass over
some newly-laid road, to the village of Villelongue--above which,
on the left, towers the imposing Pic de Villelongue--and soon after
found ourselves beside the river again at the foot of the Pic de
Soulom, where it is very lovely, and crossing another bridge,
reached Soulom itself. It seemed to us an old and somewhat dirty
town--not to say filthy--but the church is worthy of a visit. It
was formerly fortified, and the construction of the belfry--if such
it can be called--is curious. The inscription over the door, "This
is the house of God and the gate of heaven," written in Latin,
seems somewhat grotesque for such a building, although the dome is
painted to represent the sky in all the "intensity" of a starlight
night. A few yards along the road and we stood on the bridge over
the "Gave de Cauterets," at the other side of which is Pierrefitte
--and from which point the scenery is especially grand. Passing the
Hôtel de la Poste (recommended) on the left, and the way to the
station on the right, we bore up the hill in the former direction,
towards St. Savin.
This old place--in fact the oldest village in the valley--is an
easy walk from Argelès, and should certainly not be excluded from a
visit. Having passed the dismantled Château de Despourrins and the
statue at the roadside erected in the poet's (Despourrins') honour,
we had a grand glimpse of the valley below; and, leaving behind the
Chapelle de Piétad (16th century), which stands on a point above
the road, we entered the village. The street leading to the ancient
Roman Church is ancient too, reminding one, in the curious
construction of the houses, of Chester, the style of supporting the
upper part on wooden beams, reaching over the road, and leaving a
passage beneath, being very similar. The church has been restored
and is in capital preservation. As there were so many objects of
interest, chiefly connected with the great St. Savin himself, we
sent for the verger, sexton, bellringer, parish beadle, or whatever
the "goîtreux" individual called himself, and paid great attention
to all he had to say. Although a good deal was quite unintelligible,
the following are some of the most interesting facts. Entering
at the small side door, immediately within stands a curious
and very old bénitier (font), with two curious individuals
carved in the stone supporting the basin. These are supposed to
represent two "Cagots," a despised race for whom the font itself
was constructed. Very few people know anything about their origin,
but they were greatly detested by the inhabitants of the country,
and not even allowed to worship in the same church, or use the same
"holy water" as the rest. They still exist about Gavarnie and a few
other spots, and we hope to learn more of them. The old battered
organ next presents itself to the view, with the long flight of
steps leading up to it, but as it wished to tell its own story,
without further description behold
"THE ORGAN'S TALE."
Good people who gaze at my ruinous state,
Don't lift up your noses and sneer:
I've a pitiful story I wish to relate,
And, I pray you, believe me sincere.
I was young, I was "sweet," in the years that are gone,
The breath through my proud bosom rolled,
And I loved to peal forth as the service went on,
O'er the heads of the worshipping fold.
How time speeds along! Three whole centuries--yes!--
Have passed since the day of my birth;
And, good people, I thought myself then, you may guess,
The loveliest organ on earth.
Such pipes and such stops! and a swell--such a swell!!!
My music rang under the dome;
And the way that I held the old folks 'neath my spell
You should know; but alas! they've gone "home."
Then my varnish was bright, and my panels were gay
With devices both script'ral and quaint;
I frightened the _sinner_ with hair turning grey,
But charmed into rapture the _saint_.
Those faces once painted so brightly would smile,
And put out their tongues at my voice;
As the pedals were played, they would wag all the while,
And the children below would rejoice.
Now is it not sad to have once been so grand,
And now to be shattered and old?
To look but a ruin up here, where I stand
Decidedly out in the cold?
Each "pipe is put out," and my "stops" are no more,
I belong to a "period" remote;
And as to the tongues that wagged freely of yore,
They have long disappeared down the throat.
My pedals are broken or gone quite awry,
My "keys"--you may "note"--are now dust;
No longer a "swell"--not as faint as a sigh--
While my bellows, good people, are "bust."
I am twisted and worn, in a ruinous state,
But prythee, good people, don't sneer!
My joys and my sorrows I've tried to relate,
And in judging me don't be severe!!!
Leaving the organ, and passing behind the "high altar," we beheld
the tomb of the redoubtable saint, who is supposed to have been
shut up there at the end of the 10th century, though the gilt
ornament (?) above is some four centuries younger. The set of old
paintings to the right and left represent scenes in the good man's
life, who, if he had only changed the _i_ in his name to _o_--and
the king would have agreed readily--by the perpetual allusion to
_Savon_, would perhaps have done much for the natives generally.
The robing-room, wherein the head of the revered man is kept in a
casket, and the "Salle du Chapitre," with quaint carvings of the
12th century, beyond, are other places of interest.
The "Château de Miramont," which adjoins, is now used as a convent
(or college), and visitors are not permitted to inspect it. We
bought a lithographed print of the church and its environs for half
a franc, from our round-backed guide, besides depositing a
"douceur" in his horny palm, and consequently parted with him on
the best of terms. The road for some distance being rather steep,
we preferred to walk and let the carriage follow, but when nearing
the junction with the Pierrefitte road, we mounted again and bowled
along at a smart pace over the well-known bridge to the hotel.
There was nothing striking about our hotel life, although we found
it pleasant, being a "parti carré." We were generally the sole
partakers of the table-d'hôte, at which the food was excellent, the
jugged chamois (izard) being especially good. Light, however, was
at a premium. It may have been all out of compliment, to bear
testimony to our being "shining lights" ourselves; still, for all
that, we should have been glad to forego the politeness, and
receive, instead, a reinforcement of lamps.
Argelès itself is a peculiar old place; though devoid of much
interest, except on market-days. The curious houses and towers, the
street watercourses (as at Bagnères de Bigorre), the church, and
the strange chapel-like building now used as a diocesan college,
are all that is noteworthy even, excepting the "State schools,"
built three years ago.
On a Tuesday, when the market is in full swing, the square in front
of the post-office looks bright and cheerful, and vegetables
flourish. We took a very pleasant walk after passing through the
stalls, and down past the Hôtel de France. The route we followed
leads to the right, close by the new State schools, among some poor
cottages, where it turns sharply in the opposite direction, and
runs down beside some fine old chestnut trees to the river.
Continuing, the track leads up a fine glen, with views of the snow-
peaks towards Eaux Bonnes, which well repaid our walk.
Returning again by the town, we wandered about through the narrow
streets, taking a farewell survey before leaving for Cauterets,
whither we were next intent.
There is another episode connected with Argelès, that will live in
our memories, and it is one that future travellers, methinks, may
have reason to appreciate, if not to endorse.
Everybody learns from unhappy experience how sour the bread is
throughout the Pyrenees, only excepting two or three resorts, and
as we were aware of the fact before leaving Pau, we arranged with
Monsieur Kern, of the Austrian Bakery, Rue de la Préfecture, to
send us a certain amount of bread every day. The first night at
Argelès was spent without it, but on the evening of the following
day a packet was brought into the drawing-room, where we were
assembled, and at the magical word "bread" every eye brightened,
and every face relaxed into a smile. Let no one cavil. This was one
of the episodes that link Argelès to us with a pleasant charm.