THE LION OF ROCCAPINA.
From Sartene to Bonifacio is a drive of about seven hours, including an
hour's baiting in the middle of the day.
The scenery at first is not very fine, and leads through many a bleak
and rugged hill, varied by gigantic boulders, and half-stifled ilex and
arbutus.
Some of these boulders were remarkable for their strange hollowness,
and would have made excellent bandit caves, had they been a little more
hidden by the cystus and arbutus which bordered the way.
About half-way to the pass of Roccapina, however, a fine range of blue
rocks rose on our left, close at hand, and continued for some distance
to stand sentinel over the little valley through which we passed.
Our drive to-day was varied by an amusing chase. A poor little foal,
following its mother and her master, got separated from its friends,
through fear of our carriage, and fled precipitately down the road
before us.
After vainly shouting to its deaf owner, and trying by means of gentle
driving to turn it back, Antonio at length jumped down, and we all
followed his example. But the small beast, now out of sight of its
mother, and not possessed of much wisdom, would not be persuaded to
follow the same road; but, cleverly dodging our outstretched arms,
rushed for protection to the horses, nestling up between them, to their
great contempt and indignation.
The chase became exciting, and No. 3, standing at the horses' heads,
was quite exhausted with laughing, Nos. 1 and 2 having shouted
themselves quite hoarse, when Antonio, by a dexterous rush, suddenly
caught the snorting, terrified foal up in his strong arms, and began to
carry it kicking down the road. At the same moment a pitiful neighing
was heard round the corner, and the stupid owner at last appeared,
dragged back by his afflicted mare; and in another moment, mother and
child were happily re-united.
The pass of Roccapina is wild and picturesque, overlooking the sea,
and many a rocky range. The open pass is bordered by loose boulders,
and far beneath lies the little bay of Roccapina, three or four
large coasting vessels lying in its harbour, mere black atoms in the
distance; the white sandy road winding down to it, dotted with charcoal
carts drawn by their six or eight mules, looking like so many moving
centipedes upon the hill-side.
The long headland, which juts far out into the sea and protects one
side of this bay, has upon its furthest height a high round tower,
and upon the summit of the nearer hill, one of the greatest natural
curiosities in Europe. It consists of the figure of a lion, seated
upon the high peak with a lordly air, looking out to sea--an entirely
natural formation in the rock.
For miles this lion can be seen, lifelike as if from the chisel
of a sculptor, his very features being marked out by the natural
indentations of the granite, and his pose full of spirit and vivacity.
Behind the headland, sweeps of blue sea and distant points of brown
and purple rocks form a fine background, and in front the ground slopes
away by a rocky winding road to the sea level.
A little Douane, represented by one pleasant elderly gendarme, and a
tiny inn, are the only dwellings on this bleak and lonely spot, or for
miles around its windy solitudes.
A tame tortoise, and some queer Corsican ware inside the bare little
inn, consoled us during our mid-day halt for a passing shower, and
our bread and cheese was augmented by the only luxury possessed by the
good-natured landlady, who sold us an apronful of walnuts for twopence,
and laughed cheerily at our original Italian.
Distorted and fantastic boulders gave way after a time, on the road
down, to macchie and plains of corn-fields bedecked by sheets of
scarlet poppies, as we left off following the margin of the sea-shore
and struck inland once more amongst the green hills.
A wide rock-strewn plain, with a rocky line of hills in front, and
a dry sandy road, nearly stifled us, and we were glad to get into a
lovely lane hedged by arbutus, up which twined the loving purple vetch,
to a height of more than eight feet, and where flowers--scarlet, blue,
white, and golden--hid everything but blue sky from our aching eyes.
Breezy hills, peeps of sea, and malarious-looking plain, followed each
other in quick succession, as we wound up and down, never leaving the
sea-coast far behind.
Reaching the top of the last stony height, about six miles from
Bonifacio, a splendid view lay spread before us. As far as the eye
could reach the great Mediterranean glittered like a blue mirror to the
horizon, with its white cliffs and low blue hills, surrounded by many
small islands, while the white bastion walls of Bonifacio glistened in
the noonday sun far off upon the mainland, overtopping all.
On our right rose the splendid rocks, black pointed and well-nigh
inaccessible, upon which is situated the Hermitage de la Trinité.
This monastery has been for many years deserted and untenanted, but an
immense black iron cross stands out with weird arms pointing into the
summer sky from the extreme summit of this wild eyrie.
Looking at the almost perpendicular rocks, it is difficult to believe
that any one could scale those heights; and one felt that here, at any
rate, was a monastery which could have little or no communication with
the outer world.
The next four or five miles seemed interminable, as in a burning
fiery furnace of heat we drove along the level, sandy road leading to
Bonifacio, bordered by a few dusty olives, and plentifully sprinkled
with the black wooden wayside cross.
Nearer the town we passed between wonderful chalk cliffs, curved and
hollowed and glittering, some having every appearance of high built
walls. When at length we emerged from these white, cave-carved cliffs,
we were at the bottom of an almost perpendicular hill, from the summit
of which rose the bastions of Bonifacio.
The long narrow harbour which winds from the sea round one side of
the town through more curious chalk cliffs, ceased at the edge of the
roadside, and the lower little town or quay, with one or two small
stone towers, lay beside it, before us, under the brow of the hill up
which we must ascend to the citadel and town proper. A more wild and
extraordinary looking situation for a town it would be impossible to
conceive; and of all the towns in Corsica, I have no hesitation in
saying that Bonifacio is best worth a visit.
Perched on the summit of its steep hill, its chalk foundations
overhanging the blue sea on one side, and flanked by harbour and
distant purple hills upon the other, the great mass of masonry
looks proudly down, with the invincible pride of centuries, upon its
Sardinian neighbour, and upon the waters that surround three sides of
its steep fortress.