_MENTONE._
THE union of bold grandeur with soft loveliness in the Mentone
landscape, arrest and powerfully strike the eye upon arrival.
Familiarity with its scenery, after a residence of months, scarcely
dims the first impression. We had heard much in a general way regarding
it even before leaving home, but every expectation was at once far
exceeded by the reality. We had just left Cannes and Nice, and
witnessed them both in their brightest aspects; but Mentone in its
natural features, and seeing it, as we did, for the first time, in
glorious sunshine, threw them both into the shade. It was an agreeable
surprise, and made us instantly feel that a more beautiful spot for
winter residence could not have been chosen.
* * * * *
Originally the town of Mentone consisted simply of a collection of high
old houses, rising ridge upon ridge like so many terraces resting upon
the steep slope of a hill, the crest of which was at one time crowned
by a castle or palace of the old feudal lords, now converted into a
picturesquely–situated cemetery. This hill or ridge, with its curious
old houses,—among or above which the cathedral and other churches
stand, from which there rise two elegant minaret–like spires, one
taller than the other, conspicuous from every quarter round,—forms
a very striking object, especially when seen from the east, and from
that side may be said in miniature to resemble a little, though of a
different character, the old town of Edinburgh, which, however, is
far more lofty and extends at least ten times farther. The harbour or
port of Mentone lies at the bottom of the seaward end of this ridge.
Curious old high houses, resting upon odd long–shaped water–worn rocks,
the terminals of the hill, abut and hem in the harbour on the north
or land side; while on the south side, a long breakwater is in course
of formation for protection from the ocean waves, which, coursing
over the whole width of the Mediterranean Sea without interruption,
occasionally, under the pressure of a south–west wind, dash up and
over with great vigour. An old building, at one time a small castle,
standing at the end of the original pier, makes an object in the
landscape, and perhaps could tell some tales. The water in the port is
extremely shallow, so that the anchorage is only adapted for vessels of
a small size, of which there are always a few moored to the quays. The
hill ridge, with the projecting pier, form, similarly to Cannes, the
dividing line between what are termed the east and west bays.
* * * * *
The books which have been recently written on Mentone, particularly
those of Dr. Bennett and of Mr. William Chambers, but more than any
book, the good reports of visitors, have induced such an influx of
winter dwellers from distant lands as to have created a new town in
both bays. Rather, it may be said that the hotels extend in both
directions, for in reality the newer parts of Mentone are made up
chiefly of lines of large hotels, the street or shop part of the town
being only a necessary sequence. From the ridge eastward to the gaping
gorge of St. Louis, which is now the boundary line between France and
Italy, the distance by road is about two miles. Hotels line upon one
side nearly the first mile, the other side being open to the sea, and
villas dot the remainder of the way. From the gorge, south or seaward,
a mountain called Belinda (1702 feet) springs up, and from its shoulder
a promontory juts out to the sea and forms the termination of the east
projecting arm of the bays. From the north side of the gorge a mountain
range rises more loftily into the majestic Berceau and Grande Montagne,
and, stretching away to the north and north–west, form the great shield
to Mentone from the east and north–east winds. These mountains attain
an elevation of about (more or less) 4000 feet,—the Grande Montagne
being stated by one authority to be 4525 feet,—and show themselves
boldly and almost perpendicularly in some parts like enormous colossal
walls of bare rock. Due north from Mentone, and from two to three miles
distant from it, another chain of mountains lies almost at right angles
right across from east to west—St. Agnes in the centre, and behind it
the high and sharply–pointed Aigle (4232 feet high)—affording shelter
from the north winds; while the Agel (3730 feet high), and some other
lesser mountains, terminated by the long promontory of Cape Martin, all
lying from north to south, afford shelter from the west and north–west
winds, and particularly the cold mistral. Within these greater mountain
chains, a series of high ridges or hills standing in front, or issuing
out of them like huge tumuli, all covered with olives in terraces,
afford additional shelter; so that were it possible for the wind to
blow down the outer rampart, it would be withstood by this inner wall
or circle of lesser heights, some of which are 1000 feet high. In the
distance on the other side of the great mountains, but invisible from
Mentone, the Maritime Alps rise to a height of from 5000 to 9000 feet.
It will thus be seen that the configuration of the mountains is that
of a great semicircle, and that on every side save the south or sunny
side, open to the sea, Mentone has protection from the cold winds
which in reality blow over the tops of these great walls and strike
at some distance away,—the north or prevailing winter wind reaching
the sea some miles out. It cannot be said that the cold of the winds
is not felt, but it is so greatly averted or modified that Mentone
is practically sheltered; and hence it is that, coupled with the
long continuance during the winter of dry open sunny weather and the
absorption and radiation of the sun’s heat in and from the limestone
rocks, it becomes so admirable a place for the invalid.
* * * * *
Our quarters were in the west bay, considered to be more bracing and
less relaxing than the other, which is said to be three degrees warmer,
and, from being so, and more enclosed and protected, better suited to
the extremely delicate. The hotels and houses in the west bay—in which
is also situated the new or shop portion of the town—extend, though
not continuously, about a mile; and there has been formed in front, by
the border of the sea, a roadway called the Promenade du Midi,—a good
and fairly–wide pleasant road for foot–passengers and carriages,—which
is, in the early part of the forenoon, the great resort of invalids
and other strangers, who here meet their friends, and can view the sea
uninterruptedly in their walks, or enjoy a book or a newspaper on one
of the many seats provided for the weary or lazy. A low stone–built
bulwark protects the promenade from being washed away by the sea, which
sometimes, though very rarely, sweeps up forcibly in heavy waves, and
even occasionally in a storm, so as to dash over the road. But when
the wind is from the north, the sea retires under its pressure 60 to
100 feet from the bulwark, and there is scarcely a ripple upon the
water, which then looks like one sheet of blue glass. And this is its
predominating or normal condition during the winter. When the waves
come, they trundle over monotonously, without gaining or losing a step.
It is the great drawback of the Mediterranean that it has no tide, or
a tide that is all but imperceptible. The difference between high and
low water at Mentone is only from two to three feet. The consequence
is, that the sea does not carry away sufficiently the impurities which
are conveyed to it; and there is wanting that interesting feature
of a tidal beach, the change from hour to hour of the appearance
of the shore. It is only right, however, to add, that Mentone
enjoys comparative immunity from the noisome influence of exposed
drainage. Small drains only empty into the west bay; and they are not
particularly offensive, though they might be improved by carrying pipes
down into the water,—only the likelihood is, that the first storm would
sweep them away. Another empties in the east bay, at the corner formed
by the junction of the old town at its north end with the shore. This
is at all times disagreeable to passers–by, and must be insalubrious
to those residing in its neighbourhood. But it seems difficult to
understand how Mentone is drained, unless the east pipe conveys the
great bulk of the sewerage to the sea; although, so far as the old town
is concerned, it has been explained that the natives collect all manure
to carry it off to the country, thus combining thrift with cleanliness.
That the town is not as yet so disagreeable as Cannes, may arise from
the population being greatly smaller. When Mentone increases much, as
it is threatening to do, it may be quite as discernible.
* * * * *
I have never seen any place so strikingly enclosed as Mentone is by its
semicircle of mountains and the minor hill ridges. The higher parts
of the mountains are steep, rocky, and bare; but all over the ridges,
and far up away into the mountains, the olive tree is cultivated
in terraces built for their reception. The orange and lemon trees
mingle with the olives at a lower elevation, and in some, especially
the higher parts, pine trees furnish a deep green covering. But all
combined add a rich beauty to the imposing grandeur of the scene. Some
of the buildings also contribute materially to the effect. On the
summit of a lofty ridge, between the Carrei and Boirigo valleys, a
monastery conspicuously rears its head. On the other heights there are
houses of peculiar construction, curiously painted; and the whole place
is dotted over with bright–coloured villas, of all tints and shades
of white and yellow, relieved by the almost invariable roofing of red
tiles, and the usual gay greens of the outside venetian jalousies. But
next to the mountain heights, the most marked lineaments of the Mentone
scenery are its valley depths or ravines between the various ridges,
and in which rivers find their beds, although in the dry weather which
generally prevails they are but trickling streams, and in some cases
usually almost dry. The greater valleys are three—or rather, it may
be said, four—in number, consisting of two larger, with their torrent
beds, the Carrei and Boirigo; a third, containing a smaller river
course, the Gorbio; and a fourth, the Mentone valley and streamlet, the
smallest of all, but obtaining its name from, or giving it to, the old
town, at the bottom of which, or underneath the streets, the rivulet
passes. The valleys, three of them of considerable width, in which
these rivers run, form beautiful adjuncts to the town; and the torrent
beds, which are not so long or so wide as those at Nice, are striking
without being distasteful to the eye.
* * * * *
Such are the general outlines of the landscape. I shall have to recur
to some of them hereafter. To those who can appreciate scenery, the
_tout ensemble_ cannot fail to produce a feeling of intense admiration;
but added to all, there is that which lends its peculiar charm to
Mentone. This is its rurality. While it contains many large hotels,
which do not contribute much to the adornment of the scene,—though
year by year becoming more essential to meet the demands for
accommodation,—none of the buildings in Mentone possess the palatial
appearance of those at Nice, neither in the large hotels nor in the
street buildings. Indeed, with regard to the latter, there is only one
street proper in Mentone, not half a mile long. On issuing from the
railway station, which stands on high ground, the town is, or was, hid
from view by a curtain of trees, which afford a beautiful fringe to the
ocean, seen lying placidly beyond. The road to town is along an avenue
of tall plane trees by the bank of the Carrei, one of the torrent beds.
The road on the other side of the Carrei is also flanked by trees, as
yet young. On arriving at the main road, which crosses the river bed
by a wooden suspension bridge, there is a piece of ground, not large,
on either side, laid out as a public garden. From this point, the road
each way, east and west, continues to be lined with plane trees. The
villas passed on the way are built in gardens, wherein orange, lemon,
pepper, and palm trees grow; and so it is everywhere, except in the
heart of the town. I fear much that, from year to year, as people
continue to flock to Mentone, and more lodging–room becomes requisite
(for in sixteen or eighteen years Mentone has risen from being, so
far as strangers are concerned, a mere wayside stopping–place to its
present ample dimensions, embracing a native population of above 5000,
besides a stranger population of probably 3000 more), and as land
becomes in consequence more valuable, this peculiar charm of rurality
will disappear; and though, mainly from the impossibility of its
becoming a great seaport, it will never be a large commercial town like
Nice; and although it will always continue to possess natural features
which no buildings can obliterate, and which neither Nice nor any other
town wanting them can secure, yet it may in time rival in towny aspect
such a place as Cannes, which is at present very considerably larger.
* * * * *
As the first duty of the visitor is to see to his quarters, it is only
right here to make some observations relative to the hotels such as
they were during our stay. They were then reckoned, in 1877, to amount
to forty–four in number; but the number is year by year increasing, and
at least one large hotel (the National) has been built since we left,
although the advertisements do not disclose its whereabouts. The hotels
are found either fronting the sea or back from it, and either in the
west or the east bay; and as the question of locale is not unimportant,
invalids should endeavour in this respect to suit their particular
case, noting, too, that, like every other place, some hotels are more
expensive than others.
It is not unusual for those who have not been previously in Mentone, or
who have not secured apartments before arriving, to take rooms for a
night in the Hotel Mediterranée or the Hotel Royal, or some other hotel
in the town (of which there are several), and then look about. At the
beginning of the season there is abundance of choice; but if the visit
be delayed, as so often is the case, till after Christmas, it is not
unlikely to be discovered that the best rooms have, for the most part,
been taken; and it is much more difficult to secure what is suitable,
and especially good south or sun–visited rooms. When such delay is
unavoidable, the better course is, if possible, to write to a friend in
Mentone previously to make inquiries and engage rooms. In the spring,
many migrate from Cannes and Nice on to Mentone, _en route_ a little
later for Italy. As proximity to the sea air, or to be within hearing
of the monotonous noise of the waves, does not suit some persons, while
the proximity may benefit others, and as the temperature of the east
and west bays differs considerably, it is not inadvisable for those
in delicate health to consult a medical man, who should decide which
part of Mentone is best suited to the particular case. There are about
twenty doctors practising in Mentone. Of these, the English doctors
are, I believe, the following:—In the west bay, Drs. Siordet, Marriott,
Gent, and Sparks; and in the east bay, Dr. Bennett. It is also well
to know that the fees of the resident English medical men are high,
and are paid at each visit. If the visit be to two persons of the same
party, two fees, I have been told, are charged or expected. The fees
of the French medical men are greatly less. It would seem, on some
points, the doctors of the two countries differ,—as, for example,
English doctors advocate sitting in the sun, and foreign doctors,
sitting in the shade; and knowing how foreigners abhor their friend the
sun, I can well believe they do.
In viewing the hotels in order to make a selection, it will be observed
that some are more sheltered than others, and a certain preference
may be given to those which seem to be the better protected from the
north wind, which in winter months, especially during December and
January, prevails and blows sometimes with a piercing cold during night
and in the morning. I am afraid this is a circumstance but seldom
studied by the builders of the hotels, for I suspect there are few
houses—particularly on the Promenade du Midi—which are not exposed to
cold in consequence of having doors opening to the north side. This
of itself is not desirable, and perhaps in most cases is unavoidable;
but the evil is increased when such door is in direct communication
with the staircase without outer porch and lobby, or if a corridor
connect it with an entrance on the other or south side. Considering,
also, how important it is for invalids that the temperature in–doors
should be maintained throughout the house at a proper degree, I have
been surprised to find that means are not universally taken to heat
the staircases and lobbies, delicate people being very apt to suffer
great harm by passing out of heated rooms into cold corridors. So far
as I am aware, there is but one hotel in Mentone which fully attends to
this important particular—the Hotel des Îles Britanniques. Possibly,
however, there may be others. If not, this may be taken as a valuable
hint.[19]
The rate of pension varies according to the hotel and to the floor,
and runs from 8 to 16 francs per day, exclusive of wine, candles, and
firewood.
To those who prefer taking either a furnished house or rooms in a
lodging–house, choice of villas or rooms can be had in abundance at
very varying rates, but generally, like the hotels, high. The number of
villas is constantly on the increase. When last in Mentone, there were
no fewer than about 250. During a bad season, many remain unlet. Lists
of houses can be had from the house–agents, of whom the principal
apparently was M. Amarante, Avenue Victor Emanuele.
An institution maintained by subscription, and called Helvetia,
provides at a small rate of board (£1 per week), a home for, I believe,
fifteen invalid ladies, who are not in circumstances to incur the much
heavier expense of boarding at a hotel.
* * * * *
Six Roman Catholic churches supply the wants of the Roman worshippers
in Mentone.
There are two English Episcopal churches. One, in the west bay,
succeeds in obtaining good music and good congregations. The chaplain
of this church was till recently the Rev. W. Barber, who, after
officiating for many years, died on 24th February 1878, and was
succeeded by his assistant, the Rev. Henry Sidebottom. One of Mr.
Barber’s sons was the able organist and choirmaster. The other and
earlier church in the east bay, built in 1863, is more simple in its
services, and, I fear, was therefore not so much in favour as the more
fashionable chapel in the west bay, to which, notwithstanding the
distance, many of the east bay visitors resorted. The regular minister
was Mr. Morant Brock. But last winter (1877–78) his place was supplied
by Mr. Boudillon, the author of some books, and a good old man.
The Free Church of Scotland has Presbyterian service in a room of a
villa in the east bay; but, whether owing to the distant and elevated
situation, or to not having a church building, or to the paucity of
Scotch people, it was generally attended by only a few, though the
small room was filled when the preacher was popular.
There were also a German church and a French Protestant church, the
latter being under the pastoral care of M. Delapierre. The Scotch
church had no afternoon service, while that held in the French church
in the afternoon was usually poorly attended. A good arrangement might
be, were the Scotch to give up their room, for which they pay £30 per
annum, and to have the use of the French church for one service in the
afternoon; and the second French service might, with advantage in that
case, be held in the evening.
* * * * *
Having had occasion to make inquiry for a good school, we found most
highly recommended an excellent French school kept by M. and Mme.
Arnulf in a house adjoining the Hotel Bristol, and which was attended
by young ladies from several of the principal hotels. The teachers are
Roman Catholics; but many of their pupils being Protestants, they made
a point of avoiding any allusion to religion in their classes. The
school was mainly intended for girls, but M. Arnulf had a class for
boys. French, music, and the ordinary elementary branches of education,
including a little English, were taught, the pupils receiving tuition
also in drawing from M. Bouché, who paints pretty little pictures of
Mentone, which are occasionally seen in book–shop windows for sale, and
which are valuable to purchasers as agreeable reminiscences of their
visit. The charge for all branches, music included, for the hours from
9 till 12 (lunch hour), six days per week, was 90 francs per month;
if lunch and additional hour’s tuition were taken, then so much more.
Mme. Arnulf, a most pleasing French lady, had an excellent mode of
retaining the interest of the pupils by giving a donkey excursion party
(which all the young people could attend) about once a month. This was
looked forward to by all the scholars with great glee, and sad was the
disappointment if any unexpected sickness seemed likely to disable one
of them from being of the cavalcade. In their daily walks, the young
people were freely allowed to play after getting out of town, showing
a great amount of good sense in the management of children, of which
in other parts of France, I have seen it stated, teachers are in this
respect innocent.
Young ladies and others can likewise obtain lessons in Italian, music,
and other branches from resident masters and governesses. Young men who
are not invalids are scarce in Mentone, and I doubt whether, in the
midst of so much else to attract, their ardour for study is intense.
A botany class was successfully formed during the winter of 1877–78 by
Mr. Henry Robertson, a visitor. The study of botany is very suitable
for the Riviera.
Pianofortes can be hired for the season, though not by the month; but
the charge made is usually high—from 150 to 300 francs.
* * * * *
There is, besides a public library, a small museum of natural history,
etc., in the Hotel de Ville, consisting principally of flint implements
found in the caves of the Rochers Rouges, and of specimens of snakes,
fishes, and other animals caught in the neighbourhood.
A theatre exists, but the performances seem to be rare. I never was in
it.
In an open place or square, there is what is called the Cercle
Philharmonique, or Club, admission to which is by ballot and
subscription (annual, monthly, or by the season). Here are held
concerts, dances, and occasional dramatic entertainments, while
newspapers lie in the reading–room.
Two newspapers are published in Mentone—the _Avenir_ and _Le
Mentonnais_; but newspapers from Marseilles, Nice, and other places
are brought by train daily, and are procurable at the railway station,
shops, and a kiosk, or covered round stall in the middle of the Place
Nationale.
* * * * *
Having given this general description of Mentone, and noted some of the
institutions which are of the nature of essentials to the visitor’s
comfort, and being now settled down in the place for the winter, the
natural wish is to know what is to be seen which will help to make
residence agreeable.
There are various guide–books[20] which may be bought and consulted
for this purpose, and it is no part of my plan in these pages to take
their place or to describe after their manner. One of them, titled,
_The Splendide Hotel Handbook to Mentone and its Environs_, would be
more useful were it less of a puff of the Splendide Hotel, which really
does not require any puffing. This book, in tagging and dragging the
unhappy hotel into almost every paragraph, reminds one of De Foe’s puff
of _Drelincourt on Death_, which he brought or endeavoured to bring
into notice by repeated mention of it in his remarkable _Vision of Mrs.
Veal_. The author of the guide—(who doubtless laughs in his own sleeve
and not that of De Foe)—mentions that there are fifty–nine excursions
from Mentone, all of which he describes shortly, and I would refer to
the book for its recital. Fifty–nine is a tolerably large number, and
will, in any view, afford constant employment to those who are of an
exploring disposition. However, people cannot always be on the trot,
more especially if they be not in strong, good health. Much less will
suffice for ordinary existence, and if all be accomplished in three or
four winters, these winters will not have witnessed inactive lives. The
number, however, is an odd one; and to make it even, I must add one
which the writer fails to describe. It fell to my lot the very first
night.
* * * * *
I was impatient to look about me, and on the evening of my first day
took, with a young Scotch gentleman residing in the hotel, a walk as
far as the gorge of St. Louis. It is the evening aspect of Mentone
which I regard as my first and the additional excursion, and it is
one of, if it be not, the most lovely. The moon was full and shining
brightly. Now, the moonlight at Mentone is so clear and strong that
everything comes out sharply, and all objects on which it rests are
seen with almost the same distinctness as in daylight. Even quarter
moon illuminates surprisingly. The great orb of night sheds her
effulgence upon the grand, steep, abrupt mountains, upon the rugged
rocks, upon the glittering trees, upon the hill–tops, upon the white
houses, upon all I have already attempted to depict as contributing to
the magnificence of the landscape. Bold and varied as everything looks,
as usually seen when the sun is in the heavens, the soft, wondrous
silvering on the parts which are moonlit, set in contrast against the
deep, sombre, unrelieved blackness of the parts which are cast into
shade, developes the features of the panorama, with an impressive
_chiaro oscuro_ effect which can never be observed or attained in
the broad light of day; while, turning round and looking upon the
ocean below, we see the waves roll softly ashore in lambent lines of
dazzling light, and the yielding water is dancing and glancing with
the restrained restlessness of girlish glee, and tossing up little
flickering tongues of fire, which cover the sea in the moonlight gleam
as with thousands of short–lived electric sparks, darting up to snatch
a kiss from their pale but glorious mother, and expiring in the vain
and feeble effort. We had not far to go for this lovely tableau, which,
when beheld for the first time, produces the sensation of being in the
presence of a scene of enchantment.
* * * * *
But the scene is scarcely less beautiful, though different, when,
the sky being clear, and especially on those evenings which are
slightly touched by frost, the moon averts her face; for then the
stars assemble with a twofold brilliancy, sparkling with a lustre
which is unknown in our dull and foggy northern clime. Venus first of
all appears like a great lamp in the west. We have had simultaneously
other planets shining brightly, and particularly Jupiter, Saturn,
and Mars, the last two having been in the winter of 1877–78 in close
conjunction, but ruddy Mars not being so full as we had at Interlachen
seen it some months before, when it was nearer the earth. The sky
glows with constellations, chief among which stands prominently out
Orion, which rises from the sea in the south–east, and passes slowly
and majestically over the firmament to the north–west, every star
in it, with generous but governed emulation, stinting not its oil
and burning with redoubled energy. Then, almost right below Orion’s
belt, Sirius, the largest and most beautiful star visible from earth,
radiates in full intensity, shining and scintillating with a luminous
green splendour which has emanated from that grand orb twenty–two years
previously—a light so strong that it casts a streak or tail across
the Mediterranean like that of the moon, though fainter and less.
Then overhead are galaxies of glory, in the midst of which the Milky
Way, the nearest of the nebulæ (for it is that to which we ourselves
belong), stretches over the great expanse its belt of pearly sheen, the
dwelling–place of countless myriads of starry habitants whose light as
now seen dates back to a period anterior to the creation of man—all
of them far too distant to be discernible by the unassisted eye. Cold
though the evenings sometimes were, I was often tempted to turn out and
see the matchless sight. The promenade was close by, and there all was
open to the view.
* * * * *
Visitors, however, are no sooner settled in a place than, according to
immemorial usage, it seems to be their paramount duty to escape out
of it and see its environs, and perhaps I shall best illustrate the
locality by describing some of our excursions.
* * * * *
Besides the main road which leads in one direction to Monaco and
Nice, and in the other to San Remo and Genoa, and another road up
the Carrei valley to Turin, and roads which go a short way up the
Boirigo and Gorbio valleys, there is not much opportunity for varied
driving; but the mountains which connect themselves by their ridgy
tentacula with the very coast, afford innumerable excursions on foot
and on donkeys, and parties, often large in number, are daily in
good weather to be seen starting on such expeditions. The donkeys
are patient, sure–footed, know every inch of the way, and require
little encouragement by means of the whip. There are many roads or
paths constructed expressly for them up and over the ridges, although
rather intended for the rural traffic than for excursionizing. The
animals are let out for hire at 5 francs per day, or 2½ francs for
the half day, the day being considered divided by the lunch or
dinner hour of twelve, and detention of half an hour beyond twelve
reckoned as a whole day. Girls or boys, sometimes women or even men,
attend the donkeys and act as guides, expecting a trifle of a fee to
themselves—generally half a franc per donkey per day, and half that for
half a day. There are plenty of carriages of all kinds, but principally
light basket–carriages with one or more horses. The only other mode of
conveyance is the railway. Steamboats do not touch at the port, and
boating is not much indulged in, the open sea not being particularly
safe, although near shore usually placid, and offering imposing views
towards the land.
* * * * *
A few days after our arrival, we joined a party of friends for
Castellar, which is about three miles distant. We started after
lunch, about half–past one, having six donkeys for those who rode.
It was the 2d of December, and the day was overpoweringly hot. The
ascent commences at once from the town, and the mounting was almost
continuous, diversified, however, by stretches of level path. For
protection of the road, which would otherwise be soon worn away, it
is, like most other donkey paths, in its steeper parts paved sometimes
with the small round stones commonly called petrified kidneys, which
are very trying to the feet of the walkers, at least till they get
accustomed to them. After we had gone up a short way, we obtained the
shelter of trees, which lessened the fatigue. It was a lovely walk the
whole way, the views at every turn being so fine; the sky overhead,
bright, clear, blue, against which the bold outlines of the adjacent
mountains broke in most picturesque lines; while, whether we looked
down the thickly–covered slopes below or across the ravines to the
wooded slopes of the Berceau above, or to the hill ridges fringed with
trees or capped by picturesque buildings, it was a scene of grandeur
and beauty blended; while the silver–lined blue–green of the olive
leaf, mingling with the dark green of the pines, and the grass and the
wild shrubbery, combined with the bright glitter of the sun through
the branches to make it fairy–land. Notwithstanding the shade afforded
by the trees, I felt the ascent very hot work, and perspired at every
pore. At last, in about an hour and a half, we reached Castellar,
perched upon the summit of the rock or acclivity, which is 1200 feet
above the level of the sea. We found it a very curious old Italian
village—a type, however, of others which we subsequently saw. It
consists of two long narrow streets, and of three ranges of miserable
old houses, offering wretched uncomfortable holes for the inhabitants,
the wretchedness being probably to some extent redeemed by the natural
purity of the air. On the outside walls, the windows, where they
exist, stand high, and are small (in many places merely loopholes for
guns), the town being so built as to afford some protection against
the roving expeditions of the Moors. Poor and miserable as the place
looks, it has, like all such villages, a grand church—that is, grand
in comparison with the dwellings and with the apparent poverty of the
people. The church is adorned by the usual spire, which forms a feature
of the little town or village, which, though picturesque at a short
distance, does not afford as much scope for the pencil of the artist
as some other similar villages. From the platform on which the town
stands, we obtained a splendid view of the mountains of Mentone and of
the bay below. After halting a very brief time, the party descended,
to be back before sunset—a precaution essentially needful to be
attended to by those who are subject to any weakness in the chest, and
by no means to be neglected even by those in robust health, as just
before sunset, and for an hour afterwards, a cold clammy air descends
or envelopes these regions. Going and returning occupied altogether
about three hours. We returned highly satisfied with this our first
expedition. On the way down, the graceful towers of the churches at
several points came prominently into view.
* * * * *
After this hot day, we had two continuously wet days. The rain poured
heavily, the wind blew violently from the south–west, and the torrent
beds of the rivers were filled to an extent I never saw subsequently.
The rain was no doubt very beneficial to a country which gets so
little, while the flood must have proved useful in clearing out the
bed of the river, with all its accumulations of dirt, soapy washings,
and olive refuse. As the stream in flood brings down with it soil from
the mountains, on this and on other similar occasions, the rivers,
by carrying out what they hold in solution to the sea, discolour
the water, and the sea was a deeply–marked brown for a considerable
distance on and along the coast. The waves were high, and dashed
grandly on the shore, and broke beautifully over the pier. Only on one
occasion during this winter were they so violent as to dash over the
promenade. We were informed it was a good sign that the winter should
commence, as it had done, with heavy rain, as it generally ensured a
long continuance of fine weather further on in the season. There were a
few wet days in November and December, and all January and February we
had it, nearly continuously, fine, dry, and open. The clearness of the
atmosphere of Mentone is one of its great recommendations. There are
no fogs such as we have at home, though what seemed to be the mistral
produces an approach to them; but there are occasional cloudy days, and
when the sun gets behind a cloud, the air is cold, sometimes keenly so.
Wet days, however, are exceedingly useful to the visitor for keeping up
correspondence, which the attractions out of doors tempt him to neglect
in fine weather.
During one of the days of the week upon which it did not rain, I took a
walk with a friend to the gorge of St. Louis. The road was very muddy,
in consequence of the rain which had fallen; indeed, it is very seldom
this road is in an agreeable condition. It is laid with soft limestone,
which is ground down by heavy carts laden with enormous stones which
are being conveyed from the rocks from which they are blasted to the
breakwater. The dust so formed lies about three inches deep upon the
road. Every horse, carriage, and cart which passes raises a cloud; but
when the wind blows, it becomes insufferable, and there is hardly any
possibility of brushing the dust out of one’s clothes. Rain converts
the dust into mud, and when the mud has obtained a consistency by being
baked in the sun, it forms into hard ruts trying to the pedestrian.
The gorge was fully two miles distant from our hotel, and was a
frequent point to which we subsequently walked or drove. To reach it
from the west end we may pass through the Avenue Victor Emanuele, where
the shops are, and its continuation, the Rue St. Michael. The road
then skirts the water by the Quai Bonaparte (so called after Napoleon
I., who constructed the Corniche road, of which this is a part), and
looking up, we saw the old town with its ridge upon ridge of high old
dingy houses, like so many terraces one over the other—a very hanging
garden (though garden is anything but the suitable word) of old roofs
and chimney–tops; while, looking over the parapet wall, the water lying
15 or 20 feet below, a fine view of the bay and little harbour is had.
But this part of the road is always under shade after twelve o’clock,
and is exceedingly trying to invalids. I have often thought that the
municipal authorities might effect a vast improvement if they would
construct a diagonal road across from its commencement at the well to
the Hotel de la Paix. The water is very shallow, apparently only a few
feet deep; and though it would be a work of time and would require
much material, it would really be of vast importance to Mentone, as
then the invalid could walk or drive either to or from the east bay
at any time of day without danger. The space intervening between the
embankment so to be formed and the Quai Bonaparte, might afterwards
be filled up and converted into a large public garden. The operation,
however, would be costly, although the stone for forming it is at
hand. But taking things as they are, the road continues in front of
the various hotels I have already mentioned. Whether it was that the
air here is more confined than in the west bay, I know not, but we
never could walk along this long dusty stretch without a feeling of
languor such as was not experienced in other and much longer walks,
so that we were always ready to take rest on one of the seats placed
by the roadside. After proceeding a good way, the road at the east
bend of the bay divides, and one fork winds up to the gorge and on to
Italy. The other fork turns aside into a promenade (now in course of
formation), as yet short, by the margin of the sea and along the rocks
of the coast, which will, when completed, become, as even now to some
extent it is, a very agreeable accession to the amenity of the east
bay, where there are not so many nice walks as are in the neighbourhood
of the west bay. Reaching the gorge, which forms a dividing ravine
between the mountains of the Berceau and Belinda, and is crossed by a
bridge, conspicuous from most parts of Mentone, standing about 200 feet
above the stream below, and a good deal more below the rocks towering
above, we can at the north end of the bridge place one foot in France
and the other in Italy. The Italian _douaniers_ have a station–house
a little beyond, perched prominently on the summit of the rock. The
French _douaniers_ have theirs on the road near to the junction of the
above–mentioned two roads, the two houses being stationed considerably
apart, as if to prevent the possibility of quarrel.
The view from the bridge is remarkably fine, and should be seen in
the morning, as when the sun gets round to the west or south–west, it
throws much of the scene into the shade, and is, besides, too dazzling
to behold. The harbour lies under us, a good mile off, with its few
ships and boats, and the picturesque old town; beyond it, the west
bay, Cape Martin, and all the panorama of mountains which stretch to
the north and north–west of Mentone, the aspect of whose outlines and
rugged tops, being so near, changes at every different point of view.
* * * * *
In the afternoon of the same day, we took a walk up one of the valleys.
These valleys are all favourite walks to those residing in the west
bay. The views from the bridges which span them at the mouths of
the river or rivers, supposed to run below them, are each different
from the other, and are exceedingly picturesque. The one next to us
was the Carrei or Turin valley. The torrent bed of this river course
is confined from its mouth, where it is narrowed (speaking from
recollection) to about 60 or 80 feet, and for a considerable way up and
beyond the railway viaduct, by sloping bulwarks of masonry. After this
the bed, no longer so confined, widens very considerably, and about a
mile from the mouth gets broad and bare; farther up still, it narrows
again, and becomes the rocky bed of what sometimes may be called a
river, but usually is nothing but a small stream. Within Mentone the
bed is crossed by two wooden foot bridges, one wooden suspension bridge
for carriages and foot passengers, and a railway viaduct. Looking up
and northward from the wooden foot bridge which spans the river course
at its mouth, and placed for the purpose of connecting two portions
of the promenade, one of the grandest views in Mentone is had.[21] On
either side of the spectator the Eucalyptus and Spanish fig trees,
the flowering aloes and other trees of the public gardens, offer a
leafy inclosure; and carrying the eye along upon the left side up
the right bank of the Carrei to the railway viaduct, and beyond it,
we observe the tall plane trees of the avenue leading to the railway
station casting their shadows over the road, and in the afternoon over
the river course, giving the aspect of agreeable shelter from the
sun. On the right side, like theatrical side scenes run in one behind
the other, bright–looking villas with their coloured jalousies and
red–tiled roofs, diversified by an occasional one in blue lead and
French roof, project out of gardens,—the Hotel du Louvre and the Hotel
des Îles Britanniques, in the rear of all, being by a bend of the river
scarcely visible from this bridge. Then a mountain ridge within half a
mile from the bridge crosses the view above 1000 feet high, and crowned
by a monastery (St. Annunciata), and with slopes here concealed by
olive, lemon, and orange trees, in regular terraces, and there broken
and exposed by rock and steep earthy–looking sides, as if washed away,
and dotted elsewhere by coloured houses, and with straggling pine trees
bristling up from the immediate background; while behind all this, as
a grand back scene, rising boldly out of rounded, verdant, or stony
slopes, mingled and varying in aspect each hour with the course of the
sun, which throws the shadows in the morning westward and the afternoon
eastward, and sometimes bathes them in light, and sometimes veils them
in shade, the rocky, rugged heights of the mountains (seen here in part
only), some of them only two to three miles distant, tower up, thrown,
in lines clear and strong, upon the limpid blue sky tying cloudless and
serene above. The subject is one which frequently engages the pencil or
the brush of the amateur; but the situation is public, and one cannot
attempt a sketch without inviting inquisitive looks by crowds of those
who are too polite to stop and hang over one’s head in heaps, like
the wondering and intently watchful, concerned, and admiring _gamins_
of the street, but who are rude enough sometimes to pass repeatedly
back and forward, shaking the bridge with every footfall, and jostling
each other and the artist for a look over the shoulder as they pass.
The scene is one which I never could tire of beholding. It has been
photographed, but photographs never give a mountain view with the
clearness and effect of a good drawing.
* * * * *
But leaving the bridge and proceeding to the Avenue de la Gare, we
find on inquiry that this is the commencement of the road to Turin,
which is nearly 100 miles off, although about half way it is met by a
railway from Cuneo to Turin, and is now all but superseded for traffic
by the coast railway towards Genoa, the direct line to Turin branching
off at Savona, making a distance by rail of about, according to my
calculation, 183 miles. This road is the only one up the valleys which
can be traversed for any distance. A strong current of air frequently
blows down the valley and renders it occasionally in its shady parts
a cold walk for the invalid, who must in winter months carry wraps
for use when either he gets out of sunshine or the sun retires behind
a cloud. This current is, I presume, the cause of the west bay being
cooler than the east. It is, however, a charming walk up the road,
level for nearly two miles, and the greater part of the way—indeed,
almost the whole of it—being fringed with trees. For a little distance
after passing under the railway viaduct, pretty houses, in gardens
full of orange and lemon trees covered with fruit, are seen on both
sides of the river; and in spring, women are constantly met bearing on
their heads to town immense basketfuls of lemons and oranges. Farther
on, and on emerging from the shade of the monastery hill, a curious
range of oil–mills has been placed like steps one over the other on
the slope of the hill, driven each by a separate water wheel of large
diameter—the same water, apparently, by an economical arrangement,
driving the wheels successively as it falls. Some way beyond these
mills, the road begins to ascend and to wind, and, as the valley closes
in, thickly planted with trees on both sides, seems to become more
and more inviting; while peeps are had of Castellar, high overhead,
on the right, embosomed among olive groves. Rocky mountains, bold and
bluff, oppose themselves nearer and nearer to the spectator; the small
village of Monti and its white church and long spire is attained, and
after some miles by a zig–zag road, the summit, upwards of 2000 feet
high, and three miles from the sea, is won. An excellent excursion by
carriage along this road is to the picturesque village of Sospello,
22 kilometres, or about 14 miles distant from Mentone, passing and
visiting by the way the curious old town of Castiglione, which lies
perched up among the mountains (inaccessible by carriage) at a height,
it is said, of over 2500 feet above the sea.[22]
[Illustration: OIL MILLS CARREI VALLEY, MENTONE.]
The valley of Carrei, partly from its proximity to our hotel, was with
us a favourite walk, and could be visited also by a more sunny road for
a short way on the east bank of the river course. Here, as elsewhere,
the municipality have placed wooden seats, which are very acceptable
to pedestrians. Sometimes a whiff of cold air blowing down the valley
proves too trying to allow of sitting long; but one scarcely tires of
the bright glad sun, or the view of the hill slopes and verdure with
which they are covered all the year through, or of the bold mountains,
on the foremost central one of which may be discovered—particularly
with the aid of a glass, for it is at first hardly distinguishable by
the eye from the rocks on which it rests—the ruined castle of Ste.
Agnese, elevated like an eagle’s eyrie high up on the apparently
inaccessible summit.
* * * * *
A trip to Ste. Agnese is generally taken by all who are not infirm.
Though not so arduous as the ascent of the Berceau, of the Grand
Mont, or of Mont Agel, which all command extensive views, but can
only be undertaken by the able–bodied, it is a somewhat fatiguing
excursion, and most people perform the ascent on donkey back. On the
13th December, the morning and day being fine, we started, a party of
twelve, with eight donkeys and two donkey–drivers. To reach the point
from which the ascent begins, we proceeded along the Nice road westward
to the Boirigo valley. The view from the bridge across this valley
was then (even still is, notwithstanding the erection of buildings
on each side, some of them lofty and uninteresting, has somewhat
contracted the view) much more open and extensive than that from the
Carrei bridge. It took in west, north, and east, the whole panorama of
mountain, twenty–eight peaks and pinnacles, enumerated in Giordan’s
little _Mentone Guide_ (1877), being counted from the bridge. A road
runs up each side of the river course, which is hemmed in like the
Carrei by bulwarks of masonry. The road upon the left bank does not
proceed above a mile, when—at a picturesquely–situated olive–oil mill,
embosomed among olive and lemon trees, and bordered by a pretty stretch
of the channel of the river, lying at the bottom of a dell closed
in by wooded hills on both sides—it is shut in and becomes a donkey
path buried among the trees of the valley, the river in the ravine
below meantime narrowing correspondingly. The walk by this delightful
path through the woods arrives at an old stone bridge leading to the
village of Cabriole, whence by a steep ascent Ste. Agnese may be taken.
The road upon the right bank terminates more speedily, entering at a
large pottery upon ‘the primrose valley,’ the river course of which,
delightfully shut in by high banks, is usually all but dry. Up both
valleys we have had many pleasant strolls. On the present occasion,
proceeding only a short way beyond the railway viaduct, we left the
last–mentioned road, and, ascending by a steep donkey path, gradually
gained the top of a ridge, along which, at a gradient gently inclining
upward, a walk lies, protected, like that to Castellar, by trees, and
looking down on the Gorbio valley—on the one side, its great plain
thickly planted with olive trees, and terminated at its north end by
the town of Gorbio, as if resting on an island peak; and on the other,
on the Boirigo valley and the monastery heights. It took us some time
to reach the base of the mountains, when the path became rough with
loose stones, and steep and toilsome. Nearly three hours elapsed from
the time of our leaving the hotel till we reached one of the mountain
roadside chapels, with which the country abounds, constructed not
only to point religious feelings, but as covered places of refuge
from a storm. As usual, a cross stood by it, bent to the north–east,
indicating that south–west were the violent and prevailing winds.
This chapel, which could easily have held all our party and more in
a storm, was a short way below the town of Ste. Agnese, and afforded
a convenient resting–place ere proceeding farther. We had from it a
good view of Ste. Agnese, which, being placed back on the north side
of the mountain, is not visible from Mentone. It stands about 2100
or 2200 feet above the level of the sea. The castle, now in ruins,
on the summit, is above 300 feet higher. As a stronghold it was no
doubt almost unassailable; for on one side the rock may be said to be
perpendicular, and the other sides are, as I learnt from the ascent,
very steep. The town of Ste. Agnese, which we had yet a good pull to
arrive at, is another of those curious villages which are seen in
the Riviera. From a little distance it has a deserted, ruinous look,
and the place does not improve upon nearer acquaintance. Of course,
notwithstanding the apparent poverty of the inhabitants, it has a grand
church with a spire to it, and we had chanced to light upon a fête
day; for, as we were sitting on the rocks beyond it at lunch (brought
with us as usual on such excursions, and forming no unacceptable
part of their enjoyment),[23] we cast our eyes down upon the steep
hillside below, and there we saw winding up, quite a number of priests
and people with images, banners, and other insignia. On reaching the
plateau on which we were, they halted to rest, and then formed into
procession, one priest bearing in front a large crucifix with a figure
of our Saviour on it, life–size; and all chanting, proceeded to the
church.
Resting some time, a few of us ventured to climb to the castle. An
interesting legend (fully narrated in Pemberton’s _Monaco_, p. 351)
attaches to it. During the latter half of the tenth century, Haroun,
a bold African chief, in command of a formidable fleet, was cruelly
ravaging the coast and carrying off captives, among whom was a maiden
of Provence called Anna, of illustrious birth and marvellous beauty.
The vessel bearing her to Spain had been taken after a bloody battle,
in which her father and two brothers were killed. Haroun had first
pitied and protected her, and then fell violently in love with her. His
jealous wife, divining the fact from his altered demeanour, gave orders
to bind her and have her by night cast into the sea. Discovering this
in time, he saved Anna’s life, and in his rage caused his wife to be
strangled. Arriving opposite Ste. Agnese, and struck by the advantage
of the position, he landed with 100 men and his captives, the natives
flying before him, ascended the mountain, and built the fort. Here he
importuned the disconsolate maid to renounce Christianity and marry
him, but in vain; till, finding her one day praying for him, he was
overcome, embraced Christianity himself, and fled with her and all his
treasure to Marseilles, where they were joyfully received and were
married.
The return took rather shorter time than the ascent; but the expedition
occupied nearly the whole day from breakfast–time till dark. We might
have descended by two or three different routes, but chose the way by
which we had come. One of the other routes would have been by going
round the mountain and descending upon the east side; but I believe it
is very steep, and not much approved by the guides or donkey people.
Another route would have been by diverging from the road by which we
had ascended and coming down another ridge, called the Arbutus Walk
(from the circumstance that it is filled with arbutus trees, with their
brilliant scarlet and gold flower and fruit, so tempting and attractive
to young people), and terminating in the Madonna Hill, a very favourite
walk from Mentone. All in the hotel who had not taken part were eager
to hear about our expedition, and we became for the nonce heroes, as
famous as if we had made the ascent of Mont Blanc.
* * * * *
If one were to ascend simply to obtain a view, that from Ste. Agnese,
or even from the castle on the top, would scarcely repay the fatigue
of the ascent. It is dominated by a chain of rocky mountains, which
surround it on every side except that to the sea; and the view towards
the sea—that is, towards Mentone—is not more extensive than what may
be obtained from many lower points upon which we there look down,
and among others the monastery of Annunciata, which seems a long way
immediately below, although it stands high, and is a prominent object
from Mentone.
To this monastery we paid several visits. It stands on the ridge
between the Carrei and Boirigo valleys, and is said at one time—by
no means, looking to its position, unlikely—to have been the former
site of Mentone and of a castle. The plateau on which now the chapel
and monastery are built is above 1000 feet high, and is attained by
another of those donkey paths of which there are so many on the hills.
In fact, various such paths, more or less steep, conduct up to it
from different parts. The main ascent from the Carrei valley is sharp
and steep enough, and has the usual allowance of twelve or fifteen
chapels or stations by the way—little places like sentry–boxes, in
which sometimes objects of worship are placed. A small church or
chapel forms an adjunct to the monastery. Its walls are covered over
with votive pictures in commemoration of miraculous escapes from great
dangers, but of the rudest description. They depict the danger escaped,
and the Virgin opportunely appearing in the clouds to interpose and
save, and are very singular specimens of art, drawn by the merest
tyros—or rather babes—in art. It is surprising how those in charge of
the church could allow it to be desecrated by such trashy attempts at
the pictorial. The thing, however, is to be seen in many other such
churches. Our first visit to this spot was at Christmas–time (29th
Dec.), when the monks dress up a little crypt below the chapel in a
very curious way, so as to represent the Nativity of our Lord. On a
raised platform a country–side is seen, with rocks, and plains, and
rustic bridges, studded over by little puppet figures or dolls about
a foot high, others in the distance smaller, personating different
characters—kings, Roman soldiers, shepherds with some woolly sheep,
and Joseph and Mary standing in the midst of all. Near them a little
babe lies on the ground, and kneeling before and adoring it a figure,
I suppose, representing one of the Magi. Nor are angels wanting to
complete the representation; while in a recess in the distant vista a
toy Noah’s Ark is set, supposed to be resting on Ararat, satisfactorily
proving by ocular demonstration that Noah’s Ark was, at the time of the
Nativity, visible. The figures are evidently carved, by the hands of
the monks, as the faces differ entirely from those of ordinary dolls,
and from each other. It must cost the monks a good deal of labour to
make the arrangements; but they have, I presume, little else to do, and
it no doubt furnishes an agreeable occupation, which doubtless they
grievously want. At stated hours of the day they may be heard with
sepulchral voices chanting service; and as they seem to have nothing
else to do, I suppose it may literally be said their vocation is, ‘_Vox
et preterea nihil_.’
* * * * *
The most westerly of the valleys is that of Gorbio, which in some
respects is the most beautiful, as it is the most secluded of all
the three. It has no broad torrent bed like those of the Carrei and
Boirigo, and in fact the river can scarcely be seen between its
entrance to the sea and a long way up the valley, the road between
these points lying at some distance from the river, in a ravine below,
winding its course over rocks and among trees which hide it from sight.
The valley, everywhere wooded, and river derive their name from the
town of Gorbio, which crests a lofty conical–shaped rock or height 1400
feet high, about three miles distant from Mentone. The olive–covered
ridges rise also on either side the valley pretty steeply, and hem it
in.
On 14th February a party was made up from our hotel to go to Gorbio,
sixteen in number, with nine donkeys and three donkey attendants. We
left at half–past nine in the morning and got back at five o’clock.
There is now a good carriage road for a considerable distance up the
valley; but at that time it was only in course of formation, and was
very rough. Where the road ceases, the ascent, hitherto gentle, becomes
more perceptible; and on arriving at a point below the height on which
Gorbio stands, we had to look up to it far above on the summit of its
bold abrupt rock. It looked magnificent, and the sketchers of the
party longed exceedingly to take it from that point; but the donkeys,
or their drivers or riders, had no compassion, and, as it was not
desirable to separate on such excursions, the chance on this occasion
was lost, though, by starting a little earlier than the party, I got it
on a subsequent visit.
The ascent to the top was steep by a donkey path, but the town was
very curious. It has been, I believe, the scene of many battles. After
inspecting it amidst the gazing of a crowd of idle inhabitants, we
adjourned to a grassy bank a little outside, where we enjoyed our
lunch, and the four sketchers were recompensed by obtaining a view of
the town from an excellent point. As Gorbio is an excursion frequently
made, we were surrounded by children, who kept us in a state of siege
for coppers, which they are led by the injudiciousness of visitors to
expect, and it was no easy matter to shake them off. We had still a
great deal before us to do; so, as soon, as possible, the donkeys were
remounted, and we proceeded along a mountain path, gradually reaching
an elevation several hundred feet above Gorbio, on which we then looked
down. All along this path we had splendid views, including one of the
village of Ste. Agnese and the mountain on which it stands, which,
from that point presenting its edge to us, appeared like a sharp Swiss
aiguille. After a long circuit, we reached a point, at which the party
dismounted and walked to the top of a hill commanding the valley;
and then began the descent by a rough, stony, mountainous path to
Rochebrune, about two miles off. Some of our party, keeping too high
up, had to descend the mountain so perpendicularly that they could only
liken the declivity to the side or face of a house.
Rochebrune rests upon the slope of a hill looking westward, down upon
the Corniche road, on Monaco and the sea, between 600 and 800 feet
below. The ruins of a castle stand upon a rock, which is said to have
slipped down from a cliff 200 or 300 feet above. This, if true, would
be a remarkable and unique circumstance. The town itself, which is
about three or four miles from Mentone, from which it is a favourite
excursion, is very picturesque, and affords many choice bits for the
artist, I think more so than any similar town in the neighbourhood.
One of our party jocularly proposed to come and spend a fortnight
there, and take sketches; but to any civilised person it would be just
as agreeable to spend the time, if that were possible, in a rabbit
warren, to which another compared it. The view towards Monaco and the
hills beyond it is very fine, but requires to be seen before the
afternoon sun comes round. There are two ways of reaching Mentone from
Rochebrune—one, by going down to the Corniche road a little below; and
the other, by descending through terraces of fine old olive trees, one
of which, in the pathway leading out of the village, is of immense
girth, and must be of great age. It is said that some of the olive
trees in this neighbourhood are considered to be nearly two thousand
years old. The trunks of these olives are often very curious, from the
mode in which they divide or split up and twist about. By either way
to Mentone, splendid views are obtained, and the usual course on an
excursion to Rochebrune is to go by one route and return by the other.
In going by the road, we skirt the tongue of land called Cape Martin.
* * * * *
One of the most interesting and most usual walks or drives from Mentone
is to this Cape Martin—to the point it is above two miles distant;
and it is at present, or was while we were there, reached either by
the rough, stony beach, disagreeable for the feet, but the shorter
way, and pleasant, as passing by the ocean and having the view open to
the scenes around. In time, it is expected that the promenade will be
extended all along the coast to the cape, which will make approach to
it by the shore a most agreeable walk. The other access, much longer,
is by proceeding along the dusty high road leading to Monaco to some
distance beyond the Hôtel? du Pavillon, and passing under a railway
viaduct which crosses the road to a rough side road or avenue which
diverges to the left and winds through a delicious plantation of
fine old olive trees, with knotted, and gnarled, and divided trunks,
and long, vigorous branches which stretch fantastically overhead and
interlace; while the sun glinting through them here casts alternate
lights and shadows on the white limestone road, and there shoots in
streaks through the openings, speckling the forest with glancing
radiance, shifting and changing as the olive boughs wave, and their
tender leaves turning now their silver breasts and now their green
backs to the breeze, shimmer in the light; while the carpet of grass
is spread underneath, dotted over with violet and anemone; and the
distance is dark, shut out by the thicket of trees, and the background
of shrubs, and banks, and hill. As the road proceeds, it again passes
under another railway bridge, the trains over which whistle and whirl
on, scaring the passers–by, and breaking incongruously on the quiet of
the scene, as if winged demons had escaped and in a state of fright
rushed in hot and fiery to disturb the tranquillity of the land and
break its peace. Then walled gardens are passed, closely planted with
orange trees, laden in bunches with their tempting fruit. Still keeping
on this rustic road amidst more olive trees, we at last arrive upon an
open part, and behold a church of curious design on the one hand, and
the blue Mediterranean on the other, and before us the avenue along the
margin of the promontory. Here it had unhappily been intended to have
built a town, and as a commencement three villas have been erected; but
the situation is not only too distant from Mentone, but is on the wrong
side of the hill, seeing the sun leaves it in cold shade soon after
noon; and thus, though commanding a splendid view all along the coast
eastward, they have not found favour, and stand silent and all but
deserted. Beyond these villas, and at the entrance to the wooded hill,
the carcass of an unfinished Roman arch, intended no doubt as a grand
portal to the projected new town, spans the road, which, proceeding by
the border of the promontory, and overhanging it, looks down through
the trees and rocks to the lovely sea sporting about in little pools,
or surging and breaking on its natural bulwarks, while the slopes of
the hill above on the right hand side are densely overspread with wood.
At the end of the avenue, where the shelter of the hill terminates,
the strength and usual lie of the wind are manifested in the bent and
twisted forms of the trees, most of which are inclined, curved, or
in some cases doubled down, as if bowing in lowly obeisance towards
Mentone in the north–east, the south–west winds blowing fiercely
across the ocean when they come. The walks through the forest and up
to the semaphore on the top are charming, and make Cape Martin one of
the most enjoyable of the easy excursions from Mentone, so that the
visitors have great cause to congratulate themselves that the building
speculation came to nought. If building be ever resumed, it is to be
hoped the forest will be spared to the public, and that any houses will
be placed on the west or sunny side; although it would be a mistake
there too, as it is wholly without shelter from the west. It is not
unusual for large parties to come to picnic in the woods and enjoy the
scene, bringing their lunch with them. Some houses were commenced on a
level plateau at the point, one of them suspiciously like an incipient
restaurant, but, no doubt, being found to be too much exposed, were
abandoned, and what little was put up is now going to wreck and ruin.
It is to be hoped that Cape Martin will never be desecrated by any
such concern in the future. Here, at and round the point, the land is
surrounded by a belting of rocks and sharp pinnacles, worn so by the
breaking of the waves, and upon these pinnacles the sea is continually
breaking. In stormy weather, it is beautiful to observe the waves
rolling in and striking the rocks with great violence, and dashing high
into the air, shivering into millions of shining particles, forming
spray, which spreads and scatters in brilliant showers all round.
Nor is it less beautiful, when the breeze is gentle, to watch the
waves rolling majestically in, the hot sun shining through the long
well–dressed line as if it were through purest glass of the brightest
sea–green, and then to observe the rearing crests tumbling grandly over
as they charge to the death and deliver themselves one after another on
the rocky beach, which with a calm steadiness receives the shock.
From Cape Martin fine views are had of Monte Carlo, Monaco, with the
more distant Antibes, and even the Estrelles; while north–eastward, as
if in long white robes, the young Mentone lies nestling or cradled in
at the foot of the high range of mountains which, like gigantic Titans,
in mute serenity hang over, and watch and guard with placid pride
the smiling, sleepy little town to which they have given birth. With
scenery so romantic, the point of the cape has become a very favourite
haunt of the artist. It is seldom a visit is paid to it in which,
if the weather be fine (for in cold weather one cannot sit long),
persons are not to be seen taking sketches or elaborating more finished
pictures, for which a capital foreground is furnished by the bent and
distorted trees.