THE HAUTE BALAGNE.
The road from Calvi to Belgodere, usually the third day's journey from
Bastia, mounts nearly the whole way, Calvi being on the sea level, and
the village of Belgodere high up amongst the hills. It passes along
one of the most famous routes in Corsica, that which runs through the
mountains overlooking the Haute and Basse Balagne.
The Balagne shares with Cap Corse the reputation of being the richest
and best cultivated district in Corsica, and consists of a splendid
valley, apparently from three to seven miles wide, filled with rich
grain fields and vineyards, and scattered with fruit trees. Oranges,
cherries, and figs lined the road, and crept down towards the valley,
varied by thick groves of olives. As the road ascended more and more,
the view across the valley becomes more extensive and magnificent,
until at length the most splendid panorama of mountain ranges, of snow
Alps, and of peeps of blue sea, lies before the traveller.
Both Mr. Lear and Miss Campbell speak of this Balagne country as one
of the most beautiful conceivable, and its views as unparalleled; but,
unfortunately for us, we passed the first half of it in a downpour that
veiled everything a dozen yards off with a thick white curtain. The
second half was seen imperfectly, yet grandly, as the sun broke out in
gleams, parting the mists in eccentric mood; showing here a mountain,
there a bit of sea, and further on a line of sparkling valley.
For several miles we had to return upon our yesterday's road, but
at Lumio branched off. The castle was wrapped in a grey cloak this
morning; and long before we could see them, we heard the numerous
swollen cascades rushing down the hillside in front of us, then dashing
below in a leaping waterfall as we passed over the stone bridge.
The drenching rain had now continued three hours, making a temporary
bath of the bottom of our carriage, and dripping in a melancholy
sequence of drops through the rather ancient hood above our heads.
Stopping at the half-way house, to bait the horses, we found they were
better off than we, for that absolutely nothing was procurable for
lunch but sour bread and uneatable goat's cheese.
Both mind and body were beginning to feel thoroughly damped, when a
sudden lifting of the clouds, and ray of blessed sunshine, revived our
hopes and restored our equanimity. We left off feeding the handsome,
timid retriever, who, sitting half-drowned in the middle of the river
course which we called our road, was gratefully accepting bits of brown
dusty bread, and began to look about us. All around the olives were
trembling with the rain, looking more purely silver than ever with the
dewdrops hanging on their grey foliage, and beneath our feet stretched
the rich, winding valley, filled with rolling banks of vapour.
Scattered thickly over the valley were the houses of the proprietors;
and a village nestled in every available mountain cranny, and on many
a hill top.
Speloncato especially, a village on the summit of a very high conical
hill, is most picturesque, and followed us all the way to Belgodere,
the road winding round it.
The sun had a magical effect, not only in lifting the thick curtain
that hung before nature's fine panorama, but in drying the broad level
road. The roads throughout Corsica, with very few exceptions, are first
rate. They are kept smooth and in good repair, and are often soft as
park drives. Many of them were constructed by the First Napoleon, and
are perhaps his best legacy to his native land.
In an hour the water course had almost dried up, and the steep ascent
became less dragging to the tired horses.
A lovely snow mountain rose suddenly up from the very road-side, and a
cold wind blew between the crevices of the hills upon us.
Belgodere is a large, picturesquely placed village of twelve hundred
inhabitants, rising up the side of a sugar loaf hill, backed by
ranges of mountains, and looking over lower hills in front to the
Mediterranean below.
The tiny village inn was more unpretentious than any we had yet seen.
The doorway was about equal to that of a labourer's cottage in England,
and the little broken wooden staircase up which we went was dark and
dirty. The bedrooms, however, were a pleasing disappointment. There
were only two in the house, prepared for the reception of guests;
but they were spotlessly clean, and, as we afterwards found, very
comfortable.
The man and his wife, as usual accompanied by all the family, (in
this case only consisting of an octogenarian father, one or two small
children, and four cats,) escorted us to our rooms, and apologized for
the fact that we could not have the third room, as it was occupied by
"les vers." This explanation rather tickling my curiosity, and being
anxious to know whether "les vers" could, by any possibility, desert
their room for ours, which I felt undesirable, I presently peeped into
the third apartment, and found it a mass of sleepy silk-worms, hard
at work absorbing cabbage leaves. In this part of the country, a great
many silk-worms are kept, and they are more lucrative than occasional
guests. This was not the only occasion on which we found them filling
one of the best bedrooms, to our exclusion.
After depositing our wraps, we went out, and were conjured to mount the
"Rocher" on the very top of the hill; where, as our landlady informed
us, all "les Anglais" went to see the view of the Balagne.
The opinion of society, as expressed in the inn, being too much for
us, we accordingly climbed over stony ruts, and up a steep stone
staircase to the Rocher, in a tearing wind, and escorted by twenty or
thirty excited children. There we found the view, as we had expected,
precisely the same as that we had seen on our drive hither.
We accordingly returned to our six o'clock dinner, when we were
informed that we must not open the windows of the little sitting-room,
as the silk-worms did not like it, and it might give them cold!
The dinner was, as usual, very good, consisting of soup, a very
excellent little Mediterranean fish, called sahl, haricot beans,
and fowl, finishing with the national dish of broccia. Broccia, or
"brasch," as some of the country people call it, is a pudding made
of the pressed curds of goat's milk. You get it almost every day for
breakfast, lunch, or dinner, in the inland parts of the island, and it
is excellent, mixed either with a little lemon, or a sauce of brandy
and sugar. It is a trifle insipid by itself.
After dinner, the cats all paid us a visit, and then the dear old
octogenarian came in and had a chat, showing us an Italian sort of
_British Workman_, profusely illustrated, which he seemed to consider
an untold treasure, and which he said had been given him two years ago,
by a "gentille jeune Anglaise."