I have lived for years in the forest of Fontainebleau, the largest
forest in France, and one of the classic forests--I suppose--of the
world. Not in a charcoal-burner’s hut, nor in a cave, but in a town; for
the united towns of Avon and Fontainebleau happen to be in the forest
itself, and you cannot either enter or quit them without passing through
the forest; thus it happens that, while inhabiting the recesses of a
forest you can enjoy all the graces and conveniences of an imperial city
(Fontainebleau is nothing if not Napoleonic), even to _cafés chantants_,
cinematograph theatres, and expensive fruiterers. I tramp daily, and
often twice daily, in this forest, seldom reaching its edge, unless I do
my tramping on a bicycle, and it is probably this familiarity with its
fastnesses and this unfamiliarity with its periphery as a continuous
whole that has given me what I believe to be a new idea for a tramping
excursion: namely, a circuit of the forest of Fontainebleau. It is
an enterprise which might take two days or two months. I may never
accomplish it myself, but it ought to be accomplished by somebody, and
I can guarantee its exceeding diversity and interest. The forest is
surrounded by a ring of towns, townships, and villages of the most
varied character. I think I know every one of them, having arrived
somehow at each of them by following radii from the centre. I propose to
put down some un-Baedekerish but practical notes on each place, for the
use and benefit of the tramp er who has the wisdom to pursue my
suggestion.
*****
One must begin with Moret. Moret is the show-place on the edge of
the forest, and perhaps the oldest. I assisted some years ago at the
celebration of its thousandth anniversary. It is only forty-three miles
from Paris, on the main line of the Paris-Lyons-Mediterranean railway,
an important junction; two hundred and fifty trains a day pass through
the station. And yet it is one of the deadest places I ever had tea
in. It lies low, on the banks of the Loing, about a mile above the
confluence of the Seine and the Loing. It is dirty, not very healthy,
and exceedingly picturesque. Its bridge, church, gates and donjon have
been painted and sketched by millions of artists, professional and
amateur. It appears several times in each year’s Salon. This is its
curse--the same curse as that of Bruges: it is overrun by amateur
artists. I am an amateur artist myself; in summer I am not to be seen
abroad without a sketching-stool, a portfolio, and a water-bottle in
my hip pocket. But I hate, loathe and despise other amateur artists.
Nothing would induce me to make one of the group of earnest dabbers
and scratchers by the bridge at Moret. When I attack Nature, I must
be alone, or, if another artist is to be there, he must be a certified
professional. I have nothing else to say against Moret. There are
several hotels, all mediocre.
A more amusing and bracing place than Moret is its suburb St. Mammès,
the port at the afore-mentioned confluence, magnificently situated, and
always brightened by the traffic of barges, tugs, and other craft. There
is an hotel and a _pension_. The Seine is a great and noble stream here,
and absolutely unused by pleasure-craft. I do not know why. I once made
a canoe and navigated the Amazonian flood, but the contrivance was too
frail. Tugs would come rushing down, causing waves twelve inches high at
least, and I was afraid, especially as I had had the temerity to put a
sail to the canoe.
*****
The tramper should cross the Seine here, and go through Champagne,
a horrible town erected by the Creusot Steel Company--called, quite
seriously, a “garden city.” He then crosses the river again to
Thomery--the grape town. The finest table grapes in France are grown
at Thomery. Vines flourish in public on both sides of most streets,
and public opinion is so powerful (on this one point) that the fruit is
never stolen. Thomery’s lesser neighbour, By, is equally vinous.
These large villages offer very interesting studies in the results of
specialisation. Hotels and _pensions_ exist.
From Thomery, going in a general direction north by west, it is
necessary to penetrate a little into the forest, as the Seine is its
boundary here, and there is no practical towing-path on the forest
side of the river. You come down to the river at Yalvins Bridge,
and, following the left bank, you arrive at the little village of Les
Plâtreries, which consists of about six houses and an hotel where the
food is excellent and whose garden rises steeply straight into the
forest. A mile farther on is the large village of Samois, also on the
Seine. Lower Samois is too pretty---as pretty as a Christmas card. It
is much frequented in summer; its hotel accommodation is inferior and
expensive, and its reputation for strictly conventional propriety is
scarcely excessive. ‘However, a picturesque spot! Climb the very
abrupt stony high street, and you come to Upper Samois, which is less
sophisticated.
From Samois (unless you choose to ferry across to Féricy and reach
Melun by Fontaine-le-Port) you must cut through an arm of the forest
to Bois-le-Roi. You are now getting toward the northern and less
interesting extremity of the forest. Bois-le-Roi looks a perfect dream
of a place from the station. But it is no such thing. It is residential.
It is even respectably residential. All trains except the big expresses
stop at Bois-le-Roi, which fact is a proof that the residents exert
secret influences upon the railway directors, and that therefore
they are the kind of resident whose notion of architecture is merely
distressing. You can stay at Bois-le-Roi and live therein comfortably,
but there is no reason why you should.
The next place is Melun, which lies just to the north of the forest. It
is the county town. It is noted for its brewery. It is well situated on
a curve of the Seine, and it is more provincial (in the stodgy sense)
and more ineffably tedious even than Moret. It possesses neither
monuments nor charm. Yet the distant view of it--say from the height
above Fontaine-le-Port, is ravishing at morn.
[Illustration: 0301]
From Melun you face about and strike due south, again cutting through a
bit of the forest, to Chailly-en-Bière. (All the villages about here are
“_en bière_”) Chailly is just a nice plain average forest-edge village,
and that is why I like it. I doubt if you could sleep there with
advantage. But if you travel with your own tea, you might have excellent
tea there.
The next village is Barbizon, the most renowned place in all the
Fontainebleau region; a name full of romantic associations. It is
utterly vulgarised, like Stratford-on-Avon. “Les Charmettes” has become
a fashionable hotel with a private theatre and an orchestra during
dinner. What would Rousseau, Daubigny and Millet say if they could see
it now? Curiosity shops, art exhibitions, and a very large _café_! An
appalling light railway, and all over everything the sticky slime of
sophistication! Walking about the lanes you have glimpses of superb
studio interiors, furnished doubtless by Waring or Lazard. Indeed
Barbizon has now become naught but a target for the staring eyes of
tourists from Arizona, and a place of abode for persons whose mentality
leads them to believe that the atmosphere of this village is favourable
to high-class painting.
All the country round about here is exquisite. I have seen purple
mornings in the fields nearly as good as any that Millet ever painted.
A lane westward should be followed so that other nice average villages,
St. Martin-en-Bière and Fleury-en-Bière can be seen. At Fleury there
is a glorious castle, partly falling to ruin, and partly in process of
restoration. Thence, south-easterly, to Arbonne.
*****
Arbonne is only a few miles from Barbizon, and I fancy that it resembles
what Barbizon used to be before Barbizon was discovered by London and
New York. It is a long, straggling place, with one impossible and one
quite possible hotel. As a field of action for the tramping painter I
should say that it is unsurpassed in the department. From Arbonne you
must cross another arm of the forest, and pass from the department of
Seine-et-Marne to that of Seine-et-Oise, to the market town of Milly.
From Milly onwards the human interest is less than the landscape
interest until you come to Chapelle-la-Reine; from there you are soon
at Larchant, whose ruined cathedral is one of the leading attractions of
the forest edge.
You are now within the sphere of Nemours. From Larchant to Nemours the
only agreeable method of locomotion is by aeroplane. The high road is
straight and level, and, owing to heavy traffic caused by quarries,
atrociously bad. It reaches the acme of boredom. Its one merit is its
brevity, about five miles. Nemours is a fine Balzacian town, on the
Loing, with a picturesque canal in the heart of it, a frowning castle, a
goodish church and bridge, a good hotel and delightful suburbs.
*****
At Nemours, cross the river, and keep to the high road which follows the
Loing canal through Episy back to Moret. Or, in the alternative, refrain
from crossing the river, and take the Paris high road, leaving it to
the left at Bourron, and so reach Moret through Marlotte and Montigny.
Marlotte and Montigny are Parisian villages in July, August, and
September, new, artistic, snobbish; in winter they are quite tolerable.
Montigny is “picturesquely situated” on the Loing, and Marlotte has a
huge hotel. The road thence on the rim of the forest back to Moret is
delightful.
I do not know how many miles you will have done--anything from sixty to
a hundred and twenty probably--when you arrive for the second time in
Moret. But you must find strength to struggle onwards from Moret to
Fontainebleau itself, about seven miles off in the forest. Fontainebleau
contains one of the dearest hotels in the world. Ask for it, and go
somewhere else.
[Illustration: 0305]