A RAW LUNCH.
It was a lovely sunny morning when we three, in high spirits, set
out on our expedition to the forest of Bavella, and the south of the
island.
Our open carriage was exceedingly comfortable, with a hood in case
of bad weather; the bay horses went well, and the coachman appeared
irreproachable.
There is no feeling in the world so exhilarating and delicious as
that experienced in starting off on a Bohemian tour, without luggage,
without responsibilities, unhampered by fear of railway time-tables
or the care of boxes, dawdling or hurrying at will, starting at what
hour one pleases, and out all day in the fresh mountain air, with _al
fresco_ meals and a turf siesta. It is the gipsy's life, robbed of its
discomforts, but not of its primitive ease and romance.
As we rolled round the circular bay, and up the winding ascent on the
further side, the water sparkled calmly in the glassy mist of morning
sunshine, and the _Agincourt_ lay with deserted deck, like a "painted
ship upon a painted ocean."
But the road leading to the town was already all astir with country
people coming in for the races; and, further on, higher up the hill, as
the pretty white houses of Ajaccio on their spit of land grew less and
less distinct against the blue Mediterranean, we met with more and more
of these.
Men and women, all on muleback, and all seated astride--sometimes two
men, or a woman and boy on one animal--the men with their gun behind
their shoulder, and their red gourd slung by their side,--were driving
strings of cows, horses, and foals before them, for the fair which was
to be held that morning prior to the races.
All the men lifted their caps politely; but some of the animals
objected strongly to us and our carriage, and could scarcely be got to
pass us.
We soon passed away from the sea-coast and the sea views, and entered
the inland country, among green hills, and past a broad river, with
blue and snow-streaked mountains rising up before us.
Presently approaching the village of Cauro or Cavro, where we changed
horses, the mountain of Bastelica stood out in unrivalled grandeur of
white cone above us; and as we slowly ascended the steep road in the
exquisite freshness of morning, the birds sang loudly and continuously
from the banks of white cystus which covered the lower parts of the
wooded slopes lining the road.
Though so early, it was almost too hot to walk; and when we reached
Cauro, the horses were in a bath of perspiration.
From Ajaccio to Cauro and Bastelica is a favourite excursion; but it
is a very long and fatiguing one for one day, and Cauro does not look
a tempting place for a night's rest.
As we left Cauro and continued our steep ascent, the mountains grew
grander, and the trees increased. Maquis of the most delicious sort
followed the roadside, and the air was laden with the strong scent
of the tall Mediterranean heath, which fought with arbutus and cystus
for the foremost place, whilst cyclamen, golden bloom, and hellebore
clustered at their feet.
Here we met some women whose costume astonished us considerably. Their
white handkerchiefs were closely wrapped about their faces as well
as heads, in Mohammedan fashion, covering up all their features, and
leaving only the eyes visible. They appeared to be on their way to
Ajaccio, and were driving a few cows before them; but it seemed more
than probable that they would be suffocated with heat before they got
there. On one other occasion, in the region of Bastia, we met with some
more women dressed after the same uncomfortable fashion, but failed to
discover its meaning.
Up on the summit of the Col, overlooking lovely views, was a most
filthy, picturesque village. Queer little balconies surrounded
half-ruined but inhabited houses, which were approached from the
sloping hill-side by broken-down wooden bridges.
Stalking about in front of one of them, was a dignified and
majestic-looking goat, enormously large, as are many of the Corsican
goats, and of a peculiar piebald--pure white up to the shoulders, and
jet black over head and neck. He seemed to hold the porcine and canine
companions (who, with him, had evidently the right of entry into most
of the houses) in supreme contempt; and it was a marvel to me how he
had preserved the cleanly whiteness of his long hair--for the small
specimens of ragged humanity who sat upon the dung-heaps close by, or
swarmed noisily after the carriage, were so encrusted with dirt as to
leave their original colour a matter of speculation.
But we did not pause long in this unsavoury village. We were soon
through its one little street, dashing down--through green hills, and
by falling streams with trees overhead, with a succession of exquisite
mountain ranges, one layer behind the other, lying before us--to the
cleaner village of Grosseto.
From Grosseto to Bechisano--a hamlet of some size, where we were to
make the mid-day halt--the views were most lovely. For miles we wound
above a verdant gorge, grassy broken hills on either side, and grey
moss-covered rocky cliffs rising immediately beneath us from the bed of
a foaming boulder-strewn river, sometimes hidden by the bending trees
which caressed its rapid stream.
From the pretty stone bridge of two uneven arches which presently
spanned this river, a beautiful view was obtained of winding waters,
green tufted rocks and background of jagged blue mountain tops. Every
turn was a richer study for an artist, and Nos. 1 and 3 lived in a
constant frenzy of effort to secure a sketch, under the unfavourable
conditions of a rapidly descending carriage, and two minutes of time
allowed.
The irritation became a little less when once more we commenced
ascending towards Bechisano; but the sky was now growing heavy and
ominous with dark blue clouds, and the shade cast over us by a great
hill--covered from top to bottom with ilex-trees, some hoary and grey
with age, but for the most part shining in their rich young green with
golden shoots--was no longer welcome, but depressing and gloomy.
Close to Bechisano, and exactly as we reached the summit of the Col
San Georgio, the storm burst upon us. It had been raining more and
more heavily for some time, when suddenly, without a previous rumble of
any kind, came a vivid flash of lightning that blinded us, accompanied
instantaneously by a crash of thunder like the firing of artillery.
After that storm, I never felt a moment's suspicion of Corsican horses.
We were creeping up the hill, the driver walking beside them; and
although he put out his hand and silently clutched the reins, the jump
they gave was almost imperceptible. As for him, he never turned a hair,
but continued his silent reflective walk with the same equanimity,
whilst the lightning flashed about him playfully, and spouts of rain
poured down from his wide-awake hat.
The next hour was spent in a vain endeavour to keep out the driving
sheets of rain which made all nature a blurred blot around us; and when
we got out at Bechisano our feet were in a pool an inch or two deep,
and our shawls made running streams over the floor of the dirty little
inn. This inn was a wretched welcome, even for travellers so drowned
and depressed as we were. There was a better one about half a mile
further on, at the other end of the village; but, through some mistake,
for which he afterwards deeply reproached himself, our driver halted
here.
The little broken glass door led into two very small rooms, one opening
out of the other, both stone floored; with one or two apologies for
chairs, and a greasy table in the first room. This apartment had no
fireplace; so necessity forced us to take refuge in the inner one,
where a few sticks burnt upon the hearth, and where the family of four
or five men and women, a dog, and a due proportion of babies, were
huddled together, but they politely endeavoured to make room for us
and our steaming garments. It was difficult not to stumble over the
smaller fry, as the tiny room appeared to have no window, and was only
partially lit up by gleams from the wood fire.
Logs, however, were piled up for our benefit; and as we made a feeble
effort to dry our soaked feet, a cheerful maiden prepared our mid-day
meal in the next room.
The floor of this room was in such a condition, that, when we entered
and took our places beside the round table, we kept our eyes carefully
turned heavenward, for fear of losing our appetites. We need not have
feared, however, for there was nothing to eat.
Raw ham, with a steel fork sticking in it, was first offered to us; and
when we declined that, then raw fish, and afterwards some third dish,
likewise raw, of what nature I forget. We were hungry, and began to be
desperate.
"Could nothing cooked be had?" inquired No. 3. "For the English do not
eat their food uncooked."
The woman looked amazed and perplexed. "Mais non?" she asked,
incredulously, as we pushed away the unpalatable dishes.
But our relief was great when it turned out that the inn boasted a
small leg of mutton, which could at once be got ready for us. This was
done by placing the meat upon a charred log, with a dish beneath, and
dropping lard upon it. When roasted, it was more like a rabbit leg than
a mutton leg, but was not bad, and, together with a very good omelette,
soon disappeared, to the relief of our famine.
There are but two things which it is safe to order for lunch in
these third-rate Corsican inns, and which are invariably eatable and
good--omelette and broccia.
One of the queerest anomalies in Corsica are the perfectly clean dinner
napkins, with which you are invariably supplied in the poorest inns;
and which contrast with the total absence of tea-spoons and saucers at
breakfast, and the appearance of the dirty two-pronged forks at dinner.
The old man, to whom the establishment belonged, assisted at our
lunch, and was delighted to air his French, which, like his daughter's,
seemed to consist of a capacity of saying half a dozen words, and not
understanding one.
Conversation, under these circumstances, with the most polite
intentions, became somewhat embarrassing; and pleasing diversions were
caused by the entrance of a blind man, led in to the fireside in the
inner room, and the occasional onslaughts made by mine host upon the
juvenile inquirers, who, regardless of the pouring rain, pressed their
wet noses persistently against the panes of the glass door, to obtain
a glimpse of the Inglese.
They had their reward when, shortly afterwards, the carriage came round
again, and we packed ourselves in, amid an admiring crowd.
It was still raining, but not so heavily, and there was no possibility
of a recurrence of the pond beneath our feet, as our driver had bored
three little holes in the flooring of the carriage to act as drainers.
From Bechisano to Propriano, a drive of about four hours, the road is
one continual descent through steep rocky hills of picturesque form;
some covered with shrubs, and some with trees, and often overhanging
the road as it winds by the edge of the precipice.
Not far from Bechisano we passed a great boulder, hanging over the
road and supported by two or three tiny ones, reminding one of a huge
cromlech. Near to it spread a many-tongued waterfall, spanned by a
stone bridge, from under which it poured its heavy volume of water into
the gorge beneath.
Ilex and great hedges of Mediterranean heath grew by the roadside; and,
as we approached the large village of Olmeto, and the hills opened out
a little, a superb panorama of mountains rose behind us.
Olmeto is a gloomy-looking village, perched half-way up the mountain
side ascending from before Propriano.
It has something forbidding about its aspect, and gave one a shudder
as one passed through. The houses are filthy, and many of them lie
in untouched ruins, with here and there a half-broken balcony, and,
much more rarely, an unbroken window; and the men who stand and slouch
at the street corners have a dark, inhospitable, hang-dog look about
them, which is no improvement upon the usual national expression, half
contemptuous, half good-natured, of lethargic pride.
Olmeto and the neighbouring village of Olio have both an exceedingly
bad reputation.
The men out-Herod Herod in idleness, even for Corsicans; and nearly
every man carries his gun and pistol, even to patrol the village
street. Two or three murders occur every year in Olmeto alone; and the
only wonder is that the number is not greater.
The vendetta is of course very strong at Olmeto; and altogether, it
must be an uncomfortable place to live in.
No women at all were visible in the village, either on our passing
through it on our way to Propriano or on our return some days later;
the presumption being, that the weaker but wiser sex were, Corsican
fashion, making up in some degree for the dangerous idleness of their
lords by their own household industry.
Coming back to Ajaccio by this same route, our driver pointed out to
me, near the Col San Georgio, about half-way between Bechisano and
Olmeto, a little maquis-covered hill by the lonely roadside.
There, he said, among the thick shrubs, about a year ago, a man
concealed himself to lay wait for a passing gendarme.
This man's father had been a bandit, whom, in the performance of his
duty, years ago, the gendarme had shot.
Upon the bandit's death, his son had taken to the hills, vowing
vengeance upon his father's murderer.
For years he had waited patiently for his victim, until this day, when
he knew he must pass by alone.
Shot after shot pursued the gendarme from his hidden foe, until at
length one pierced his neck, and laid him stiff upon the grass, where
his dead body was found some time afterwards by a passer-by.
Tombs were scattered along the roadside beyond Olmeto here and there;
and an avenue of young trees was planted for some way down the descent.
The mountains were magnificent; and before us rose a peculiar, high,
conical hill, rearing itself abruptly from the gorge, surmounted by a
crag which bore the most extraordinary likeness to a ruined castle.
Peeps of blue sea shone out at our feet as we went lower and lower;
and presently, turning a corner, the full wide sweep of the Gulf of
Valinco, glittering in evening sunshine, opened out before us. Heavy
white surf lined the red shore, and five or six good-sized charcoal
vessels, trading to Italy, lay in the harbour.
Propriano gleamed white and pretty just above the sea, surrounded
by its many little bays, as we dashed down the hill-side, through
green country lanes, lined by wide hedges of brilliant purple vetch
and ponderous prickly pear. Then, reaching the plain, we wound round
the boggy, sandy shore, and mounted into the little narrow street of
Propriano, full of shouting children and grunting pigs, up to the door
of the Hôtel de France.
Very grand was the title of our inn, but not so grand its exterior,
nor the dirty little staircase and ground floor. The upper storey,
however, showed us a clean, airy, cheerful salle à manger, into which
opened three little bedrooms of inviting appearance, and apparently
irreproachable cleanliness. The muslin window curtains were crisp and
new, the floors were swept, and the blankets, as well as the sheets,
bore inspection. The washing basins, too, were much beyond the usual
regulation size of a soup plate.
Whilst the good and cheap dinner was preparing, Nos. 2 and 3 took a
turn up the little town, and scrambled out upon the sea-shore.
A lovely blood-red sunset showed off to advantage the purple range of
hills opposite, with the Genoese tower at their furthest point, and
cast deep shadows over the Col San Georgio, with its sparkling snow
neighbours, and Olmeto lying on its flanks in sullen twilight. But
it was impossible to enjoy any view with a pursuing crowd of yelling,
mocking children at one's heels; and the usual scourge cut short our
walk.