BAGNÈRES DE LUCHON.
The bathing establishment and its surroundings--The lovely
_Allées_--Montauban church and cascade--The Villa Russe and its
genial host--Various excursions--Orphanage of Notre Dame de Rocher--The
Vallée du Lys--The Rue d'Enfer and cascades--A lively scene--The view
from Superbagnères--Loading wood--"The Oxen's Appeal"--Visit to the
Orphanage--A "holy" relic--To Bosost--St. Mamet--"A Stumbling-block"
--Cascade of Sidonie--Horse tricks and jockey dodges--Lizards in
flight--Fashion on a donkey--On the Portillon 'twixt France and
Spain--The Valley of Aran--Snug Bosost--A curious inn--Children with
artistic bent--A bright pathway--Missing much, but thankful still.
The most delightful of weather throughout our stay doubtless added
greatly to our enjoyment of Luchon, and our willingness to agree with
its title as "The Pearl of the Pyrenees "; and, in fact, to all people
but those who love dust, noise, and fashion, this month of May is the
pleasantest time of the year to go, see, and be happy.
The great bathing establishment, situated as it is in a lovely garden
(Quinconces) with a charming lake overhung with the graceful weeping
willows, and under the wooded sides of Superbagnères, seems to invite
one to enter and bathe. When we looked in, very little business was
going on, and one of the attendants, in the hope of receiving a small
coin, was nothing loath to show us round.
It is the largest and most efficiently arranged of all the Pyrenean
establishments, and can accommodate over 200 people at the same time;
"douche" baths, swimming baths, ordinary baths, rooms for inhaling,
rooms for "pulverisation," seemed to succeed one another with unending
rapidity, as we followed our guide down long corridors or up flights of
stairs; and when at last it was all over, and he had quietly and
contentedly pocketed his coin, we felt as though we had been taking
quite a long walk.
[Illustration: "THE 'PEARL' IN THE PEERLESS VALLEY."]
The Allée d'Etigny--the principal street--and all the other
_allées_, notably the Allée des Bains, make most delightful
promenades, even in the heat of the day, so delightful is the shade
afforded by the trees that line the way on either side. To walk from
the "Thermes" along the Allée des Bains, turning into the Casino
gardens, or continuing further--leaving the "Chute de la Pique" on the
right--along the riverside till the road to Montauban cuts it at right
angles, is a most delicious evening stroll. We prolonged this, by
taking the road in question between the poplars up to the village of
Montauban itself; but found more interest in the beautiful new church
than in the waterfall at the back of the village, which is gained by
passing through the good cure's garden, and for which privilege half a
franc is charged. The church, of white stone, very symmetrically built
and of quite a different architecture from the usual French types,
stands out imposingly at the entrance to the village, backed up by the
tree-clad hills and the cottages beyond. The interior is most chaste
and tasteful, as different from the usual Roman Catholic interior as is
the outside from the general exterior, the texts on the pillars near
the entrance being quite an unusual feature. Whether the decoration was
not yet finished, and the tinsel therefore not yet arrived, we could
not learn; but are afraid it is only too probable, as the church, as it
stood, might have been one of our own; for even the gilt pulpit
harmonised so well with the rest, that it did not detract from the
religious and solemn effect, while the light through the
finely-coloured windows threw a softening glimmer over all.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF MONTAUBAN.]
We returned by a short cut through the fields on the left and the
garden of the Villa Russe, whose owner, "charmant et gentil," not only
showed us all over, but very kindly invited us to a strawberry feast a
month hence--which sorrowfully we had to decline--as well as making us
free of his garden and fields, the latter being filled with the
sweet-scented narcissus.
The Hôtel Canton, in which we were staying, was very conveniently
situated and comfortable. While standing in a quiet part of the Rue
d'Espagne it was close to the post-office and casino on the one hand,
and the bathing establishment and the Jardin des Quinconces on the
other. Moreover, the stables of Jean Sanson--a most excellent guide for
all excursions--were close at hand, and his horses would be difficult
to beat; while his son Luis is experienced in all trips and ascents,
not only in the vicinity, but over a large part of the Pyrenees.
The new casino, barely three years old, is situated in as charming a
quarter as could well be imagined, for besides possessing a finely
laid-out garden with many fine shrubs and trees, it is bounded by three
beautiful _allées_ as well. As previously mentioned, it can be
gained by the Allée des Bains, but the most direct way to the building
itself, from our hotel, was by keeping to the right along the Rue
d'Espagne and the narrow street beyond (the post-office being to the
left), opposite which a side entrance leads to the imposing edifice.
The three most popular excursions from Luchon are those to the Port de
Venasque, the mountain pass at the head of the Pique Valley; the Vallée
du Lys and the Cascades; and thirdly, the ascent of Superbagnères.
The greatest of all, and in truth the greatest in the Pyrenees, is the
ascension of the Pic de Nethou (11,170 ft.), the highest of the range,
and its two great buttresses, the Pics Maladetta (10,867 ft.) and
Milieu (11,044 ft). None but experienced mountaineers, with the most
experienced guides, attempt this ascent, which is attended with much
danger; but there are many other delightful trips in the vicinity,
including a visit to the Spanish village of Bosost; up the Aran valley
to Viella; a drive to the picturesquely-placed St. Béat, or to the old
Roman town of St. Bertrand de Comminges.
Pleasant walks and drives are probably more numerous from Luchon than
from any other Pyrenean resort, and though we were rather too early in
the year for mountain climbing, the fine weather enabled us to enjoy
several other outings, which we will describe in turn.
The Vallée du Lys and the Rue d'Enfer make an agreeable picnic, either
in a carriage as far as the "Cabanes du Lys" (6-1/4 miles), and then
horses for the other 3-3/4 miles up to the abyss, the cascades, and the
Rue d'Enfer, or on horseback all the way. We preferred the latter, and
taking a good lunch in the saddle-bags, made a start at the favoured
hour of ten. Under the lee of the Quinconces, past the Hôtel Richelieu,
Villa Richelieu, and the elevated Villa Marguerite, and we were fairly
on our way, the air sweetly laden with the scent from the flower-decked
fields and the lilac-trees in the gardens.
When we passed the little road on the left leading to the Orphanage of
Notre Dame du Rocher, the lilac-scent was very strong; and the position
of the various buildings in connection with the institution seemed so
attractive that we determined to take a stroll there later on. Pursuing
our way, with the restored ruin of the Castelvieil above us on its
"monticule" overlooking the Orphanage, we were soon in a narrower part
of the valley, with the wooded slopes on either side. Then we crossed
the river to the left bank, which we followed until reaching the point
where the road to the Hospice and the Port de Venasque led to the left,
and ours crossed the river by a neat bridge (the Pont de Ravi) to the
right bank again. A little beyond this, the route for Superbagnères
--which we hoped to take another day--struck off among the
trees on the right of the road, which in turn gradually bent in the
same direction all up the beautiful Lys valley, till it again curved in
the opposite direction and arrived at the base of the Cascades, where
there is a fair inn (Auberge du Lys).[Footnote: Only in summer.] From
thence the road forks, but the track to the left is the better of the
two, at any rate if on foot, and by it--after fifteen minutes'
labour--the foot of the Cascade d'Enfer is reached; and the Pont
d'Arrougé in another quarter of an hour. A similar length of time is
still necessary to reach a small tower whence a good view of the
Gouffre d'Enfer and the Pont de Nadie, above it, can be enjoyed. This
tower is about a mile distant from the foot of the lowest fall. The
other cascade (the Cascade du Coeur) is not a very difficult twenty
minutes' walk by a path that leads through the trees to Lac Vert, and
as there is a capital inn there (later in the season), we think that
this would be a good spot for lunch. Even as it was, we managed to
enjoy ours pretty well, for fresh air and sunshine are good appetisers,
and the ride had added its effect besides. The return ride in the
afternoon, when the sun was commencing to decline a little, was very
pleasant, and the snow-covered Port de Venasque, so beautiful in its
whiteness, and yet for the same reason quite inaccessible, looked very
lovely when tinged with the crimson hue that the setting sun shot o'er
it, as we arrived in Luchon again.
[Illustration: THE RUE D'ENFER AND CASCADES.]
The following morning broke beautifully fine, and Luis Sanson was at
the door punctually at seven, with the horses for our trip up to
Superbagnères.
The saddle-bags were again filled, and away we went, the horses--still
so fresh--being eager for a canter in the fresh morning air. In summer
the ascent is usually made by St. Aventin and the Granges de Gouron, in
which case the road towards the Col de Peyresourde is followed as far
as St. Aventin, and thence a way leading to the left; but we were too
early for that route, as an avalanche had only lately fallen, so were
obliged to go and return by the route used in the season for the return
only, viz., by the "Pont de Ravi" up the Vallée de la Pique. Having
reached the bridge and taken the path indicated by the sign-board on
the right, we were soon among the trees, which lent a very welcome
shade from the increasing heat, which even at this early hour (7.40
A.M.) the glorious Sol was not ashamed to diffuse.
At every fresh turn the strokes of the axe rang through the wood,
mingled with the sound of voices, and after making considerable
progress--during which our guide narrated incidents in his career as
hunter, guide, and jockey--we arrived in view of a very lively scene.
Workmen busy with the hatchet, the saw, and the plane, in the
foreground; others in the rear occupied with mortar and stones,
building a small but substantial house; a cart with oxen lazily
waiting, like Mr. Micawber, for "something to turn up"; a few superior
individuals in deep consultation, and the irrepressible sun struggling
through the beeches and pines to have "his finger in the pie"--such was
the scene we saw, but soon left behind. After this the good broad
carriage-road soon came to an end, and the easy gradient changed to a
steep path among a grove of nothing but beeches, which emerged later on
the slope of a somewhat bare and stony hill dotted with a few gentians.
The view improved with nearly every step, growing magnificently vast;
and when at length we reached the summit, or rather a mound a few feet
lower, but equally good as a point of sight (for the summit was covered
with snow), we gazed on as grand an expanse of mountains and
tree-clothed valleys as imagination could picture in the most lofty of
its lofty flights.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO SUPERBAGNÈRES.]
Probably but few people will be disposed to deny that, considering the
comparatively small amount of labour necessary to attain the summit, it
is more than amply compensated for; and, when the height of
Superbagnères--which is only 5,900 ft.--is taken into account, such a
grand sight is almost unique. For over two-thirds of a circle the chain
of peaks continues, extending from the Céciré of Superbagnères to the
Céciré [Footnote 1: We have only the guide's authority for this name
here.] above Bosost, and even beyond. Beginning with the nearest, the
Céciré (8,025 ft.) of Superbagnères, then come the Pêne de Montarqué
(9685 ft.), and the cone-shaped Quairat (10,037 ft.), followed by the
huge glacier of Crabioules, which, in spite of its eternal snow,
supplies the various cascades in the Rue d'Enfer that flow into the Lys
valley. Above rise up the Pic de Crabioules (10,233 ft), the Pic de
Bourn (9,875 ft), and the peculiar Tuc de Maupas (10,204 ft.); after
which the Trous d'Enfer and the Pic de Sacroux (8,786 ft) appear. The
next of the near peaks is the Pic de Sauvegarde (9,145 ft), but between
the Sacroux and this, calm and clear, the highest peaks of the range,
the Milieu, the Maladetta, and the Nethou, with the dead white glacier
below them, rise in view. After the Sauvegarde, the Pic de la Mine
(9,048 ft.), the Port de Venasque (7,930 ft.), and the very pointed Pic
de la Pique (7,854 ft.) appear, followed by the Pas de l'Escalette
(7,877 ft.) and the Port de la Picade (8,219 ft.), towards which group
the Vallée de l'Hospice leads.
To the left of the Picade, the cone of the lofty "Posets" may be seen
in the distance, while more to the left, and more distant too, the Peña
Blanca (9222 ft.) is also visible. Further round, over the wooded
"cols" that guard the "Pique" valley, the Mont Ségu [Footnote: We have
only the guide's authority for the name.] and Céciré near Bosost, and
the _Pyrénées Orientales_ beyond, finished the magnificent chain.
From another situation we could look down on Luchon and from this point
were endeavouring to reach the little hut, where fodder and a few
provisions can be found in the season, when an ancient shepherd bawled
out in _patois_ that the place was as yet tenantless, for which we
felt thankful to that peasant, as it saved us a long tramp through
rather deep snow, though for that same reason we were unable to reward
his forethought as it deserved. Leaving him to pursue his guileless
way, we descended into the beech grove for our lunch, and finding
grateful shade at the foot of a fine fir, we opened the saddle-bags and
proceeded to regale ourselves, finding some snow that we brought from
the top very useful to cool the rather heated claret. After nature was
satisfied we quickly descended past the previously busy scene, and when
near the high road again came in view of some woodmen loading a cart
with logs. To do this the logs had to be brought to an eminence above
the cart, and bullocks were employed to drag up the wood. The men were
treating them most cruelly, and once or twice they lowed so piteously,
that we have translated it into
"THE OXEN'S APPEAL."
Working and toiling the whole of the day,
Working and toiling without any pay,
Only perchance a few mouthfuls of hay,
From earliest dawn till late.
Held by the horns 'neath this cumbersome yoke,
Firmer fixed thus than a "pig in a poke,"
Feeling the "prong" and the lengthy stick's stroke,
Ours, alas, is a terrible fate.
When straining our utmost, you bring the stick down
On our miserable backs; and you swear, and you frown,
Never thinking the sun is just "doing us brown,"
As the furnace will do when we're slain.
We cannot pull more than we can, you must know,
And we cannot pull fast if we can but pull slow,
So why should you spike us, and ill-use us so,
And make our hides tingle with pain?
We serve you well always, draw heaviest loads,
And never complain of the worst of bad roads;
While you in return use those blood-drawing goads
At ev'ry conceivable time.
Be sure that no quicker or wiser are we,
But we _do_ sometimes think if we got our horns free,
The position in which you would probably be,
And you would not pronounce it sublime.
So listen, we pray, to our modest appeal:
With kindness more proud of our work we should feel;
And if those fierce blows you still ruthlessly deal,
You'll make our flesh horrible stuff;
For though steaks are good beaten, that's done when they're cold,
And we're certainly not, nor as yet very old;
But as some day we'll have to be butchered and sold,
We had better be tender than tough.
If you'll try our plan--that is enough!
At twenty minutes past one we had repassed the graceful Jardin des
Quinconces, with the weeping willows overhanging the lakelet, and were
within the cool precincts of the hotel.
Having a couple of hours to spare another morning, we wended our way
towards the Orphanage, "deep in the lilac grove." Turning off from the
road, we followed the narrow track over the rustic bridge, and were
received anything but hospitably by a huge white dog. We calmed him in
time, however, and proceeded to inspect the buildings, but found nearly
everyone shut up, though the little church--elevated above the
rest--was, unlike them, thrown open. Its very rusticity and simplicity
gave it a religious air which to us so few Roman Catholic edifices seem
to possess. The badly-spelt and feebly-worded address to the Pope, to
which he has affixed his signature, that hangs in a frame near the
door, we did not consider much of an attraction, though to the members
of the little congregation it would doubtless be a very holy relic.
Forsaking this peaceful retreat, we climbed up the ascent behind,
within view of the statue of the Virgin, but soon descended again, as
the sun was at that time particularly "baking," and we were not doughty
enough to pretend to resist it. After a cool spell near the
chapel-door, watching the "painted ladies" [Footnote: Butterflies, of
course!] playing with the lilac blossoms, we trudged slowly back again.
One of the pleasantest as well as most interesting of our trips in the
Pyrenees was from Luchon to the little Spanish village of Bosost, and
as it is one of the principal pillars that uphold the chief title of
this volume, it deserves a detailed mention.
This time the favourite hour of ten was not early enough for starting,
so we were on horseback by 9.15, going very leisurely, being quite
undesirous to force the pace, as the day was warm even at that hour.
Up the Rue d'Espagne for a short distance beyond the Hôtel Richelieu
(which hotel, from all we have heard, though large, is not too moderate
nor owned by too polite a proprietor), and then we took the turning to
the left, which (as the signboard tells) leads to St. Mamet. Without
waiting to enter the old church to see its frescoes, we pursued the
road branching off to the right, which presently left the Orphanage
behind in the same direction. A few minutes later we had passed the
frontier (French) custom station, and leaving the isolated Castelvieil
(2514 ft.) for a short time on our right, and later in our rear, we
bore up the Vallée de Burbe. We had only progressed a short distance
when a huge rock was visible in the centre of the road, evidently a
very recent gift from the adjacent height. Our horses having been so
little used, were very fresh and rather fond of shying, and our
guide's, which was an Arab, not only shied at the impediment, but
wheeled round with the intention of going homewards. As we managed to
make our own, however, pass quietly, the obstreperous one, after a
brief struggle, was induced to follow their example. A little further
on, we met a fine team of Spanish mules in their full picturesque
trappings and bells. The two men in charge of them were dressed a
little untidily, but their attire was equally picturesque, the coloured
waistband, turban, and knee-breeches producing a very bright effect.
The bright yellow-green of the beeches, mingling with the dark and
gloomy olive shade of the firs; here and there fields laden with the
blue columbine and the "overrated" asphodel; the boulder-strewn slopes
on our left, and the snow-ridges on the right; and the strong, fresh,
and foaming cascade of Sidonie tumbling down beside us, made a very
delicious contemplation as we went on our way.
Our guide in a most "gallant" manner got off his steed to gather Miss
Blunt a few flowers, but when he endeavoured to assume his former
elevated position, the "Arab" didn't see it. In fact he _would not
be_ mounted, and the unevenness of the track added not a little to
the success of his manoeuvrings. "Luis" had not been six months a
"jockey" for nothing, however; so he lulled his steed into a sense of
security by walking beside it for some time in circus fashion, with his
right hand grasping the off side of the saddle, until a large stone
showed its head at the side of the road. As they passed, he ran up the
stone and was in the saddle before the animal realised that he was
beaten, and when he did, it seemed to humble him to that degree that he
never attempted even a curvet.
The number of lizards we disturbed was something wonderful. None of
them were very large or very striking in colour, but they made up for
this in animation; and their fearful trepidity and hurry to get
anywhere out of sight was wonderful.
Just before entering the sunlit beech glades we overtook a noble
cavalcade, consisting of three ladies on three donkeys, with a fat old
woman leading the way on foot. They had their lunch with them, and
apparently intended--judging by a certain hungry look they had--to make
their repast at the earliest opportunity. The young and beautiful lady
bringing up the rear was probably ignorant of the ludicrous figure she
made with her "ultra" fashionable arrangement of steels, that gave her
the appearance of having a large clothes-bag under her dress, or we
don't think she would have started on the excursion in such a garment.
If a member of the "Rational Dress Society" had seen her, there would
probably have been an "exhibition" on the spot, and a general one--with
all the latest "improvements" (?)--at Luchon a few weeks later.
After traversing a number of beautiful glades we entered the Firs--the
Black Forest as it is called,--where bears are hunted in the winter,
and through which the road ascends by a series of zigzags to the summit
of the Col de Portillon (4275 ft.), and then descends for a short
distance to the frontier, marked by a huge boulder, with the French
flag on one side and the Spanish on the other. As we reined in the
horses opposite to it for a moment, no one could dispute that we were
indeed "'twixt France and Spain." But we did not stay to enjoy this
enviable position long; and passing on, endeavoured to realise that we
were no longer in France by fixing our eyes on the _Pyrénées
Orientales_; we could also see the Poujastou (6332 ft.) on our left,
the Couradilles (6513 ft.), the Mont Ségu, the Céciré, [Footnote: We
had only our guide's authority for these names] and further forward the
Entécade on our right. A short distance down the road there lay the
Casino du Portillon, not yet opened for the summer gambling, and not
very much further (viz., about a mile from the frontier), the Spanish
custom-house, and the Casino de Roulette. Here the road divides, the
branch to the Vallée d'Aran and Bosost bearing to the left, and the
other, to Viella and the Artiques-Tellin, in the opposite direction.
Passing some ruined houses and fertile slopes in our descent, we soon
obtained a fine view up both ends of the Aran valley, with the
diminutive Garonne winding through, and Bosost snugly situated on the
slopes of a hill round a bend in the road. The sun was pouring down in
all his midday strength as we passed the roadside chapel of St. Antoine
and entered the antiquated little village of Bosost, stopping at the
Fonda de España for lunch.
This inn, from the road, was as much unlike an inn as anything we ever
saw, and its ways and passages were somewhat unique; but upstairs there
was a large room with a wide terrace facing the river, which only
wanted an awning over to be rendered delicious. We were unfortunately
too early in the season for this luxury, so had to content ourselves
with lunching in the room, with wide-opened doors. When the provisions
were spread out, in rushed the guide with an official document, and a
franc to pay for having invaded Spain. We gave him the money, and asked
to taste some honest country wine, which resulted in the domestic
bringing us something rather strong, like new port, which did not go
badly with water.
After the repast had passed pleasantly, we strolled out into the
village, Miss Blunt being equipped with the requisites for a brilliant
sketch. Unhappily, the subject was not easy to find, though we marched
through most of the streets; but having visited the ancient
church--with its chime of bells, like many others in Spain, arranged on
a wheel--we found a spot by the side of a huge elm from which there was
a good view of the sacred edifice. But it was a case of sketching under
difficulties, as the whole or at least the greater part of the village
children crowded round us, some carrying smaller children in their
arms, some playing with flowers, others cutting bits of wood, and one
and all managing to do their utmost to bother poor Miss Blunt. She
accordingly finished the sketch as quickly as possible, and we all
returned to the hotel to keep out of the oppressive heat.
At three o'clock we started homewards, going rather faster than when we
came. Alternate clouds and sunshine overhead, the lights and shadows
over the trees, the fields--radiant with gentians, oxslips, columbine,
_polygaloe_, and asphodel--losing none of their charm.
At the Spanish custom-house we delivered up our passport, for which we
had paid the franc, and then wound over the Portillon and gently back
to our hotel, not arriving too late for the cup that soothes and
cheers, but never cheers too loudly.
The morrow was to see us leaving Luchon--the charming, the
beautiful--and all of us had a similar feeling, viz., that we might
soon come and see the "Pearl of the Pyrenees" again.
It was true that we had missed all the noise and excitement which comes
with the summer; that we had missed the troops of Pau-ites wearing out
such of their "robes" as the heat would allow, and the throngs of gay
Spaniards; that we had missed the crowds of invalids, the bands of
music, and the worst specimens of the travelling world, "French
tourists." But it was a truth for which we were very grateful, and we
would certainly advise future visitors to take Luchon in the spring,
and leave it before the heat and bustle of the season mar its peace,
and the summer's sun melts the snowy splendour of the surrounding
heights.