In making excursions in the neighbourhood it is advisable not to attempt
too much in one day. During the season there is plenty time to take
things deliberately. A good beginning may be made by a forenoon walk to
the Monastery of the Annonciade, or Annunciata. It is situated on the
high ridge of the hill between the Carei and Borigo—that hill the front
promontory of which is defaced by the buff-coloured, box-like villa
dignified with the name of the Château Partouneaux. The pathway to the
monastery leads off from the Route de Turin, a short way beyond the
railway viaduct, and will be found a curious zigzag lane, fit only for
pedestrians or donkeys. To relieve the steepness, the path is formed
like a series of steps four to five feet broad, cut in a rude way in the
sandstone rock, and now much worn. Winding upward among olive and orange
trees, and passing some dwellings, the road has an antiquated
broken-down look, significant of the misfortunes of the religious
establishment to which it leads.
On the spot occupied by the monastery originally stood a small chapel,
where, according to the account of M. Ardoin, wonderful cures were
effected by the intercession of the Virgin. We are told that about 1660,
a sister of the Prince of Monaco, afflicted with a distressing leprosy,
made pilgrimages to the chapel to offer prayers for her cure. The
prayers were successful: and, in gratitude, the princess built fifteen
niches or small chapels along the pathway, dedicating them to the
‘fifteen mysteries of the rosary.’ This recognition gave what may be
termed a great lift to the institution, which forthwith swelled from a
simple chapel with one or two priests into a regular monastery with
twelve monks. In the eighteenth century, all went on flourishingly until
the French Revolution, when the whole was abruptly put an end to, and
the property taken possession of by the nation. In this state matters
remained until in recent times some renovations were effected. Finally,
in 1867, a small number of monks of the order of St Francis, who had
been unhoused at Genoa by the appropriations of the Italian government,
got leave to plant themselves down here; and, favoured by local
munificence, the monastery was once more set on foot. So there it is,
with its monks in brown woollen gowns and hoods, wearing sandals on
their bare feet, and going about as walking curiosities. The piety of
the district has not managed to restore the niches placed by the
princess at different points of the ascending pathway. They stand in
hopeless ruin, and we see, only by fragments of plaster, that they had
at one time been pictorially decorated. Yet they continue to be used as
praying stations by those who, on pious errands, mount to the
Annonciade. The walk to the top is charming—the view of the
hill-terraces fine. If a little fatigued, the excursionist can take a
seat in the chapel, which is always open, and there note the votive
offerings hung about the walls. Among these I observed two pairs of
crutches, which had belonged to persons who (it is said) were cured of
lameness by intercessions similar to those which had effected such
wonders on the skin of the princess. M. Ardoin gives some historical
details concerning the spot, which may interest visitors. His small
pamphlet, _Du Sanctuaire de N.-D. de l’Annonciade_, may be procured in
Mentone. Scattered about in bosky situations on the top and sides of the
hill near the monastery, there are several small cottages, some of them
more fanciful than are elsewhere to be seen. One is placed like a nest
among the branches of a tree—a very pretty Jack-and-the-beanstalk idea,
but not to be complimented on the score of convenience.
Another but more lengthened excursion can be recommended—that to the
heights of Ste Agnes (pronounced _Anèse_). Invalids and persons stiff in
the limbs will find the journey too fatiguing to be undertaken on foot.
They will require to hire a donkey at a _Station des Anes_, and either a
boy or woman will go to lead it up the steeps. Walking, however, is
preferable, if the fatigue can be encountered; for much of the pleasure
consists in sitting down now and then to loiter over and mark the
beauties of the scenery. The route is, for about a third of a mile,
along the right bank of the Borigo, and then the ascent commences.
First, it winds by the usual broad and rudely made steps amidst orange
and lemon gardens, laid out in terraces, irrigated at certain seasons by
water gathered with the greatest possible care in well-built tanks. The
design apparently is to conduct all the rain that falls by channels and
gutters into these receptacles. When I made the ascent, the tanks were
either wholly dry, or had a residuum of dirty fetid water. What the
dwellers in the cottages did for water, was past my comprehension,
unless supplies were brought to them in small barrels on the backs of
donkeys.
The solitude, the simplicity of these hill-dwellings, furnish
interesting matter of contemplation. Of the old Ligurian type, and
speaking a blended patois of Italian and French, with some words of
Arabic and Spanish, the people occupying the slopes of the hills cling
with tenacity to their old usages and habits. From generation to
generation, they have occupied their small properties. Simple and frugal
in their way of living, consuming no foreign or taxable luxuries, they
follow out their obscure destiny in a manner that entitles them to
respect. Conquered by the Romans, harassed by the Grimaldis, they have
been so fortunate as to suffer no absolute robbery of houses and lands.
Dynasties may come and go. It is pretty much the same who are their
nominal superiors. What they have to do is to attend to their patch of
olives, oranges, or lemons. All the year round, the sun beats down on
their little properties; and provided they can secure a proper supply of
water for irrigation, they bask amidst permanent luxuriance. Water is to
them most precious. Every proprietor must have a tank for receiving the
runs of water from the pathways, in case of rain; and all along the
hill-sides are constructed channels for bringing supplies from distant
sources. With such appliances, a craggy steep, with but faint traces of
soil, becomes fertile and beautiful. In buying pieces of ground,
therefore, care is taken to stipulate for some sort of water privilege;
such, for instance, as a right to have water turned on one or more days,
or hours, per week. When there has been a long drought, as was the case
previous to my visit, the suffering is considerable; though personal
inconvenience is less thought of than loss of crops. In summer, when the
heat becomes excessive, it is not unusual for these hill-dwellers to
quit their small cottages, and live entirely in the open air. A whole
family will, gipsy-fashion, bivouac under one of the leafy boughs of a
fig-tree, and thus far exemplify in a European country the Asiatic usage
referred to in Scripture.
Gaining the summit of the _colline_, and passing through a forest of
pines, the path at length ascends the face of the mountains, becoming
continually more steep until the top of the pass is reached at the small
decayed village of Ste Agnes. The circumstance of snow occasionally
powdering the summit in winter, appears to have suggested the dedication
of the old church to Our Lady of the Snows. By a steep footpath, an
ascent may be made to the ruined château, which is perched on the rocky
peak. Tradition associates the ruin with a lady, canonised as Ste Agnes,
and a redoubtable Saracen chief, the occupant of the castle, whom she
Christianised; there is, however, no end of romantic legends of this
kind in the Riviera, and any one so inclined might fill a volume with
them. The fête of Ste Agnes takes place on the 21st of January, when a
miscellaneous concourse gathers for the occasion, some on foot, others
on donkeys, while ladies of infirm health are carried up in an
arm-chair—the carrying being managed by poles, on the principle of a
sedan. The ceremonies include a procession with a large _pomme d’or_, or
golden apple; and besides gifts of money, some devotees place an apple
covered with gold-leaf on the altar of the saint by way of offering. At
the termination of the ceremony, pieces of the apples are freely
distributed. M. Pessy, who mentions the fact, is unable to explain the
origin of this strange and ancient usage. The peak of Ste Agnes may be
considered as the central eminence in the wide semicircle of limestone
mountains which shelter Mentone from the north and north-western blasts.
It is not nearly the highest of the mountains, but it is prominent and
singularly picturesque. In a fine day, the view from it is magnificent,
the heights of Corsica being clearly outlined on the southern horizon.
We need say nothing special of excursions to Castellare, Castillon, the
lofty Berceau, the sunny knolls of Gorbio, Cabrole, or the quiet nooks
in the recesses of the different valleys. It is a common practice for a
party of visitors, ladies and gentlemen, to go off in the morning for
pic-nics to some choice spot, selected for its beauty. Seated under the
olive trees, the baskets borne by the donkey-boys are opened, and their
contents displayed. The grouping (faintly represented in the vignette
frontispiece) is sometimes made matter of tasteful arrangement, and the
_tableau vivant_, blended as to colour and figure, brings to remembrance
the pictures of Watteau.
In none of the excursions do we see the pasturing of sheep, such as we
are accustomed to at home. There is a general absence of animal life.
The scenery communicates the feeling of perfect repose. In the recesses
of the valleys, there is a sort of supernatural stillness. You are
environed by trees, rocks, and hill-terraces, with châlets far up on
which the sun is shining; but not a leaf is stirring, although at that
moment, perhaps, there is a breeze on the sea-shore. I never quite
understood what was done for supplies of mutton for market. The only
sheep visible consisted of a single flock, under the charge of an old
man and boy, dressed in antiquated costume. Standing high on their legs,
the sheep had remarkable Roman noses, and long pendent ears like hounds.
So thin, so lank were they, that a Scottish store-farmer would have
looked on them with contempt. It was my impression they were
half-starved. Every afternoon about sunset, they might be seen conducted
into town for the night. They came down the dry rubbishy torrent of the
Carei among the washerwomen at their dirty frothy pools, eagerly
catching at every blade of grass that happened to be growing among the
stones, eating, as a windfall, any bit of orange-peeling that happened
to lie in their way. Then, getting out of the Carei to the sea-beach,
they had a leisurely walk along the shingle, where possibly a stray
turnip-top or decayed potato rewarded their explorations. Next morning,
after being housed somewhere, they were out again for the day, and might
have been observed grubbing in the by-ways, and on odd pieces of waste
ground, where a mouthful of green food could be picked up. Such is all I
can say about the feeding of sheep in this pleasant Arcadia. As for
cows, they are not seen at all, but are kept within doors, where they
are fed on the waste pulp of oranges, lemons, and citrons, the rinds of
which fruits are for the most part manufactured as confections. Milk
good, nevertheless, which I thought strange.
[Illustration: Pont St Louis.]
Few will refrain from hiring a voiture to make a trip across the
frontier by the Pont St Louis, as far at least as that projecting part
of the mountains on which stands the old tower of Grimaldi. From the
level space in front of the hotels in the East Bay, the Corniche ascends
amidst gardens and villas until, at the distance of a mile, arriving at
the ravine of St Louis, it is carried by excavation along the face of
the precipice. It is really a grand work of art. The ravine, rugged and
singularly picturesque, is spanned by a bridge of a single arch,
connecting France and Italy. A rivulet trickling down the hollow is
conducted by artificial channels to the immediately adjoining gardens,
and issues some hundreds of feet below on the sea-beach. To have a
proper idea of the value of the road, we would need to walk along the
bottom of the cliffs bordering on the sea, making use of fragments of
that ancient Roman way which was the sole thoroughfare previous to the
construction of the Corniche. The walk is a scramble, with barely
footing for a single individual. It is, however, in various respects
worth seeing. We here have an opportunity of visiting several caverns in
the overhanging cliffs, in which bones and flint weapons of the
pre-historic era have been discovered, and may likewise see the arch of
a Roman bridge, which spans like an attenuated thread one of the
ravines.
The road from the Pont St Louis, cut by blasting out of the rocks, is
the finest part of the whole Corniche. On our left we have the huge
overhanging cliffs, and on our right the Mediterranean—view superb.
Tourists will remember that at the top of the ascent, the road wheels
round to the left, and becomes a little more tame in character. Just at
the point of turning, we are opposite the old tower, which had been a
residence of the Grimaldis. It resembles a Border keep, stuck high on
the side of the hill, with a good outlook seaward. Adjoining it, and
reached by an awkward pathway over some broken rocky ground encroached
upon by a quarry, is a garden made in the face of the steeps by Dr J. H.
Bennet. The thing is a marvel of artificial beauty. Five hundred feet
above the Mediterranean, and with incalculable labour and taste, has
this garden been established, ‘with a view to the cultivation of
flowers, and to the tranquil enjoyment of invalid lazaroni life.’ Such
is Dr Bennet’s own explanation of this singular garden among the rocks
of Grimaldi. On entering, you walk along an avenue with built pillars on
each side, whereon climbing plants are ingeniously trained. At my last
visit, the garden had been considerably extended by a fresh purchase of
rocks. Where the earth comes from, is at first sight a little puzzling.
It is discovered to consist of what through ages had accumulated amidst
small crevices in the gray limestone, and being carefully preserved when
making the pathways, is found to be of immense fertility. Dwellers in
northern climes can have no adequate idea of the productive power of
even a single handful of earth in this favoured spot. A large bush will
be seen growing out of a hole in the rock barely sufficient for its
stem.
Although the season is winter, when most English gardens wear a doleful
aspect, all around is gay with salvias, lavateras, geraniums, myrtles,
pelargoniums, and other plants less or more in blossom. Specimens of the
aloe and cactaceæ grow luxuriantly on the jutting points of the rocks.
The mesembryanthemum is in great profusion on the terraces. Garden
plants which with us are only small bushes, grow here to the dimensions
of moderate-sized trees. The grounds are tended by a native gardener,
who conducts the engineering of the ascending and descending pathways,
and has the whole in charge during summer, when the rays of the sun
blaze fiercely on the gray limestone cliffs. I ventured to suggest to
the doctor the purchase of that time-worn ruined tower of the Grimaldis,
which, amidst a group of olive trees, overhangs the entrance to the
gardens. Cannot be done. The ruin, practically valueless, is held in
heritage by six individuals, whose demands are too enormous to be dealt
with. At an opposite corner of the gardens is a slip of flat ground
bounded by a wall on the verge of the cliff, and here, at a projecting
angle, stands a round pepper-box-looking turret, which in the olden time
had been a watch-tower of the Grimaldis, commanding a fine view
westwards as far as Cap Martin. From a flag-staff on its summit, the
union jack—‘the meteor flag of England’—is unfurled on holiday
occasions, and may have been seen incomprehensibly waving far overhead
by travellers along the Corniche.
The level patch of ground which is so distinguished seems to form a kind
of open drawing-room or lounge, for playing croquet, reading, and other
recreations. At the inner side of it there is an arched alcove with a
slight trickle of water, affording growth to ferns and some other
plants; and here in the cool shade, swinging his hammock, Dr Bennet at
certain hours indulges in the pleasures of a lazaroni existence. While
his old friends the London physicians are driving through drizzling
sleets and choking smoky fogs, he, by an intelligent if not compulsory
restraint, is lolling in his hammock on the cliffs of Grimaldi, enjoying
the pure air and sunshine in the midst of a little garden of Eden—the
elegant pursuit of botanical science in a bland climate skilfully
protracting a life which had formerly been in jeopardy. All cannot
follow his example, nor is it desirable they should do so, but to how
many professionals approaching their grand climacteric is the example,
at all events, eminently suggestive?
The slopes to the sea-shore, after passing Grimaldi, if less
picturesque, possess an interest from archæological circumstances. The
land, rich and beautiful, had pertained to a number of families of
distinction, each with a palazzo of old Italian architecture, the
approach to which had been by lofty gateways, surmounted by heraldic
devices, and opening on the old Roman way. As that way is now broken up,
and all but impassable, the palazzos are in the awkward position of
being left without a road. All that can be done is to make pathways down
to them from the modern Corniche, and in a country where donkeys play so
important a part in social economy, the absence of regular roads is
perhaps not esteemed a serious inconvenience. If anybody wants to buy a
palace with fifty to a hundred acres of land on the borders of the
Mediterranean, here is his chance. Revolutions and what not have cleared
out the old families. The actual proprietors are living somewhere in
penury and obscurity; their palazzos are shut up, with boards in the
windows instead of glass; and the only major-domo is a peasant dwelling
in an outhouse, to take charge of the grounds. Several properties were
pointed out to me (1869) as being for sale.
The idea of making an investment in Italy may not be pleasing. One never
knows what may turn up. Possibly, this is being too sensitive. Distance
is said ‘to lend enchantment to the view,’ but it sometimes also lends
unnecessary apprehensions. On the spot, everything looks as composed and
harmless as may be, and whatever political turmoils may occur, this cosy
nook in the Riviera offers a retreat not likely to be molested. It is a
great thing to acquire a palazzo and the importance of a seigneur for
two or three thousand pounds—to make your own oil and wine, eat your own
oranges and figs, and have boating and yachting to any imaginable
amount. It is something in the catalogue of recommendations, that the
authorities at the neighbouring town of Ventimiglia are delighted (and
no wonder) to see Englishmen buying properties about them; any one,
therefore, settling down in the neighbourhood, may expect to be treated
with profound civility and consideration. Then, think of being within an
hour’s drive of France—Mentone quite at hand, whence friends can come to
see you on all occasions during the season, and the douaniers at the
frontier giving no sort of trouble. I retain a vivid recollection of the
richly-prolific grounds which environ these old and traditionally
dignified palazzos. Peeping within the gateway, you see an enclosure
exuberant in orange, citron, and fig trees, with vines trained from
pillar to pillar over the silent approach. Amidst the foliage towers the
old gray battered edifice, shut up, and sorrowful, with nothing to
animate the scene but the swallows wheeling in their busy flight around
the deserted mansion. My visit to these palazzos was in the month of
January, when peas (probably raised for market) were in full bloom.
An English gentleman has bought one of these properties, the Palazzo of
Orengo, near Cap Murtola, and renovated it in first-rate style. The
mansion occupies a site so prominent as to command a view of Mentone.
With the grounds and some water privileges, it was a cheap purchase.
Even with cost of repairs, it was a prodigious bargain. Politely invited
to the palazzo, we went in a hired carriage from Mentone, but
unexpectedly found that it could not take us further than a point on the
high-road overlooking the house, two hundred feet beneath. A walk down,
and the use of a donkey up for Madame, made all easy. I was of course
interested in the interior of the structure, with its white marble
stairs, its inlaid floors, and loggia off the drawing-room, in the upper
floor of the mansion. In every old palazzo two things appear to have
been essential, a draw-well and a loggia. The draw-well is here situated
at one side of the marble-paved entrance-hall; being, however,
tastefully enclosed, it does not appear out of place. Without a loggia,
it would be scarcely possible to exist in the heats of summer. At
Orengo, the loggia is a square apartment, open on two sides, the roof
being supported on pillars. Seated in this shady retreat, the family
enjoy the pleasures of the open air, with a view of the gardens beneath
and the adjacent sea-beach. A flight of steps on the side next the sea
leads down to the original entrance to the grounds from the old Roman
road, here distinctly traced, about twelve feet wide.
Conducted over the gardens, I had the pleasure of being shewn a variety
of trees and shrubs natural to a tropical climate, and rarely seen in
the open air in Europe. During the short ramble, I learned some facts
regarding the antiquity of the water channels which one observes
everywhere, and of the punctilious way in which custom and legal rights
guard the privileges of the proprietors. The water for the grounds is
led from a torrent, which at certain times turns a mill for pressing oil
from the olives. In consideration of the priceless value of water,
something like a grudge was felt that there was somewhere hereabouts a
subterranean river which had its outlet in the sea, where it could be
seen boiling up and running to waste. Nobody could tell where it came
from. All that could be conjectured was that it found its way through
the limestone rocks from some place far distant, it might be a hundred
miles off. If that river could be but tapped, and diverted to some
useful purpose, what visions of wealth for the neighbourhood! Perhaps,
thought I, this may come about. What a prize for the Mentonians if they
could manage to tap and impound a subterranean and ever-running river! A
gold mine would be nothing to it.
[Illustration: Palazzo of Orengo.]
Observing English newspapers on a table in the house, a talk ensued
about the irregularities of the French postal system. On settling here,
the _Times_ was ordered from London _viâ_ Mentone, but so frequently was
it late in arriving, that at length the expedient was tried of procuring
it by way of Turin and Genoa (some hundreds of miles about), and ever
since it had arrived with regularity and despatch. I am glad to have at
least one good thing to say of Italian administration, and were the
circumstance properly known, it might shame the French into an improved
system of forwarding English newspapers to strangers residing in their
country. In the pleasant society at Orengo, a few hours sped quickly
away. On our departure, after being hospitably entertained, a school of
little girls, under charge of their mistress, stood awaiting us on the
road. It was an agreeable surprise. At a signal, before entering our
carriage, which had been in attendance at the village, they united in
singing a hymn expressive of good wishes. Having concluded, they
individually presented us with bouquets of sweet-scented violets, and
kindly courtesied an adieu.