A THIRTEEN HOURS' DRIVE.
At Corte we bade adieu to our not too fascinating Bastia coachman; and
the journey to Ajaccio we performed by diligence.
The diligences that run between Corte and Ajaccio are not numerous, nor
very convenient. Only one, going every other day, has a good banquette.
The daily diligence, which is a poor stuffy little concern, goes, by
way of a Hibernianism, at ten o'clock every night; and all the journey
is performed in the dark.
As we, however, came to see the country, we waited for the "diligence
de la Concurrence," as the best diligence is called, and engaged the
three banquette seats. And very good ones they were, high up behind
the coachman's box, and completely open, save for a hood which could be
raised or lowered at will. From this place we saw the country well, and
the seat was roomy enough for three not very corpulent people.
It is a matter of some difficulty to discover the facts about the
Ajaccio diligences. The hotels are in league with one or another
of them, and the result is a profound ignorance concerning any but
the favoured vehicle, which is not conducive to the comfort of the
traveller.
For instance, Madame Pierracci unfortunately favoured the stuffy and
banquetteless diligence; she therefore swore by all her household gods
that no other was in existence, and that by no possibility could we go
at any other time, or by any other conveyance than the night diligence.
She even denied the existence of any private vehicles whatever, that
would hold our luggage, or more than two persons.
It was only after going out ourselves to make inquiries, that we found
that a man of the name of Laurenz would supply a private omnibus to
Ajaccio and back for sixty francs; and that M. Dionyse's "diligence
de la Concurrence," of which the office was only a few doors from
the hotel, ran every other morning to the capital. This is the best
diligence in Corsica; and, for the modest sum of eleven francs, you may
travel the twelve hours in the banquette, behind very fair horses.
We started about six a.m., changing horses five times, and reaching
Ajaccio at seven in the evening; but the journey is not generally so
long.
It was an exquisite day, and the sun, even so early in the morning, was
"deliciously baking," said No. 3, "decidedly oppressive," said No. 1.
We departed in style, with our coachman on one side of the box and
our conductor on the other, with five horses, and an energetic little
black dog perched on the roof of the carriage, who evidently believed
himself the guardian of the whole concern, and at the approach of every
stranger ran, frantically barking, backwards and forwards, along his
elevated platform, to the imminent risk of his neck. Once, indeed, the
small beast overbalanced himself, and was only saved by alighting on
the conductor's shoulder, where he was quickly transferred to No. 2's
knee, and his acquaintance cultivated.
During the whole journey the conductor remains the same, but the
coachman changes with each relay of horses. The conductor was a big,
fine man, with a good head, and remarkably well-informed. As, however,
he thought it necessary to descend and refresh himself ("with a little
water," as he remarked innocently) at every village we passed, his
conversation became less interesting and his company rather less
agreeable towards the middle of the day; and we were not sorry when
he found it necessary to retire to the summit of the diligence, and
the terrier's company, for an hour or two of snoring repose. Both he
and the coachman were armed with an enormously long whip, some five or
six yards in length; and with these they simultaneously slashed at the
poor horses whenever we came to any steep hill. This duty was, however,
sometimes undertaken by a juvenile amateur of thirteen or fourteen,
whose business and pleasure it was to run along by the side of the
panting horses, cracking the long whip furiously against their steaming
flanks, and encouraging them with every conceivable Corsican epithet of
abuse and entreaty.
The road to Vivario, where was the mid-day halt, was for some time a
continual ascent among beautiful views of snow-streaked ranges on both
sides.
Further on, we passed through an avenue of chestnuts, not yet, however,
in leaf, the great boles standing by the roadside among picturesque
green and grey moss-covered boulders of limestone, from between which
darted sparkling little streams and many waterfalls.
When we again passed over this ground in June, the place was a soft
fairyland of beauty, the bright green chestnuts bending lovingly over
the great stones, and throwing dappled light and shade over the uneven
turf.
Monte Rotondo had accompanied us part of the way from Corte, but,
at the large village of Serraggio, Monte D'Oro's great white flanks
started out in dazzling brilliancy, and continued for the rest of the
way to take its place.
Serraggio is beautifully situated; but it is not a tempting-looking
village. The houses are tumble-down and dirty, and the pigs appear to
walk amicably in and out of the houses.
From Serraggio to Vivario, passing by Ponte Vecchio, the route is
perfectly lovely. It winds through the gorge of the Vecchio, the
river foaming at the bottom, and wildest rocky hills, varied by snow
mountains, rising up on either side. The peaks that stood over us were
of the most eccentric shapes, pointing like grey and brown battlements
up into the unclouded sky, and flowers of every description blossomed
beside our path. The Mediterranean heath, especially, with its delicate
little bell-shaped flowers and strong, sweet scent, grew luxuriantly by
the roadside, generally in height from six to ten feet.
Ponte Vecchio is exquisitely beautiful. At a winding turn in
the road the tall one-arched bridge spans the boiling river and
boulder-strewn gorge, surrounded by every eccentricity of rocky hill
and pine-scattered snow mountain.
It was evidently considered rather a show place, for the driver pulled
up his vehicle, and we all descended to take a good look. Perhaps,
too, he was not averse to resting his horses before the final climb to
Vivario, for he gave a ready assent to the proposal of Nos. 2 and 3,
that they should finish the distance on foot.
"How far is it?" we asked.
"About two kilomètres, mademoiselle."
We had heard of the Corsican inability to reckon distances; but,
unfortunately, at the moment forgot it. So we set off, after a few
minutes' rest above the lovely gorge, in an easy stroll after the now
distanced diligence, nothing suspecting, and prepared to enjoy our mile
and a half walk.
The views were exquisite,--snow mountains rising before us on every
side; but the ascent was uncommonly steep, and our pace insensibly
slackened.
Only as the sun, after half an hour's retirement, came out in noonday
force did we recollect that we had left our umbrellas in the diligence.
We began to boil as we toiled up the steep hill, with our pocket
handkerchiefs under our hats, and the mocking diligence, ever
decreasing, yet ever in sight, winding up the endless glare of white
road above and beyond us. And still no village to be seen!
Presently we were overtaken by some native workmen going up the road
with their tools. They increased their pace to come up with us, and
then walked beside us conversing.
"How far is it to Vivario from here?" we asked, thinking surely we must
be near our goal.
"About five kilomètres, mademoiselle," was the answer we received, to
our mortification; almost immediately followed by the usual question,
"Are you Frenchwomen?"
"Is it often as hot as this at this time of the year?" we inquired, as
we trudged on despairingly.
"This hot? It is not hot now; this is only spring," was the
unsympathetic reply.
We walked on so fast that we distanced our companions, who seemed
astonished at the energy of Englishwomen, and stopped to remark upon
it to some friendly road-menders a little further on. It was certainly
six or seven kilomètres before, with faces like boiled lobsters, and
much tried equanimity, we reached the promised land of Vivario, and,
passing through a stable-yard of odoriferous propensities, ascended a
little steep wooden staircase, or outside ladder, and entered the cool
sitting-room of the village inn.
The Vivario inn is really superior. The people are civil and obliging,
the bedrooms are beautifully clean, the little sitting-room is nicely
furnished, and there is an air of comfort and refinement about the
household arrangements not often to be found elsewhere in Corsica. It
possesses also a really charmingly furnished private sitting-room, full
of rugs, pictures, easy-chairs, and other luxuries, as a rule unknown
to Corsica, where any one in search of lovely scenery and healthy
mountain air might well spend a week or two with great pleasure.
When we arrived, lunch was ready. We were a snug little party of four
ladies and two gentlemen, the strangers being French; and we improved
our acquaintance with each other rapidly as we satisfied our hungry
appetites and discussed our sweetbreads, duck, broccia, and dessert.
It was a short acquaintance, however; for on reaching Ajaccio our
foreign friends went to the Hôtel de France, whilst we went to Hôtel
Germania, and we saw no more of each other.
After a good rest and refreshment, we started anew, with fresh horses,
for the Foce Pass.
The people of Vivario had all assembled to see us off, and two priests
walked up and down amongst their flock, pretending to read, but in
reality as much interested in the strangers as the smallest of the
crowd. As the diligence rolled off with a "Hué, yoop!" from the
driver, we nodded good-bye to the friendly looking assembly, and a
number of hats were immediately taken off, the men wishing us "salut"
or "bonjour." Only the two priests declined to take any notice of us,
and retired to a low wall a few yards off, where, sheltered, as they
fancied, by their shady wideawakes, they peered at us curiously out of
the corners of their eyes.
It was a terrible mount up to the top of the Foce Pass, and, long
before we reached it, the five poor horses were exhausted with pulling,
and driver and conductor with beating. Amateur flagellants were at a
premium, as we toiled painfully up the smooth road, steep as the side
of a house, with greenhouse shrubs bordering it, fir-trees on the hills
above, and snow mountains overhanging them.
In two or three hour's we reached the forest of Vizzavona, and
continued to pass right through it. The forests of Corsica are almost
the _specialité_ of the country.
Wide and trackless, whole mountains are covered by these splendid
forests, in many of which the sound of the hatchet has never been
heard, nor the foot of man passed, but where the birds, the snakes, and
the insects live and die unmolested. The trees which compose them are
often magnificent, and consist of larches, pines, firs, beeches, and
chestnuts, with a mixture of other kinds.
The Larriccio pine, which sometimes attains a height of two hundred
feet, almost without branches, but with a thick leafy tuft at the
summit of the long straight stem, is a peculiar beauty of Corsica, and,
I believe, almost unknown elsewhere.
The chief forests in the island are those of Sorba and Vizzavona in the
centre, Aitone and Valdoniello in the north, and Cagna and Bavella in
the south. Cagna and Valdoniello are the largest, stretching over miles
of hill and dale, and fighting with the snow for the rocky ledges on
the mountain crests.
Vizzavona, Valdoniello, and Bavella are almost equally beautiful, and
Sorba not much behind them; but perhaps the views on each side of the
Bocca di Bavella, or Bavella Pass, are the finest in Corsica.
Half of the forest of Vizzavona consists of beeches, and the other half
of pines; but there are also a good many chestnuts, which were not yet
in leaf.
Red and brown branches mixed with the soft young green of the beeches,
and the darker hue of the pines, as we mounted the steep ascent under
a thick avenue; through which, on the descending side, came glimpses
of the dazzling snow of Monte Rotondo, rising up from beneath us to a
giddy height in the cloudy sky.
Countless bags of caterpillars hung from every tree, and from the
branches above our heads. These bags were some of them a foot long, and
had the appearance of white muslin. It seemed as if it was Christmas
Day in the forest, and a quantity of nomad cooks had hung out their
pudding bags upon the boughs. After a while, snow patches began to
show, and, when at last we reached the summit, thick snow lay all
around us.
A young Corsican who sat on the box before us was friendly and
communicative, and, a little while before reaching the pass, pointed
out to us a queer little isolated fort, standing on a lonely hill-top
just above the forest; which, as he informed us, with a twinkle of his
eye, was built to defend the pass "from the English invader."
Stone shanties, with log or pebble roofs, stood here and there along
the steep roadside--mere hovels, built for the accommodation of the
road-menders, or _cantonniers_; and, except the little grey fort on its
exposed hill, were the only signs of human life, past or present, in
the lonely forest.
We paused for a few minutes on the top of the pass to let the horses
regain their breath, to look to the harness for the long steep descent,
and probably also for the conductor to refresh himself with another
dose of "water" at the miserable little inn on the plateau.
The two leaders also were loosed from the traces, and, with a parting
flick at their hind quarters, were sent cantering down the road in
front of us. Meanwhile, we got down from our perch, and tasted Corsican
snow for the first time.
The col, or Bocca, was bare of trees; and we looked down upon
magnificent views. These cols are nearly always denuded of vegetation,
even when surrounded on every side by rich forests. Exposed to the
winds from every quarter, they rise out of their green nest, grey and
bleak, like a bald head surrounded by a thick monastic fringe.
On one side of us lay the forest through which we had passed; on the
other lay a chain of blue inland hills and valleys, and the chestnut
region of Bocognano. Indigo clouds, fringed and angry, hung above, and
everything was toned down to the same deep stormy blue, as the thunder
growled heavily beneath us.
The snow lies exceedingly thick upon the Foce Pass in winter, and only
three weeks before our arrival some fellow-countrymen of ours had
experienced the difficulty of crossing the island between Corte and
Ajaccio. The diligence had broken down, and they had been compelled to
walk nine miles through heavy snow to the nearest halting-place; and
this in the month of March. Yet it gave one almost a shudder to leave
the cold, clear bracing air of the col, with its sunny sky and snowy
hills, for the blue-black growling inferno at our feet. But it had to
be done, and we little guessed with what celerity.
No sooner were the passengers reseated, and the driver and conductor
each in his place, than both the long whips began to play furiously,
the horses were put into a gallop, and down we went, flying over the
steep winding road like the wind, the men shouting madly, the carriage
swaying from side to side, and the rocks and trees passing us as in a
dream.
Every corner turned was a miracle of skill on the part of the clever
horses, and, as we hung mid-air over the precipice, balanced like
Mahomet's coffin twixt earth and heaven, we one and all mentally
breathed our last prayer, and thought of the obituary columns of the
_Times_ or _Galignani_.
The pace grew more fast and furious, and the fun more boisterous than
ever when we sighted a porcine happy family on the road before us, and
enjoyed the sport of a chase.
Certainly those pigs ran as never could run British or civilized
pigs. The family consisted of a stout mamma, three little ones, and a
handsome large papa, one of the "hogs of the country," with a good deal
of the wild boar about him, being of a bright orange colour, with high,
stiff, black bristles up his back. The chase was kept up for a mile or
two, with wonderful spirit on the part of the exhausted pigs, and amid
a chorus of laughter from drivers and passengers, until at length a
little roughness in the side of the road allowed the panting, squeaking
victims to escape down the precipitous slope.
Chasing the two leaders seemed tame work after this; and No. 3 ventured
to put in a word for the general safety of the public.
"Have the goodness," she said with dignity, touching the arm of the
conductor, and casually moving her other hand towards the region of her
pocket, "to go a little slower. This pace is unsafe."
The conductor looked at her with a grin of good-humoured contempt.
"Oh," said he briefly, and as if it settled the point, "les femmes ont
toujours peur!"
"I am not afraid," she responded (I fear not very truthfully), "but I
possess only one neck, and I do not wish to break it!"
"Well, I have only one neck too!"
"Ah! but yours is evidently of less value to you than mine, or you
would not risk it so lightly."
A shrug, and a mutter concerning the relative value of heads, male
and female, was heard indistinctly; but the exordium was not without
its effect, and, rather to our astonishment, the conductor allowed his
whip to be influenced by the words of woman. For the next few miles,
we were allowed to run down the mountain side at a less breakneck pace,
and could enjoy the splendid grey snow-crowned rocks that rose up from
the other side of the gorge beneath us, and the chestnut-covered walls
towering above our heads, with less fear that every look would be our
last, finally reaching the village of Bocognano in safety about four
o'clock.
Our fears were not unjustifiable.
When, some weeks later, we returned up this Foce Pass to Corte in our
own private carriage, I noticed one of the many black wooden crosses
by the roadside about half-way up the pass; and, by chance, asked our
driver if he knew its story.
"Oh yes," said he; "that is where the prefect was killed a year ago."
"How did that happen?" we asked.
"Coming down the pass, something broke in the harness, and of course
the diligence went over the precipice. The coachman (who is a friend
of mine, and told me about it) jumped off somehow and saved himself--he
drives the same diligence now--but of course both horses and passengers
were killed. There happened however, fortunately, to be only one
passenger, the prefect of this part, and he was pitched on his head
just here, and died on the spot."
Had _our_ diligence upset, there would have been seven mortuary crosses
to bedeck the mountain side.