CORTE AND ITS HOTEL.
From Ponte alle Lecchia the road follows the course of the foaming
river Vecchio for a long way, along a wide valley, where the green
hills circling round are somewhat monotonous for a time, but presently
turn into handsome grey and white limestone cliffs, hanging in one
place in wild and curious peaks above the passing carriage.
After the large village of Cabouralino, the scenery becomes tamer
again, the ground more cultivated, flocks of black and white silky
haired goats with silvery bells passing us constantly.
The road, too, was here alive with men riding mules, and leading after
them by a cord a string of other mules with packs on their backs. It
was a matter of difficulty to pass some of these mules, who were not
accustomed to "carriage company," and who backed towards the precipice
occasionally, kicking wildly, to the discomfiture of their owners.
This part of the country was the scene of the battle of Ponte Nuovo,
in 1769, the last battle fought for Corsican independence; and the date
from which Corsica became a French province. It has a touching interest
for this reason, and on account of its being a witness to the last vain
effort of Paoli in his country's cause.
But now we were leaving the river, with its foaming waters and its
bloody memories, over which the fine thoughtful face of Pasquale Paoli
seemed to cast a humanizing influence, and were ascending the mountains
under a blue sky.
Vast quantities of handsome hellebore, with large ball-like clumps
of flowers, and of a species of pale green spurge (its flowers like
a number of yellow caterpillars attached to the stem), grew by the
roadside; ilex-trees scattered themselves up and down rocks of every
form and height, above and below the road, and the mountains all round
us became more and more covered with snow. Here and there were placed
villages in lofty and commanding situations; one especially, named
Suaria, which was perched just above us on a conical green hill rising
from the road-side. The village was partially hidden by firs and ilexes
crowning this pretty eminence; but the high four-storied campanile of
Suaria Church stood out, white and imposing, above their sheltering
branches. Very cold and frosty was the wind, notwithstanding the
brilliant sun, as we reached the summit of the pass; but the view of
mountain scenery spread out beneath us was magnificent.
And now we began our descent through many a tree-covered hill, towards
Corte, its high, red-tiled houses visible miles before we reached
it. Corte, the central inland town of Corsica, is, after Bastia and
Ajaccio, the largest town in the island, and has a position unequalled
for wild beauty.
It lies in the very heart of the wildest mountains of Corsica,
surrounded on every side by their gaunt and precipitous flanks.
Monte Rotondo, one of the highest of the inland chain, raises its
snow-crowned head to look over the solemn blue-grey hills immediately
behind Corte; and two broad foaming rivers dash down the gully beside
the town, and unite, after passing under their handsome stone bridges,
in the narrow valley just beneath.
Corte is itself at no mean height above the sea level; and, at the
time of our first visit, was exceedingly cold, with a sharp north wind
rushing through the town from the numerous mountain ravines.
The citadel, which of itself is not much, is built, with
extraordinarily picturesque effect, upon the summit of a precipitous
hill, rising from the midst of the town; up whose sides run a few
houses, until the overhanging rocks force them to give place to the
prickly pear. The main streets in Corte are wide, and paved with rough
stone, with enormously high, factory-like houses, of seven or even
eight stories, on each side. The houses are remarkably hideous, even
for Corsica; built of dirty white stone, and red roofed, without any
eaves, the windows irregular and poor, and the open doorways (into
large buildings) often showing dirty and poverty-stricken interiors.
Very steep side streets, impassable for carriages, and sometimes giving
place to a series of stone steps, lead up into the higher parts of the
town, and towards the citadel and church.
Fine elm-trees make a nice avenue all up the main road, at the end of
which are the two respectable hotels of Corte, Hotels Pierracci and
Paoli, so precisely opposite that the rival guests can look into each
other's windows.
If it were not for its dirt, and its ugly houses, the beauty of Corte
would be almost unrivalled in European scenery. How one sighs in
Corsica for the lovely grey cottages with broad eaves, and for the
stately art-decorated mansions with graceful towers, of beauty-loving
Italy!
No such thing is to be seen here. I doubt if, from one end of Corsica
to the other, there is one building with any pretensions to real
architectural beauty.
Art has never been much cultivated in the island. A people who for
centuries have lived in a condition of incessant warfare and personal
insecurity have but little time or inclination to indulge in the
peaceful pursuits of their more luxurious neighbours; and Corsican
architecture partakes of the Corsican character, being stern, rugged,
and primitive. Many a village, nestled in some exquisite situation
among snow-capped hills and orange groves, we found perfectly ruined,
in an artistic point of view, by its ugly dwellings.
The churches are the only redeeming feature in Corsican architecture.
Their campaniles, or bell-towers, are generally lofty and picturesque,
divided into several stories, and standing apart from the body of the
church.
Hotel Pierracci, which had been recommended to us, we found a fair
hotel in many respects, but intensely national in its peculiarities.
The despotic Briton, coming straight from club luxuries and obsequious
attentions, would feel himself decidedly out of place there, and not a
little miserable.
It is a large hotel, with two handsome dining-rooms, and spacious,
well-furnished bedrooms; and although the broad stone staircase is
somewhat odoriferous and the passages not over clean, yet the rooms are
comfortable and perfectly above suspicion.
But, for the whole of this large establishment, generally well filled
with a constantly changing series of guests, there appeared to be only
one terribly overworked young waiter, and an elderly maid of all work,
(exclusive of the kitchen department).
The result was, that even if you had that un-Corsican luxury of a bell
in your room, which was not often, its repeated calls were unheeded;
and you had speedily to learn and put in practice that great law of
uncivilized regions, "If you want anything done, do it yourself."
As, however, every domestic was in a gasping hurry, and the
big landlady--a mixture of sudden irascibility and occasional
benevolence--was apt to regard your wants as puerile, and, Corsican
fashion, to tell you so loudly to your face--a foray in dressing-gown
and slippers to the kitchen, after hot water, or cleaned boots, or any
other necessity of man and woman, was apt to end in ignominy and the
trial of English tempers. The crockery and cutlery of Hotel Pierracci
also run notably short.
It was a current joke amongst the English visitors, that the one
coffee-pot of the establishment not only supplied all the numerous
breakfast-tables of the different guests, but also did duty on
occasions for shaving and toilette water. And this fact I can believe;
for one morning, having by persistent obstinacy triumphed over the
difficulties of obtaining a little hot water for dressing purposes,
my tin jug was fetched away almost immediately afterwards, and I was
astonished to see it reappearing on the breakfast table ten minutes
later in its habitual guise of coffee-pot.
At breakfast this same coffee-pot was the cause of continual contention
between the worried little waiter and ourselves. When it pleased him to
give us our breakfast, he used to run in, fill our cups hastily, and
whisk out again with his precious pot; and no entreaties or commands
would persuade him to leave that invaluable and useful little metal
jug behind him, or even to return with it and refill our cups. I think
there was a bond of sympathy between that waiter and his coffee-pot,
both so terribly overworked.
The food at Hotel Pierracci was good, but rather scarce, and it was
difficult to make a dinner off the microscopic scraps which adorned
the dishes during the eight courses of the table d'hôte. We noticed
this particularly on our road home again, when perhaps our long
stay in mountain air and the fine Corsican climate had increased our
correct English appetites to a country voracity. But, on the whole,
for Corsica, Hotel Pierracci may be considered a very comfortable
hotel; and, excepting that at Sartene, which is also a good one, has
the reputation of being almost the only large and handsome hotel out of
Ajaccio.
Hotel Paoli, we were told afterwards by some French acquaintances, was
clean and well ordered, with good rooms and very moderate charges; but
we did not go inside the place.