Transcriber's Notes:
When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has
been surrounded by _underscores_.
Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected. In particular,
punctuation has been normalized and entries in the List of Illustrations
and in the Index were altered to match the main text. Further, a single
entry in the original List of Illustrations which referred to two
distinct maps was split into two entries (SCOTLAND and ENGLAND AND
WALES).
Other corrections are listed below with the original text (top) and the
replacement text (bottom):
p. 40 many quaint timbered house
many quaint timbered houses
p. 95 employe
employee
p. 249 Wordsworh
Wordsworth
p. 212 Fort Williams
Fort William
p. 311 appoach
approach
p. 350 July 5, 1585
July 5, 1685
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ON OLD-WORLD
HIGHWAYS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_By the Same Author_
British Highways and Byways from a
Motor Car
THIRD IMPRESSION
WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color, and Thirty-two Duogravures
320 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth
Price (Boxed), $3.00
-------
In Unfamiliar England With a Motor Car
SECOND IMPRESSION
WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Forty-eight Duogravures
400 Pages, 8vo, Decorated Cloth
Price (Boxed), $3.00
-------
Three Wonderlands of the American West
SECOND IMPRESSION
WITH FORTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS AND TWO MAPS
Sixteen Reproductions in Color and Thirty-two Duogravures
180 Pages, Tall 8vo, Decorated Cloth
Price (Boxed) $3.00 Net
-------
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
BOSTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL
From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ON OLD-WORLD HIGHWAYS
A Book of Motor Rambles in France and Germany and
the Record of a Pilgrimage from Land's End
to John O'Groats in Britain.
BY THOS. D. MURPHY
AUTHOR OF "THREE WONDERLANDS OF THE AMERICAN WEST,"
"BRITISH HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS FROM A MOTOR CAR"
AND "IN UNFAMILIAR ENGLAND WITH A MOTOR CAR."
WITH SIXTEEN REPRODUCTIONS IN COLORS FROM ORIGINAL
PAINTINGS BY EMINENT ARTISTS AND FORTY DUOGRAVURES
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS. ALSO MAPS
SHOWING ROUTES OF AUTHOR.
[Illustration]
BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
MDCCCCXIV
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Copyright, 1914_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
-------
_All rights reserved_
-------
First Impression, January, 1914
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Preface
I know that of making books of travel there is no limit--they come from
the press in a never-ending stream; but no one can say that any one of
these is superfluous if it finds appreciative readers, even though they
be but few.
My chief excuse for the present volume is the success of my previous
books of motor travel, which have run through several fair-sized
editions. I have had many warmly appreciative letters concerning these
from native Englishmen and the books were commended by the Royal
Automobile Club Journal as accurate and readable. So I take it that my
point of view from the wheel of a motor car interests some people, and I
shall feel justified in writing such books so long as this is the case.
I know that in some instances I have had to deal with hackneyed
subjects; but I have striven for a different viewpoint and I hope I have
contributed something worth while in describing even well-known places.
On the other hand, I know that I have discovered many delightful nooks
and corners in Britain that even the guide-books have overlooked.
Besides, I am sure that books of travel have ample justification in the
fact that travel itself is one of the greatest of educators and
civilizers. It teaches us that we are not the only people--that wisdom
shall not die with us alone. It shows us that in some things other
people may do better than we are doing and it may enable us to avoid
mistakes that others make. In short, it widens our horizon and tones
down our self-conceit--or it should do all of this if we keep ears and
eyes open when abroad.
I make no apology for the fact that the greater bulk of the present
volume deals with the Motherland, even if its title does not so
indicate. Her romantic charm is as limitless as the sea that encircles
her. Even now, after our long journeyings in every corner of the Island,
I would not undertake to say to what extent we might still carry our
exploration in historic and picturesque Britain. Should one delight in
ivy-covered castles, rambling old manors, ruined abbeys, romantic
country-seats, haunted houses, great cathedrals and storied churches
past numbering, I know not where the limit may be. But I do know that
the little party upon whose experiences this book is founded is still
far from being satisfied after nearly twenty thousand miles of motoring
in the Kingdom, and if I fail to make plain why we still think of the
highways and byways of Britain with an undiminished longing, the fault
is mine rather than that of my subject.
In this book, as in my previous ones, the illustrations play a principal
part. The color plates are from originals by distinguished artists and
the photographs have been carefully selected and perfectly reproduced.
The maps will also be of assistance in following the text. I hope that
these valuable adjuncts may make amends for the many literary
shortcomings of my text.
THOMAS D. MURPHY
Red Oak, Iowa, January 1, 1914.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Page
I BOULOGNE TO ROUEN 1
II THE CHATEAU DISTRICT 29
III ORLEANS TO THE GERMAN BORDER 45
IV COLMAR TO OBERAMMERGAU 59
V BAVARIA AND THE RHINE 77
VI THE CAPTAIN'S STORY 104
VII A FLIGHT THROUGH THE NORTH 125
VIII THE MOTHERLAND ONCE MORE 145
IX OLD WHITBY 157
X SCOTT COUNTRY AND HEART OF HIGHLANDS 173
XI IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS 191
XII DOWN THE GREAT GLEN 210
XIII ALONG THE WEST COAST 224
XIV ODD CORNERS OF LAKELAND 246
XV WE DISCOVER DENBIGH 262
XVI CONWAY 279
XVII THE HARDY COUNTRY AND BERRY POMEROY 298
XVIII POLPERRO AND THE SOUTH CORNISH COAST 320
XIX LAND'S END TO LONDON 336
XX THE ENGLISH AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS 355
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
COLOR PLATES
Page
THE MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, BAVARIAN TYROL Frontispiece
SUNSET IN TOURAINE 1
WOODS IN BRITTANY 26
PIER LANE, WHITBY 164
HARVEST TIME, STRATHTAY 180
A HIGHLAND LOCH 188
ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS 204
GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS 208
THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET 210
"THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT" 236
THE FALLEN GIANT--A HIGHLAND STUDY 240
CONWAY CASTLE, NORTH WALES 280
"THE NEW ARRIVAL" 282
KYNANCE COVE, CORNWALL 334
SUNSET NEAR LAND'S END, CORNWALL 336
"A DISTANT VIEW OF THE TOWERS OF WINDSOR" 355
DUOGRAVURES
ST. LO FROM THE RIVER 18
A STREET IN ST. MALO 24
CHENONCEAUX--THE ORIENTAL FRONT 32
AMBOISE FROM ACROSS THE LOIRE 34
GRAND STAIRWAY OF FRANCIS I. AT BLOIS 36
PORT DU CROUX--A MEDIEVAL WATCHTOWER AT NEVERS 46
CASTLE AT FUSSEN 66
OBERAMMERGAU 70
ULM AND THE CATHEDRAL 82
GOETHE'S HOUSE--FRANKFORT 86
BINGEN ON THE RHINE 88
CASTLE RHEINSTEIN 90
EHRENFELS ON THE RHINE 92
RUINS OF CASTLE RHEINFELS 94
LUXEMBURG--GENERAL VIEW 102
ST. WULFRAM'S CHURCH--GRANTHAM 150
OLD PEEL TOWER AT DARNICK, NEAR ABBOTSFORD 178
HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS 200
URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS 214
THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE 220
"McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN 224
GLENLUCE ABBEY 242
SWEETHEART ABBEY 244
WORDSWORTH'S BIRTHPLACE--COCKERMOUTH 250
CALDER ABBEY, CUMBERLAND 252
KENDAL CASTLE 258
KENDAL PARISH CHURCH 260
DENBIGH CASTLE--THE ENTRANCE AND KEEP 266
ST. HILARY'S CHURCH, DENBIGH 272
GATE TOWERS RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES 276
PLAS MAWR, CONWAY, HOME OF ROYAL CAMBRIAN ACADEMY 284
INNER COURT, PLAS MAWR, CONWAY 286
CONWAY CASTLE--THE OUTER WALL 292
BERRY POMEROY CASTLE, ENTRANCE TOWERS 312
BERRY POMEROY CASTLE--WALL OF INNER COURT 316
A STREET IN EAST LOOE--CORNWALL 322
POLPERRO, CORNWALL--LOOKING TOWARD THE SEA 324
LANSALLOS CHURCH, POLPERRO 326
A STREET IN FOWEY--CORNWALL 330
PROBUS CHURCH TOWER, CORNWALL 332
MAPS
FRANCE AND GERMANY 380
SCOTLAND 388
ENGLAND AND WALES 388
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Through Summer France
and
The Fatherland
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: SUNSET IN TOURAINE
From original painting by Leon Richet]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
On Old-World Highways
I
BOULOGNE TO ROUEN
Our three summer pilgrimages in Britain have left few unexplored corners
in the tight little island--we are thinking of new worlds to conquer.
Beyond the narrow channel the green hills of France offer the nearest
and most attractive field. Certainly it is the most accessible of
foreign countries for the motorist in England and every year increasing
numbers of English-speaking tourists are seen in the neighboring
republic. The service of the Royal Automobile Club, with its usual
enterprise and thoroughness, leaves little to be desired in arranging
the details of a trip and supplies complete information as to route. An
associate membership was accorded me on behalf of the Automobile Club of
America, whose card I presented and which serves an American many useful
ends in European motordom. Mr. Maroney, the genial touring secretary, at
once interested himself in our proposed tour. He undertook to outline a
route, to arrange for transportation of our car across the Channel, to
provide for duties and licenses and, lastly, to secure a courier-guide
familiar with the countries we proposed to invade and proficient in the
French and German languages. The necessary guide-books and road-maps are
carried in stock by the club and the only charge made is for these. Our
proposed route was traced on the map, a typewritten list of towns and
distances was made and a day or two later I was advised that a guide had
been engaged. Mr Maroney expressed regret that the young men who serve
the club regularly in this capacity were already employed, but he had
investigated the man secured for us and found him competent and
reliable.
"Still," said Mr. Maroney with characteristic British caution, "we would
feel better satisfied with one of our own men on the job; but it is the
best we can do for you under the circumstances."
We learned that our guide was a young Englishman of good family, at
present in somewhat straitened circumstances, which made him willing to
accept any position for which his talents might fit him. He had
previously piloted motor parties through France and Italy and spoke four
languages with perfect fluency. He had done a lot of knocking about,
having recently been in a shipwreck off the coast of South America and
having held a captain's commission in the South African War. We
therefore called him "the Captain," and I may as well adopt that
designation in referring to him in these pages, since his real name
would interest no one. He was able to drive the car and declared
willingness to do a chauffeur's part in caring for it. The only doubt
expressed by Mr. Maroney was that the Captain might "forget his
place"--that of a servant--and before long consider himself a member of
our party, and with characteristic frankness the touring secretary
cautioned our guide in my presence against any such presumption.
It is a fine May afternoon when we drive from London to Folkestone to be
on hand in time to attend to the formalities for crossing the Channel on
the following day. Police traps, we are warned, abound along the road
and we proceed quite soberly, taking some four hours for the
seventy-five miles including the slow work of getting out of London. The
Royal Pavilion Hotel on low ground near the docks is strictly
first-class and its rates prove more moderate than we found at its
competitors on the cliff.
Our car is left at the dock, arrangements for its transport having been
made beforehand by the Royal Automobile Club; but we saunter down in the
morning to see it loaded. We need not worry about this, for it goes "at
the company's risk," a provision which costs us ten shillings extra. It
is pushed upon a large platform and a steam crane soon swings it high in
the air preparatory to depositing it on the steamer deck.
"She's an airship now," said an old salt as the car reached its highest
point. "We did fetch over a sure-enough airship last week--belonged to
that fellow Paulhan and he's a decentish chap, too; you'd never think he
was a Frenchman!"--which would seem to indicate that the entente
cordiale had not entirely cleared away prejudice from the mind of our
sailor-friend.
Our crossing was as comfortable as any Channel crossing could be--which
in our case is not saying much, for that green, rushing streak of salt
water, the English Channel, always gives us a squeamish feeling, no
matter how "smooth" it may be. We are only too glad to get on terra
firma in Boulogne and to see our car almost immediately swung to the
dock.
I had read in a recently published book by a motor tourist of the
dreadful ordeal he underwent in securing his license to drive; a stern
official sat beside him and put him through all his paces to ascertain
if he was competent to pilot a car in France. I was expecting to be
compelled to give a similar exhibit, when the Captain came out of the
station with driving licenses for both himself and me and announced that
we would be ready to proceed as soon as he attached a pair of very
indistinct number plates.
"But the examination 'pour competence,'" I said.
"O," he replied, "I just explained to his nobs that we were in a great
hurry and couldn't wait for an examination--and a five-franc piece did
the rest." A piece of diplomacy which no doubt left the honest official
feeling happier than if I had given him a joy-ride over the cobbles of
Boulogne.
Filling our tank with "essence," which we learn, after translating some
jargon concerning "litres" and "francs," will cost about thirty-five
cents per gallon--we strike out on the road to Montreuil. It proves a
typical French highway and our first impressions are confirmed later on.
The road is broad, with perfect contour and easy grades, running
straight away for miles--or should I say kilometers?--and showing every
evidence of engineering skill and careful construction. But it is
old-fashioned macadam without any binding material. The motor car has
torn up the surface and scattered it in loose dust which rises in clouds
from our wheels or has been swept away by the wind, leaving the roadbed
bare but rough and jagged--a perfect grindstone on rubber tires. The
same description applies to nearly all the roads we traversed in France,
and no doubt the vast preponderance of them are still in the same state
or worse. A movement for re-surfacing the main highways is now in
progress and in a few years France will again be at the front, though at
this time she is far behind England in the matter of modern automobile
roads. The long straight stretches and the absence of police traps in
the country make fast time possible--if one is willing to pay the tire
bill. Thirty miles an hour is an easy jog and though we left Boulogne
after three, we find we have covered one hundred and ten miles at
nightfall, including a stop for luncheon. At Montreuil we strike the
first and only serious grade, a long, steep hill up which winds the
cobble-paved main street of the town--our first experience with the
cobble pavement of the provincial towns, of which more anon.
A few miles beyond Montreuil the Captain steers us into a narrow byroad
which leads into the quaint little fisher town of Berck-sur-Mer and,
indeed, the much-abused "quaint" is not misapplied here. The old
buildings straggle along the single street, quite devoid of any touch of
the picturesque and thronged by people of all degrees. We see many queer
four-wheeled vehicles--not much larger than toy wagons--drawn by ponies
and donkeys, the drivers lying at full length on their backs, staring at
the sky or asleep, their motive power wandering along at its own sweet
will. It is indeed ridiculous to see full-grown men riding in such a
primitive fashion, but the sight is not unusual. We meet a troop of
prawn fishers coming in from the sea--as miserable specimens of humanity
as we ever beheld--ragged, bedraggled, bare-headed and bare-footed
creatures; many old women among them, prancing along like animated
rag-bags.
Swinging back into the main highway, we soon reach Abbeville, whose
roughly paved streets wind between bare, unattractive buildings. In
places malodorous streams run along the streets--practically open
sewers, if the smell is any indication. Abbeville affords an example of
the terrible cobblestone pavement that we found in nearly all French
cities of the second class. The round, uneven stones--in the States we
call them "niggerheads"--have probably lain undisturbed for centuries.
Besides the natural roughness of such a pavement, there are numerous
chuck-holes. No matter how slowly we drive, we bounce and jump over
these stones, which strike the tires with sledge-hammer force, sending a
series of shivers throughout the car. It is no wonder that such
pavements and the grindstone roads often limit the life of tires to a
few hundred miles.
Out of Abbeville we "hit up" pretty strongly, for it is nearly dark and
we plan to reach Rouen for the night. The straight fine road offers
temptation to speed, under the circumstances, and our odometer does not
vary much from forty miles--when we are suddenly treated to a surprise
that makes us more cautious about speeding on French roads at dusk. In a
little hollow we strike a ditch six inches deep by two or three feet in
width--a "canivau," as they designate it in France--with a terrific jolt
which almost threatens the car with destruction. The frame strikes the
axles with fearful force; it seems impossible that nothing should be
broken. A careful search fails to reveal any apparent damage, though a
fractured axle-rod a short time later is undoubtedly a result of the
violent blow. It seems strange that an important main road should have
such a dangerous defect, though we find many similar cases later; but as
we travel no more after dusk, and generally at much more moderate speed,
we have no further mishap of the kind. We light our lamps and proceed at
a more sober pace to Neufchatel, where we decide to stop for the night
at the rather unattractive-looking Lion d'Or. We have reason to
congratulate ourselves, for the wayside inn is really preferable to the
Angleterre at Rouen and the rates are scarcely half so much. It is a
rambling old house, partly surrounding a stable-yard court where the
motor is stored for the night. The regular meal time is past, but a
plain supper is prepared for us. We are tired enough not to be too
critical of our accommodations and the rooms and beds are clean and
fairly comfortable. We have breakfast at a long table where the guests
all sit together and the fare, while plain, is good.
There is nothing of interest in Neufchatel, though its cheese has given
it a world-wide fame. It is a market town of four or five thousand
people, depending largely on the prosperous country surrounding it.
We are early away for Rouen and in course of an hour we come in sight of
the cathedral spire, the highest in all France, rising nearly five
hundred feet and overtopping Salisbury, the loftiest in England, by
almost one hundred feet. At the Captain's recommendation we seek the
Hotel Angleterre--which means the Hotel England--a bid, no doubt, for
the patronage of the numerous English-speaking tourists who visit the
city. There is a deal of dickering before we get settled, for the rates
are unreasonably high; but after considerable parley a bargain is made.
We enter the diminutive "lift," which holds two persons by a little
crowding, but after the first trip we use the stairway to save time.
One could not "do" Rouen in the guide-book sense in less than a
week--but such is not the object of our present tour. If one brings a
motor to France he can hardly afford to let it stand idle to spend
several days in any city. We shall see what we can of Rouen in a day and
take the road again in the morning.
Our first thought is of Jeanne d'Arc and her martyrdom in the old city
and our second of the cathedral, in some respects one of the most
remarkable in Europe. It is but a stone's throw from our hotel and is
consequently our first attraction. The facade is imposing despite its
incongruous architectural details and has a world of intricate carving
and sculpture, partly concealed by scaffolding, for the church is being
restored. The towers flanking the facade are unfinished, both lacking
the tall Gothic spire originally planned and, indeed, necessary to give
a harmonious effect to the whole. A spire of open iron-work nearly five
hundred feet in height replaces the original wooden structure burned by
lightning in 1822 and is severely criticised as being out of keeping
with the elaborate stone building which it surmounts.
Once inside we are overwhelmed by a sense of vastness--the great church
is nearly five hundred feet in length, while the transept is a third as
wide. The arches of the nave seem almost lost in the dim, softly toned
light that streams in from the richly colored windows, some of which
date from the twelfth century. If the exterior is incongruous, the
interior is indeed a symphony in stone, despite a few jarring notes in
the decorations of some of the private chapels. There are many beautiful
monuments, mainly to French church dignitaries whom we never heard of
and care little about, but the battered gigantic limestone effigy
discovered in 1838 is full of fascinating interest, for it represents
Richard the Lion-Hearted--the Richard of "Ivanhoe"--whose heart,
enclosed in a triple casket of lead, wood and silver, is buried beneath.
The figure is nearly seven feet in length and we wonder if this is a
true representation of the stature of our childhood's hero, who,
"starred with idle glory, came
Bearing from leaguered Ascalon
The barren splendour of his fame,
And, vanquished by an unknown bow,
Lies vainly great at Fontevraud."
For Richard's body was interred at Fontevraud, near Orleans, with other
members of English royalty. Henry II. is also buried in Rouen
Cathedral--all indicative that there was a day when English kings
regarded Normandy as their home!
Another memorial which interests us is dedicated to LaSalle, the great
explorer, who was born in Rouen. He was buried, as every schoolboy
knows, in the great river which he discovered, but his memory is
cherished by his native city as the man who gave the empire of Louisiana
to France.
Rouen has at least two other churches of first magnitude--St. Ouen and
St. Maclou--but we shall have to content ourselves with a cursory glance
at their magnificence. The former is declared to be "one of the most
beautiful Gothic churches in existence, surpassing the cathedral both in
extent and excellence of style." Such is the pronouncement of that final
authority on such matters, Herr Baedeker!
But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the world because of its
connection with the strange figure of Jeanne d'Arc? Indeed, her career
savors of myth and legend--not the sober fact of history--and it is hard
to conceive of the scene that took place around the fatal spot in the
Vieux-Marche, now marked with a large stone bearing the inscription,
"Jeanne d'Arc, 30 Mar. 1431." Here a tender young woman whose only crime
was an implicit belief that she was divinely inspired, was burned at the
stake by order of a reverend bishop who, surrounded by his satellites,
approvingly looked on the dreadful scene. And these men were not painted
savages, but high dignitaries of Christendom. Much of old Rouen stands
to-day as it stood then, but what a vast change has been wrought in
humankind! Only a single ruinous tower remains of the castle where the
Maid was confined. While imprisoned here she was intimidated by being
shown the instruments of torture; but she withstood the callous
brutality of her persecutors with fortitude and heroism that baffled
them, though it only enraged them the more.
We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any adequate idea of a city
of such antiquity and importance in a day and the Captain says we may as
well quit trying. He suggests that we take the tram for Bonsecours,
situated on the steep hill towering high over the town from the right
bank of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery with many handsome
tombs and monuments and, in the center, a recently erected memorial to
Joan of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the Renaissance
style, the central chapel enclosing a marble statue of the Maid. There
is a modern church near by whose interior--a solid mass of bright green,
red and gold--is the most gorgeous we have seen. The specialty of this
church is "votive tablets"--the walls are covered with little marble
placards telling what some particular saint has done for the donor in
response to a vow. A round charge, the Captain says, is made for each
tablet, so that the income of Bonsecours Church must be a good one.
But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the church or the memorial,
though both are interesting in their way, but for the unmatched view of
the city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities pronounce one of
the finest panoramas in Europe. From the memorial the whole city lies
spread out like a map--so far beneath that the five-hundred-foot spire
of Notre Dame is below the level of our vision. The city, with its
splendid spires rising amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs,
fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining folds of the Seine,
with its old bridges and wooded shores, lends a glorious variety to the
scene. The view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, covering a
beautiful and prosperous valley bounded on either side by the verdant
hills of Normandy. This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours,
whether one's stay in Rouen be short or long.
In leaving Rouen we cross the Seine and follow the fine straight road
which runs through Pont Audemer to Honfleur on the coast. This was not
our prearranged route, but the Captain apparently gravitates toward the
sea whenever possible, and he is responsible for the diversion. From
Honfleur we follow the narrow road along the coast--its sharp turns,
devious windings, short steep hills and the hedgerows which border it in
places recalling the byways of Devon and Cornwall. We again come out on
the shore at Trouville-sur-Mer, a watering place with an array of
imposing hotels. It is not yet the "season" and many of the hotels are
closed, but the Belvue, one of the largest, is doing business and we
have an elaborate luncheon here which costs more than we like to pay.
Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, running through a
series of resorts and fishing villages until it swings inland for
Caen--a quaint, irregular old place which, next to Rouen, declares
Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. We are sorry that
many of its show-places are closed to us, for it is Sunday and the
churches are not open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen's we might
have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, though his remains no
longer rest beneath it, having been disinterred and scattered by the
Huguenots in 1562. Caen has two other great churches--St. Peter's and
Trinity, which we can view only from the outside.
It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are thronged with young girls in
white who have taken part in confirmation services; we have seen others
at many places during the day. It is about the only thing to remind us
that it is Sunday, for the shops are open, work is going on in the
fields, and road-making is in progress; we note little suspension of
week-day activities. The peasants whom we see by the roadside and in the
little villages are generally very dirty but seem happy and content. The
farm houses are usually unattractive, often with filthy
surroundings--muck-heaps in front of the doors--not unlike what we saw
in some parts of Ireland.
The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as an arrow's flight,
broad, level and bordered--as most main roads are in France--by rows of
stately trees. We give the motor full rein and the green sunny fields
flit joyously past us. What a relief to "open her up" without thought of
a policeman behind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft-trapped
Englishman considers France a motorist's paradise?
The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us and we must content
ourselves with the exterior of this magnificent church. Not so with the
museum which contains the Bayeux Tapestry, for the lady member of our
party is determined to see this famous piece of needlework, willy nilly.
The custodian is finally located and we are admitted to view the relic.
It is a strip of linen cloth eighteen inches wide and two hundred thirty
feet long, embroidered in colored thread with scenes representing the
Conquest of England by William of Normandy. It is claimed that the work
was done by Queen Matilda and her maidens, though this is disputed by
some authorities; but its importance as a contemporary representation of
historic events of the time of William I. far outweighs its artistic
significance.
The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one of the most glorious highways
in France. It runs through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees for
a good part of the distance--a little more than twenty miles--and the
sunset sky gleaming through the stately trunks relieves the otherwise
somber effect.
By happy accident we reach St. Lo at nightfall and turn into the
courtyard of the Hotel de Univers, a comfortable-looking old house
invitingly close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, for we never
planned to stop at St. Lo and but for chance might have remained in
ignorance of one of the most charming little cathedral towns in France.
Indeed, we feel that St. Lo is ours by right of discovery, for we find
but scant mention of it in the guide-books. After an excellent though
unpretentious dinner, we sally forth from our inn to view our
surroundings in the deepening twilight. The town is situated on the
margin of a still little river which wonderfully reflects the ancient
vine-covered houses that climb the sharply sloping hillside. The huge
bulk of the cathedral looms mysteriously over the town and its soaring
twin spires are sharply outlined against the dim moonlit sky. The towers
are not exact duplicates, as they appear from a distance, but both
exhibit the same general characteristics of Gothic style. The whole
scene is one of enchanting beauty; the dull glow of the river, the
houses massed on the hillside, with lighted windows gleaming here and
there and and crowning all the vast sentinellike form of the
cathedral--a scene that would lose half its charm if viewed by the
flaunting light of day. And we secretly resolve that we shall have no
such disenchantment; we shall steal quietly out of St. Lo in the early
morning with never a backward glance. We do not, therefore, see the
interior of the church, which has several features of peculiar interest,
and we may be pardoned for adopting the description of an English
writer:
"Notre Dame de Saint-Lo has a very unusual and original plan, widening
towards the east and adding another aisle to the north and south
ambulatories. On the north side is its chief curiosity, an out-door
pulpit, built at the end of the fifteenth century and probably used by
Huguenot preachers, to whom a sermon was a sermon, whether preached
under a vaulted roof or the open sky. What strikes one most about the
interior of the church is its want of light. The nave is absolutely
unlighted, having neither tri-forium nor clerestory, and the aisles have
only one tier of large windows, whose glass is old and very fine, though
in most cases pieced together; the nave piers are massive, with a
cluster of three shafts; those of the choir are quite simple, and have
one noticeable feature, the absence of capitals, the vault mouldings
dying away into the pier."
[Illustration: ST. LO FROM THE RIVER]
We shall remember our hotel as the best type of the small-town French
inn--a simple, old-fashioned house where we had attentive service and a
studied effort to please was made by all connected with the place. And
not the least of its merits are its moderate charges--less than half we
paid at many of the larger places, often for less satisfactory
accommodations.
Twenty miles westward from St. Lo we come to Coutances, which boasts of
a cathedral church of the first magnitude and one of the oldest in
Normandy, dating almost in entirety from the thirteenth century. Leaving
the main highway a little beyond Coutances, we follow the narrow byroad
running about a mile from the coast through Granville, a well-known
seaside resort, to Avranches. This road is scarcely more than a winding
lane with many sharp little hills, hedge-bordered in places and often
overarched by trees--a little like the roads of Southern England, a type
not very common in France. South of Granville it closely follows the
shore for a few miles, then swings inland for a mile or two, affording
only occasional glimpses of the sea. Avranches, from its commanding site
on a lofty hill, soon breaks into view, and the Captain suggests
luncheon at the Grand Hotel de France et de Londres, which he says is
famous in this section. Besides, it is well worth while to ascend the
hill for the panorama of St. Michel's Bay, with its cathedral-crowned
islet, which may be seen to the best advantage from the town. It is a
stiff, winding climb to the summit, but we reach the cobble-paved,
vine-embowered court of the hotel just in time for dinner. I suppose the
"Londres" was added to the name of the inn with a view of catching the
English-speaking trade, which is considerable in Avranches, since the
town is the stopping-place of many tourists who visit Mont St. Michel.
From the courtyard we are ushered into the dining-room where, after the
fashion of country inns in France, a single long table serves all the
guests. At the head sits the proprietor, a suave, gray-bearded gentleman
who graciously does the courtesies of the table. The meal is quite an
elaborate one and there is plenty of old port wine for the bibulously
inclined. I might say here that this inclusion of wines without extra
charge is a common but not universal practice with the French country
inns; generally these liquors are of the cheapest quality, little better
than vinegar, and one trial will make the average tourist a teetotaler
unless he wishes to order a better grade as an "extra." After the meal
our host comes out to wish us "bon voyage" as we depart and we are at a
loss to understand his intention when he picks up a small ladder and
begins climbing up the wall. We see, however, that a rose-vine bearing a
few beautiful blossoms clings to the stones above a window. The old
gentleman cuts some of the choicest flowers and presents them, with a
gracious bow, to the lady of our party.
The new causeway makes Mont St. Michel easily accessible to motorists
and affords a splendid view as one approaches the towered and pinnacled
rock and the little town that climbs its steep sides. Formerly the tide
covered the rough road that led to the mount, much the same as it still
covers the approach to the Cornish St. Michael; but the new grade is
above high-tide level and the abbey may be reached at any time of the
day. It is a wearisome climb to the summit--for the car cannot enter the
narrow streets of the town--and for some time we wait the pleasure of
the guide, who, being a government official, does not permit himself to
be unduly hurried. He speaks only French and but for the Captain's
services we should know little of his story. To our half-serious remark
that a lift would save visitors some hard work he replies with a shrug,
"A lift in Mont St. Michel? It wouldn't be Mont St. Michel any
longer!"--a hint of how carefully the atmosphere of mediaevalism is
preserved here.
The abbey as it stands to-day is largely the result of an extensive
restoration begun by the government in 1863. This accounts for the
surprisingly perfect condition of much of the building, and it also
confirms the wisdom of the undertaking by which a great service has been
rendered to architecture. Previous to the restoration the abbey was used
as a prison, but it is now chiefly a show-place, though services are
regularly conducted in the chapel. Especially noteworthy are the
cloisters, a thirteenth-century reproduction, with two hundred and
twenty columns of polished granite embedded in the wall and ranged in
double arcades, the graceful vaults decorated with exquisite carving and
a beautiful frieze. The most notable apartment is the Hall of the
Chevaliers, likewise a thirteenth-century replica. The vaulting of solid
stone is supported by a triple row of massive columns running the full
length of nearly one hundred feet--like ranks of giant tree trunks.
There is a beautiful chapel and dungeons and crypts galore, the names of
which we made no attempt to remember. Likewise we gave little attention
to the historic episodes of the mount, which are not of great
importance. The interest of the tourist centers in the remarkably
striking effect of the great group of Gothic buildings crowning the rock
and in the artistic beauty of the architectural details. Many wonderful
views of the sea and of the hills and towns around the bay may be seen
to splendid advantage from the terraces and battlements. There are a
number of pleasant little tea gardens where one may order light
refreshments and in the meanwhile enjoy a most inspiring view of the sea
and distant landscape. The little town at the foot of the rock is a
quaint old-world place with a single street but a few feet wide. The
small population subsists on tourist trade--restaurants and souvenir
shops making up the village. Little is doing to-day, as we are in
advance of the liveliest season. The greatest number of visitors come on
Sunday--a gala day at Mont St. Michel in summer.
A rough, stony road takes us to St. Malo and adds considerable wearisome
tire trouble to an already strenuous day. We are glad to stop at the
Hotel de Univers, even though it is not prepossessing from without.
[Illustration: A STREET IN ST. MALO]
St. Malo's antiquity and quaintness are its stock in trade, and these,
together with its position on a peninsula, with the sea on every hand,
make it one of the most popular resorts in France. Steamers from
Southampton bring numbers of English visitors--we find no interpreter
needed at the hotel. The town is encircled by walls, the greater part
recently restored. They are none the less picturesque and the mighty
towers at the entrance gateways savor strongly indeed of mediaevalism.
In the older part of the town the streets are so narrow and crooked as
to exclude motors, the widest not exceeding twenty feet, and there are
seldom walks on either side. The houses bordering them show every
evidence of age--St. Malo is best described by the often overworked
term, "old-world." The huge church--formerly a cathedral--is so hedged
in by buildings that it is impossible to get a good view of the exterior
or to take a satisfactory photograph. As a result of such crowding it is
poorly lighted inside, though it really has an impressive interior. A
walk round the walls or ramparts of St. Malo affords a wonderful view of
the sea and surrounding country and also many interesting glimpses of
queer nooks and corners in the town itself. The bay is finest at full
tide, which rises here to the astonishing height of forty-nine feet
above low water. There are numerous fortified islands and it is possible
to reach some of these on foot when the tide is out. St. Malo was
besieged many times during the endless wars between England and France,
but owing to its remarkable fortifications was never taken.
There is more rough, badly worn road between St. Malo and Rennes, though
in the main it is broad and level. Its effect on tires is indeed
disheartening--we have run less than a thousand miles since landing and
new envelopes are showing signs of dissolution. Part of the game, no
doubt, but it is hard to be cheerful losers in such a game, to say the
least.
Rennes, we find, has other claims to fame than the Dreyfus trial, which
is the first distinction that comes to mind. Its public museum and
galleries contain one of the best provincial collections in France, and
there is an imposing modern cathedral. We have an excellent lunch at the
Grand Hotel, though it is a dingy-looking place that would hardly invite
a lengthy stop if appearances should be considered. It is not Baedeker's
number one and there is doubtless a better hotel in Rennes.
The road which we follow in leaving the town is the best we have yet
traversed in France; it is broad, straight and newly surfaced, and the
thirty or more miles to Chateaubriant are rapidly covered. Here we find
an ancient town of a few thousand people, and an enormous old castle
partly in ruins, a fit match for Conway or Harlech in Britain. Its
square-topped, crenelated towers and long embrasured battlements are
quite different from the pointed Gothic style of the usual French
chateau.
Beyond Chateaubriant the road runs broad and straight for miles through
a beautiful and prosperous country. Evidently the land is immensely
fertile and tilled with the thoroughness that characterizes French
agriculture. The small village is the only discordant note. We pass
through several all alike, bare, dirty and uninteresting, quite
different from the trim, flower-decked beauty of the English village.
And they grow steadily more repulsive as we progress farther inland
until, as we near the German border--but the subject is not pleasant
enough to anticipate!
[Illustration: WOODS IN BRITTANY
From original painting by Leon Richet]
Angers is a cathedral town of eighty thousand people on the River Maine,
two or three miles above its confluence with the Loire. It is of ancient
origin, but the French passion for making everything new (according to
an English critic) has swept away most of its old-time landmarks save
the castle and cathedral. The former was one of the most extensive
mediaeval fortresses in all France and is still imposing, despite the
fact that several of its original seventeen towers have been razed and
its great moat filled up. It is now more massive than picturesque. "It
has no beauty, no grace, no detail, nothing to charm or detain you; it
is simply very old and very big and it takes its place in your
recollections as a perfect specimen of a superannuated feudal
stronghold." The huge bastions, girded with iron bands, and the high
perpendicular walls springing out of the dark waters of the moat must
have made the castle impregnable against any method of assault before
the days of artillery. The castle is easily the most distinctive feature
of Angers and the one every visitor should see, though I must confess we
failed to visit it. We should also have seen the cathedral and museum,
but museums consume time and time is the first consideration on a motor
tour.
Our Hotel, the Grand, though old, is cleanly and pleasant, with high
ceilings and broad corridors which have immense full-length mirrors at
every turn. The prices for all this magnificence are quite
moderate--largely due, no doubt, to the Captain's prearrangement with
the manager. The service, however, is a little slack, especially at the
table.
At Angers we are in the edge of the Chateau District, and as my chapter
has already run to considerable length, I shall avail myself of this
logical stopping place. The story of the French chateaus has filled many
a good-sized volume and may well occupy a separate chapter in this
rather hurried record.
II
THE CHATEAU DISTRICT
For more than two hundred miles after leaving Angers we follow a road
that may justly be described as one of the most unique and picturesque
in France. It seldom takes us out of sight of the shining Loire and most
of the way it runs on an embankment directly overlooking the river,
affording a panoramic view of the fertile valley which stretches to
green hills on either side. The embankment is primarily to confine the
waters during freshets, but its broad level top makes an excellent
roadbed, which is generally in good condition. A few miles out of Angers
we get our first view of the Loire, a majestic river three or four
hundred yards in width and in full flow at the present time. Occasional
islets add to the beauty of the scene and the landscape on either hand
is studded with splendid trees. It is an opulent-looking country and we
pass miles of green fields interspersed at times with unbroken stretches
of forest. There are several towns and villages on both sides of the
river and they are cleaner and better in appearance than those we passed
yesterday. Near Tours the country becomes more broken and the hillsides
are covered with endless vineyards. In places the clifflike hills rise
close to the roadside and these are honeycombed with caves; some are
occupied as dwellings by the peasants, but the greater number serve as
storage cellars for wine, which is produced in large quantities in this
vicinity. These modern "cliff-dwellers" are not so poor as their homes
would indicate; there are many well-to-do peasants among them. In fact,
the very poor are scarce in rural France; the universal habits of
industry and economy have spread prosperity among all classes of people;
rough attire and squalid surroundings are seldom indicative of real
poverty, as in England. Everybody is engaged in some useful
occupation--old women may be seen herding a cow, donkey or geese by the
roadside and knitting industriously the while.
Tours is one of the most beautiful of the older French provincial
cities. We have a fine view of the town from across the Loire as we
approach, for it lies on the south side of the river. It is a famous
tourist center--perhaps the first objective, after Paris, of the
majority of Americans and English, and it has several pretentious
hotels. We choose the newest, the Metropole, which proves very
satisfactory. Here the Captain's wiles fail to reduce the first-named
tariff, for the hotel is full, and we can only guess what the charge
might have been if not agreed upon in advance. In defense of his
bargaining the Captain tells a story of a previous trip he made with an
American party in Italy. English was spoken at a hotel where one of the
party asked the rates and the proprietor, assuming that his prospective
guests did not understand the language of the country, had a little
by-talk with a henchman as to charges and remarked that the tourists,
being Americans, would probably stand three or four times the regular
rates, which the inn-keeper proceeded to ask. He was greatly chagrinned
when the Captain repeated the substance of the conversation he had heard
and told the would-be robber that the party would seek accommodations
elsewhere.
I will let this little digression take the place of descriptive remarks
concerning Tours, which has probably been written about more than any
other city in France excepting Paris. The cathedral everyone will see;
it is especially noteworthy for the facade, which is the best and most
ornate example of the so-called Flamboyant style in existence. The great
Renaissance towers are comparatively modern and to our mind lack the
grace and fitness of the pointed Gothic style.