A Little Tour In The Pyrenees
[Illustration: The Pyrenees]
We had been touring France _en automobile_ for many months--for
business purposes, one might say, and hence had followed no schedule
or itinerary, but had lingered by the way and made notes, and the
artist made sketches, and in general we acquired a knowledge of
France and things French that otherwise might not have been our lot.
The mere name of the Pyrenees had long had a magic sound for us. We
had seen them at a distance, from Carcassonne and Toulouse and Pau,
when we had made the conventional tour years ago, and had admired
them greatly, to the disparagement of the Swiss Alps. This may be
just, or unjust, but it is recorded here as a fact.
To climb mountains in an automobile appealed to us as a sport not yet
banal or overdone, and since Switzerland--so hospitable to most
classes of tourists--was treating automobilists badly just at the
time, we thought we would begin by making the itinerary of the
"_Coupe des Pyrénées;_" then, if we liked it, we could try the French
Alps in Dauphiné and Savoie, delightful and little-known French
provinces which have all the advantages of Switzerland and few of its
disadvantages, inasmuch as the inhabitants of the valley hamlets and
mountain towns have not become so _commerçant_ as their Swiss
brothers.
In August, 1905, was organized, by _La Vie en Grand Air_ and _La
Dépêche de Toulouse_, a great contest for touring automobiles, for an
award to be known as the "_Coupe des Pyrénées._"
As a work of art the "_Coupe des Pyrénées_" is far and away ahead of
most "cups" of the sort. It was the work of the sculptor, Ducuing,
and the illustration herewith will show some of its charm. The
"_coupe_" itself has disappeared from mortal view, it having been
stolen from an automobile exposition in London.
The trials was intended to develop that type of vehicle best suited
to touring, and in every way the event was a great success. The
itinerary covered the lovely mountain roads from the Mediterranean to
the Atlantic, and was the immediate inspiration for the author of
this book to follow along the same trail. It is one of the most
delightful excursions to be made in all France, which is saying that
it is one of the most delightful in all the world.
We took our departure from Toulouse, as did the participants in this
famous trial of the year before. Toulouse, the gay capital of the gay
province of old Languedoc, has abounding attractions for the tourist
of all tastes, though it is seldom visited by those who, with the
first swallows of spring-time, wing their way from the resorts of the
Riviera to Biarritz.
[Illustration: Coupe de Pyrenees]
Toulouse has many historic sights and monuments, and a _cuisine_
which is well worth a trip across France. What with truffles and the
famous _cassoulet_ and the _chapons fins de Toulouse_ one forgets to
speak of anything else on the menu, though the rest will be
sufficiently marvellous.
There are three "leading" hotels in Toulouse catering for the
automobile tourist. According to report they are all equally good. We
chose the Capoul, on the Square Lafayette, and had no cause to regret
it. We dined sumptuously, slept in a great ducal sort of an apartment
with a _hygiénique_ bedstead (a thing of brass openwork and iron
springs) tucked away in one corner, full fifteen paces from the door
by which one entered--"_Un bon kilomètre encore,_" said the _garçon
de chambre_, facetiously, as he showed us up. It promised airiness,
at any rate, and if we were awakened at four in the morning by the
extraordinarily early traffic of the city what did it matter, since
automobiles invariably take early to the road.
It's worth stating here that the _café au lait_ at six A. M. at the
Hôtel Capoul was excellent. Frequently hotel coffee in the morning in
France (at no matter what hour) is abominable. Usually it is warmed
over from the night before. No wonder it is bad!
Toulouse delayed us not on this occasion. We had known it of old; so
we started a little before seven on a brilliant September morning,
just as the sun was rising over the cathedral towers and
strengthening the shadows on the tree-lined boulevard which leads
eastward via Castlemaudry to the walled city of Carcassonne,
ninety-six kilometres away. The road-books say of this route;
"_Pl. Roul. puis Ond Tr. Pitt._" This freely translated means that
the road is at first flat, then rolling and hilly, but very
picturesque throughout. Castlemaudry delayed us not a moment, except
to extricate ourselves from a troop of unbridled, unhaltered little
donkeys being driven to the market-place, where there was a great
sale of these gentle little beasts of burden. _Pas méchant_, these
little donkeys, but stubborn, like their brethren elsewhere, and it
was exceedingly difficult to force our way through two hundred of
them, all of whom wiggled their ears at us and stood their ground
until their guardians actually came and pushed them to one side. "You
can often push a donkey when you can't pull him," they told us, a
fact which was most apparent, though unknown to us previously. We
arrived at Carcassonne in time for lunch, which we had always
supposed was called _déjeuner_ in France, but which we learned was
here called _dîner_, the evening meal (at the fashionable hour of
eight) being known as _souper_, though in reality it is a five-course
dinner.
Carcassonne was a disappointment. Imagine a puffed-up little
metropolis of twenty-five thousand souls with all the dignity that
half a dozen pretentious hotels and gaudy cafés can give it; not very
clean, nor very well laid out, nor very ancient-looking, nor very
picturesque. Where was the Carcassonne of the frowning ramparts, of
the gem of a Gothic church, and of the romance and history of which
all school-books are filled?
"Oh! You mean _la Cité,_" said the buxom hostess of our hotel. (They
are always buxom hostesses in books, but this was one in reality.)
Well, yes, we did mean _la Cité_, if by that name the referred to the
old walled town of Carcasonne, _la ville la plus curieuse de France,
un monument unique au mond._
It is but a short kilometre to reach _la Cité_ from the _Ville
Basse_, as the modern city of Carcassonne is known. Once within the
double row of walls, flanked by more than fifty towers, any
preconceived ideas that one may have had of what it might be like
will be dispelled in air. It is the most stupendously theatrical
thing yet on top of earth, unless it be the sad and dismal Pompeii or
poor rent Les Baux, in Provence.
The history of this wonder-work cannot be compressed into a few
lines. One can merely emphasize its marvellous attractions, so that
those who are in the neighbourhood may go and study it all out for
themselves. It will be worth whole volumes on history and
architecture for the earnest student to see these things. Among all
the authorities who have proclaimed the magnificent attractions of
Carcassonne the words of Viollet-le-Duc are as convincing as any. He
says: "In no part of Europe is there anything so formidable, nor at
the same time so complete, as the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth
century fortifications of Carcassonne."
We stayed a full day at Carcassonne, and reached the frowning
battlements of the Eglise St. Nazaire, at Béziers, at just two by the
clock. This is the hour when all the _commis-voyageurs_, who may have
taken lunch at the Hôtel du Nord, are dozing over their _café_ and
_petites verres_, and the _patron_ and _patronne_ of the hotel are
making preparations for their early afternoon siesta, an attribute of
all the Midi of France, as it is of Spain.
Nothing loath, the kitchen staff, spurred on by the _patron_ (all
thoughts of his siesta having vanished), turned out a most excellent
lunch, _hors d'oeuvres_, fresh sardines, omelette, _cotelette
d'agneau_ with _pommes paille_, delicious grapes, and all you wish of
the red or white _vin du pays_. All for the absurd sum (considering
the trouble they were put to) of three francs each. No "_doing_" the
automobilist here; let other travellers make a note of the name!
Béziers is altogether one of the most remarkably disposed large towns
of the south of France. Its storied past is lurid enough to please
the most bloodthirsty, as is recalled by the history of its
fortress-church of St. Nazaire, now the cathedral. For the rest the
reader must hunt it out in his guide-book. We were doing no lightning
tour, but we were of a mind to sleep that night at Perpignan,
approximately a hundred kilometres farther on.
Southward our road turned again, through Narbonne, which, both from
its history and from its present-day importance, stands out as one of
the well-remembered spots in one's itinerary of France. It is full of
local colour; its bridge of houses over its river is the delight of
the artistic; its Hôtel de Ville and its cathedral are wonders of
architectural art; and, altogether, as the ancient capital of an
ancient province, one wonders that a seventeenth-century traveller
had the right to call it "_cette vilaine ville de Narbonne._"
All the way to Perpignan the roads were terrifically bad, being cut
up into great dusty ruts by many great carts and drays hauling
wine-pipes to the railway stations. The traffic is enormous, for it
is the wines of Roussillon that are shipped all over France for
blending with and fortifying the weaker vintages, even those of the
Gironde.
Dusty in dry weather, and chalky mud in wet, are the characteristic
faults of this hundred kilometres or more of Herault roadway which
one must cross to gain the shadow of the Pyrenees. There seems to be
no help for it unless cobblestones were to be put down, which would
be a cure worse than the disease.
Perpignan is the most entrancing city between Marseilles and
Barcelona. It has many of the characteristics of both, though of only
thirty thousand inhabitants. The old fortifications, which once gave
it an aspect of mediævalism, are now (by decree of 1903) being torn
down, and only the quaintly picturesque Castillet remains. The rest
are--at the present writing--a mere mass of crumbled bricks and
mortar, and a real blemish to an otherwise exceedingly attractive,
gay little city. The automobile garages are all side by side on a
new-made street, on the site of one line of the old fortifications,
and are suitable enough when found, but no directions which were
given us enabled us to house our machine inside of half an hour's
time after we had entered the town. Our hotel, unfortunately, was one
of the few that did not have a garage as an adjunct of the
establishment. In other respects the Hôtel de la Poste was a marvel
of up-to-dateness. The sleeping-rooms were of that distinction known
in France as _hygiénique_, and the stairways and walls were
fire-proof, or looked it. One dined in a great first-floor apartment
with a marble floor, and dined well, and there was ice for those who
wanted it. (The Americans did, you may be sure.)
Perpignan is possessed of much history, much character, and much
local colour of the tone which artists love, and above all a certain
gaiety and brilliancy which one usually associates only with Spain.
There is what might be called a street of cafés at Perpignan, not far
from the Castillet. They are great, splendid establishments, with
wide, overhung, awninged terraces, and potted plants and electric
lights and gold and tinsel, and mixed drinks and ices and sorbets,
and all the epicurean cold things which one may find in the best
establishment in Paris. These cafés are side by side and opposite
each other, and are as typical of the life of the town as is the
Rambla typical of Barcelona, or the Cannebière of Marseilles. They
are dull enough places in the daytime, but with the hour of the
_apéritif_, which may be anywhere between five and eight in the
afternoon, they wake up a bit, then slumber until nine or
nine-thirty, when gaiety descends with all its forces until any hour
you like in the morning. They won't think of such a thing as turning
the lights out on you in the cafés of Perpignan.
From Perpignan we turned boldly into the cleft road through the
valley of the Têt, via Prades and Mont Louis to Bourg-Madame, the
frontier town toward Spain, and the only decent route for entering
Spain by automobile via the Mediterranean gateway.
Bourg-Madame is marked on most maps, but it is all but unknown of
itself; no one thinks of going there unless he be touring the
Pyrenees, or visiting Andorra, one of the unspoiled corners of
Europe, as quaint and unworldly to-day as it ever was; a tiny
republic of very, very few square kilometres, whose largest city or
town, or whatever you choose to call it, has but five hundred
inhabitants.
If one is swinging round the Pyrenean circle he goes on to Porte,
where, at the Auberge Michette, he will learn all that is needful for
penetrating into the unknown darkest spot in Europe. We thought to do
the journey "_en auto,_" but on arrival at Porte learned it was not
to be thought of. A sure-footed little Pyrenean donkey or mule was
the only pathfinder used to the twistings and turnings and blind
paths of this little mountain republic, where the people speak
Spanish, and religion and law are administrated by the French and
Spanish authorities in turn.
It's a week's travel properly to visit Andorra and view all its wild
unworldliness, so the trip is here only suggested.
[Illustration: Some Snap-shots in the Pyrenees]
We took up our route again, crossing the Col de Puymorans (1,781
metres), and dropped down on Hospitalet, which also is printed in
large black letters on the maps, but which contains only 148
inhabitants, unless there have been some births and no deaths since
this was written.
From Hospitalet we were going down, down, down all of the time, the
valley road of the Ariége, dropping with remarkable precipitation.
In eighteen kilometres we were at Aix-les-Thermes. The guide-books
call it "_une jolie petite ville,_" and no one will dispute it,
though it had no charms for us; we were more interested in routes and
roads than in mere watering-places, and so, beyond a stop for
gasoline for the motor, not having been able to get any for the last
fifty kilometres, still following the valley of the Ariége, we
arrived at Foix for lunch, at the most excellent Hôtel Benoit, just
as the ice was being brought on the table and the _hors d'oeuvres_
were being portioned out.
Taken all in all, Foix was one of the most delightful towns we found
in all the Pyrenean itinerary. It is quite the most daintily and
picturesquely environed town imaginable, its triple-towered château
and its _rocher_ looming high above all, and sounding a dominant note
which carries one back to the days when Gaston Phoebus was the
seigneur of Foix.
We planned to spend the night at the Hôtel de France at St. Girons,
for it was marked down in the Guide-Michelin as being fitted with
those modern refinements of travel which most of us appreciate, and
there was furthermore a garage and a _fosse_, or inspection pit. We
had need of the latter, for something was going wrong beneath the
body of our machine which manifestly require being attended to
without delay.
We took the long way around, twenty kilometres more out of our direct
road, for novelty of driving our automobile through the Grotto of Mas
D'Azil. We had been through grottoes before, the Grotte de Han in the
north of France, the caves where they ripen Rochefort cheeses, the
Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, and some others, but we had never expected
to drive an automobile through one. The Grotte de Mas-D'Azil is much
like other dark, damp holes elsewhere, and the only novelty is the
magnificent road which pierces it. The sensation of travelling over
this road is most weird, and it was well worth the trouble of making
the experiment.
From St. Girons to St. Gaudens and Montrejeau is sixty odd
kilometres. Nothing happened on the way except that the road was
literally thronged with great slow-moving ox-teams transporting great
logs down the mountainside to the sawmills in the lower valley.
Montrejeau was a surprise and a disappointment. It was a surprise
that we should find such a winsome little hill-town, and such a very
excellent hotel as was the Grand Hôtel du Parc, which takes its name
from a tiny hanging garden at the rear; but we were disappointed in
that for a mortal half-hour we tried to make our usually willing
automobile climb up on to the plateau upon which the town sits. Three
separate roads we tried, each three separate times, but climb the
machine would not. No one knew why, the writer least of all, and he
had been _chauffeur_ and driver of that automobile for many long
months, and had never found a hill, great or small, that it would not
climb. Automobiles are capricious things, like women, and sometimes
they will and sometimes they will not. At last, after the natives had
had sufficient amusement, and had told us that they had seen many an
automobile party go without lunch because they could not get up that
steep little kilometre, we found a sort of back-door entrance which
looked easy, and we went up like the proverbial bird. It was not the
main road into town, and it took some finding. The writer hopes that
others who pass this way will be as successful. Montrejeau, with its
three steep streets, its excellent hotel (when you finally got in
touch with it), its old-world market-house, and its trim little
café-bordered square, will be long remembered.
We debated long as to whether we should drop down to Luchon, and come
around by Bagnerres-de-Bigorre or not, but since they were likely to
be full of "five-o'-clockers" at this season we thought the better of
it, and left them entirely out of our itinerary. When one wants it he
can get the same sort of conventionality at Ermenonville, and need
not go so far afield to find it.
We arrived at Tarbes, at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, late on Sunday
afternoon. The name of the hotel augured well for good cheer, and on
the whole we found it satisfactory enough. One of its most appealing
features is the fact that the kitchens and the garage were once a
convent. It has undergone a considerable change since then, but it
lent a sort of glamour to things to know that you were stabling your
automobile in such a place.
Tarbes is a great busy, overgrown, unlovely big town, which flounders
under the questionable dignities of being a station of an army corps
and a préfecture: Bureaucracy and Officialdom are writ large all over
everything, and a poor mortal without a handle to his name, or a
ribbon in his buttonhole, is looked upon as a sort of outcast when he
enters a café, and accordingly he waits a long time to be served.
We got out of Tarbes at a _très bonne heure_ the next morning without
a regret, headed for Pau. All of us had always had an affection for
Pau, because, in a way, we admired old Henri Quatre, even his
rascality.
We found Pau, too, a great, overgrown, fussy town, a bit more
delightfully environed than Tarbes, but still not at all what we had
pictured it. We knew it to be a tourist resort, but we were hardly
prepared for the tea-shops and the "bars" and the papers--in English
and "American," as a local newsdealer told us when we went to him to
buy the inevitable picture postcards.
We found out, too, that Pau has long held a unique position as the
leading hunting centre on the Continent. It costs sixty francs a day
for the hire of a saddle-horse, and from 350 francs to four hundred
francs for the month--certainly rather dear. There are, as a rule,
from thirty to forty hunters available for hire each year, but many
of them are reserved by old stagers. Of privately owned horses
following the hunt, the number would usually somewhat exceed two
hundred. The hounds meet three times a week, and the municipality of
Pau shows its appreciation of the good that hunting does for the
Pyrenees resort by voting a subsidy of five thousand francs.
What history and romance there is about Pau is pretty well blotted
out by twentieth-century snobbism, it would seem.
One learns that Pau was the seat of a château of the princes of Béarn
as early as the tenth century. Its great splendour and importance
only came with the establishment here of the residence of Gaston IV.,
Comte de Foix, the usurper of the throne of Navarre in 1464. In his
train came a parliament, a university, an academy, and a mint.
Finally came the birth of Henri Quatre, and one may yet see the great
turtle-shell used by the afterwards gay monarch for a cradle. These
were gay times for Pau, and the same gaiety, though of a forced
nature, exists to-day with the throngs of English and Americans who
are trying hard to make of it a social resort. May they not succeed.
One thing they have done is to raise prices for everything to
everybody. This is bad enough to begin with, and so with this parting
observation Pau is crossed off the list.
There are eight highroads which cross the frontier passes from France
into Spain, and two lines of railway, one along the border of the
Atlantic and Hendaye, and the other following the Mediterranean coast
to Barcelona.
"_Il n'y a plus de Pyrénées,_" we were told as we were leaving Pau.
It seemed that news had just been received that in fourteen hours a
Spanish aeronaut had covered the 730 kilometres from Pau to Grenada
"_comme les oiseaux._" Truly, after this, there are no more
frontiers.
After Pau our route led to Mauléon (seventy-two kilometres) via
Oloron, straight across Béarn, where the peasants are still of that
picturesque mien which one so seldom sees out of the comic-opera
chorus. One reads that the Béarnais are "irascible, jealous, and
spirituel."
This is some one's opinion of times long passed, but certainly we
found nothing of the kind; nothing indeed different from all the folk
of the South who dawdle at their work and spend most of their leisure
energetically dancing or eating.
Mauléon, known locally as Mauléon-Licharre to distinguish it from
Mauléon-Barousse, is the _douane_ station for entering France from
Spain (Pampelune) via St. Jean-Pied-de-Port and St. Beat, neither of
the routes much used, and not at all by automobiles.
A typical little mountain town, Mauléon is the _chef-lieu_ of the
Arrondissement, and the ancient capital of the Vicomté de Soule. It
has an excellent hotel, allied to the Touring Club de France (Hôtel
Saubidet), where one dines well off the fare of the country with no
imitation Parisian dishes. There is a sort of a historical monument
here, the Château de Mauléon (Malo-Leone--Mauvais Lion--Wicked Lion:
the reader may take his choice) of the fifteenth century, which
surrounds itself accommodatingly with a legend which the native will
tell you, if asked.
There is no great accommodation for automobiles at Mauléon, and one
can only buy oil and gasoline by going to a man named Etcheberrigary
for it. His address is not given, but any one will tell you where he
lives. They may not recognize your pronunciation, but they will
recognize your dilemma at once and point the way forthwith.
It was forty-one kilometres to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, over an
"all-up-and-down-hill" road, if there ever was one--up out of one
river valley and down into another all the way until we struck the
road by the banks of the Nive and approached the town.
St. Jean-Pied-de-Port takes its name from its proximity to one of the
Franco-Spanish gateways through the Pyrenees.
It is in danger of becoming a resort, since the guide-books already
announce it as a _station climatique_. Its Basque name of
_Donajouana_, or _Don Ilban-Garici_, ought, however, to stop any
great throng from coming.
It lies directly at the foot of the Col de Roncevalles leading into
Spain (1,057 metres). The pass has ever been celebrated in the annals
of war, from the days of the Paladin Roland to those of Maréchal
Soult's attack on the English at Pampelune.
Considering that St. Jean-Pied-de-Port boasts of only fourteen
hundred inhabitants, and is almost hidden in the Pyrenean fastness,
one does very well within its walls. There is a railway to Bayonne,
the post, telegraph, a pharmacy, and a Red Cross station, and the
wants of the automobilist are attended to sufficiently well by the
local locksmith. The Hôtel Central, on the Place du Marché, is
vouched for by the Touring Club. It has a _salle des bains_ and other
useful accessories often wanting in more pretentious establishments,
a dark room for camera fiends, a pit for automobiles, and electric
lights. For all this you pay six franc a day. "_Pas cher!_"
Bayonne, through the Basque country, is fifty odd kilometres distant,
a gentle descent all the way, down the valley of the Nive.
The Basques are a picturesque and lovable people, and they have kept
their characteristics and customs bright and shining through many
centuries of change round about them.
They love the dance, all kinds of agile games like the _jeu de paume_
and _pelota_, and will dance for three days at a fête with a passion
which does not tire. Even to-day the Basque thinks more of a local
fête than he does of anything else, and will journey fifteen or
twenty kilometres afoot--if he can't get a ride--to form a part of
some religious procession or a _tournée de paume_.
Cambo, midway between St. Jean-Pied-de-Port and Bayonne, is a tiny
spring and bath resort trying hard to be fashionable. There are many
villas near-by of wealthy "Basques-Americains," from the Argentine.
The Basques, at least the Basques-Français, are a disappearing factor
in the population of Europe. It is said there are more Basques in the
Argentine Republic than in the Republic of France, and all because of
the alienation of the Basques by Louis XIV. when he married
Marie-Thérèse and her 500,000 écus of _dot_. Since 1659 the real
Basque, he or she of the fine teeth, has been growing beautifully
less in numbers, both in France and in Spain.
A certain fillip was given to Cambo by the retreat here of Edward
Rostand, the author of "Cyrano" and "L'Aiglon." In his wake followed
litterateurs and journalists, and the fame of the hitherto unworldly
little spot--sheltered from all the winds that blow--was bruited
abroad, and the Touring Club de France erected a pavilion; thus all
at once Cambo became a "resort," in all that the name implies.
A _mécanicien_ has not yet come to care for the automobilist in
trouble, but the locksmith _(serrurier)_ will do what he can and
charge you little for it. Gasoline is high-priced, fifty sous a
_bidon_.
Bayonne, with its tradition, its present-day prosperity, and its
altogether charming situation, awaited us twenty odd kilometres away,
and we descended upon its excellent, but badly named, Grand Hotel
just at nightfall. There's another more picturesquely named near by,
and no doubt as excellent, called the Panier-Fleuri. We would much
rather have stopped at the latter,--if only on account of its
name,--but there was no accommodation for the automobile. M.
Landlord, brace up!
Bayonne is a fortress of the first class, and commands the western
gateway into Spain. Its brilliant aspect, its cosmopolitanism, and
its storied past appealed to us more than did the attractions of its
more fastidious neighbour, Biarritz. One can see a better bull-fight
at Bayonne than he can at Biarritz, where his sport must consist
principally of those varieties of gambling games announced by
European hotel-keepers as having "all the diversions of Monte Carlo."
Bull-fighting is forbidden in France, but more or less mysteriously
it comes off now and then. We did not see anything of the sort at
Bayonne, but we had many times at Arles, and Nimes, and knew well
that when the southern Frenchman sets about to provide a gory
spectacle he can give it quite as rosy a hue as his Spanish brother.
Biarritz called us the next day, and, not wishing to be taken for
dukes, or millionaires, or _chauffeurs_ and their friends out on a
holiday, we left the automobile _en garage_, and covered the seven
kilometres by the humble tramway. Be wise, and don't take your
automobile to a resort like Biarritz unless you want to pay.
It's a long way from the Pont Saint-Esprit at Bayonne to the _plage_
at Biarritz, in manners and customs, at any rate, and the seeker
after real local colour will find more of it at Bayonne than he will
at its seaside neighbour, where all is tinged with Paris, St.
Petersburg, and London.
The Empress Eugénie, or perhaps Napoleon III., "made" Biarritz when
he built the first villa in the little Basque fishing-village, which
had hitherto known neither courts nor coronets. There's no doubt
about it; Biarritz is a fine resort of its class, as are Monte Carlo
and Ostende. One can study human nature at all three, if that is what
he is out for; so, too, he can--the same sort--on Paris's boulevards.
[Illustration: On the Road in the Pyrenees]
The month of October is time for the gathering of the fashionables
and elegants of all capitals at Biarritz. All the world bathes
together in the warm waters of the Plage des Basques, and the sublime
contrast of the Pyrenees on one hand, and the open sea and sky on the
other, give a panorama of grandeur that few of its competitors have.
The visitors to Biarritz daily augment in numbers, and, since it had
been a sort of neutral trysting-ground for the King and Queen of
Spain before their marriage, and since the seal of his approval has
been given to it by Edward VII. of England (to the great disconcern
of the Riviera hotel-keepers), it bids fair to become even more
popular.
From Bayonne to the Spanish frontier it is thirty kilometres by the
road which runs through the Basque country and through St.
Jean-de-Luz, a delightful little seaside town which has long been a
"resort" of the mildly homeopathic kind, and which, let us all hope,
will never degenerate into another Nice, or Cannes, or Menton. The
great event of its historic past was the marriage here of Louis XIV.
with the Infanta Marie-Thérès on the sixth of June, 1660, but to-day
everything (in the minds of the inhabitants) dates from the arrival
of the increasing shoals of visitor from "_brumeuse Angleterre_" in
the first days of November, with the added hope that this year's
visitors will exceed in numbers those of the last--which they
probably will.
Those who know not St. Jean-de-Luz and its charms had best hurry up
before they entirely disappear. The Automobile Club de France
endorses the Hôtel d'Angleterre of St. Jean as to its beds and its
table, and also notes the fact that you may count on spending
anything you like from thirteen francs a day upward for your
accommodation. The Touring Club de France swears by the Hôtel
Terminus-Plage (equally unfortunately named), and here you will get
off for ten francs or so per day, and probably be cared for quite as
well as at the other. In any case they both possess a _salle des
bains_ and a shelter for your automobile.
We stopped only for lunch, and found it excellent, at the Hôtel de la
Poste, with _vin compris_--which is not the case at the great hotels.
_En passant_, let the writer say that the average "tourist" (not the
genuine vagabond traveller) will not drink the _vin de table_, but
prefers the same thing--at a supplementary price--for the pleasure of
seeing the cork drawn before his eyes. The "_grands hôtels_" of the
resorts recognize this and cater for the tourist accordingly.
We were bound for Fontarabia that night, just over the Spanish
border. The Spanish know it as Feuntarabia, and the Basques as
Ondarriba. For this reason one's pronunciation is likely to be
understood, because no two persons pronounce it exactly alike, and
the natives' comprehensions have been trained in a good school.
Fontarabia is gay, is ancient, and is very _foreign_ to anything in
France, even bordering upon the Spanish frontier. We left the
automobile at Hendaye, not wishing to put up with the customs duties
of eighteen francs a hundred kilos for the motor, and a thousand
francs for the _carrosserie_, for the privilege of riding twenty
kilometres out and back over a sandy, dreary road.
We dined and slept that night at a little Spanish hotel half built
out over the sea, Concha by name, and left the Grand Hôtel de Palais
Miramar to those who like grand hotels. We lingered a fortnight at
Fontarabia, and did much that many tourists did not. One should see
Fontarabia and find out its delights for oneself. There is a
quaintness and unworldliness about its old streets and wharves, which
is indescribable in print; there is a wonderfully impressive expanse
of sea and sky on the Bay of Bidassoa, a couple of kilometres away,
and all sorts and conditions of men may find an occupation here for
any passing mood they may have.
We just missed the great fête of the eighth of September, when
processions, and bull-fights, and all the movement of the sacred and
profane rejoicings of the Latins yearly astonish the more phlegmatic
northerner.
Another great fête is that of Vendredi-Saint (Good Friday). Either
one or the other should be seen by all who may be in these parts at
these times.
Near by, in the middle of the swift-flowing current of the Bidassoa,
is the historically celebrated Ile des Faisans, on which the
conferences were held between the French minister Mazarin and the
Spanish Don Louis de Haro, which led to the famous Treaty of the
Pyrenees, 1659, and the marriage of Louis XIV. with the daughter of
Philip IV. The representative of each sovereign advanced from his own
territory, by a temporary bridge, to this bit of neutral ground,
which then reached nearly up to the present bridge. The piles which
supported the cardinal's pavilion were visible not many years ago.
The death of Velasquez, the painter, was caused by his exertions in
superintending these constructions; duties more fitting to an
upholsterer than a painter.
We finished our tour of the Pyrenees at Fontarabia, having followed
along the shadow of these great frontier mountains their entire
length; not wholly unknown ground, perhaps, but for the most part
entirely unspoiled, and, as a touring-ground for the automobilist,
without a peer.