CHAPTER XX.

A RAW LUNCH.

It was a lovely sunny morning when we three, in high spirits, set out on our expedition to the forest of Bavella, and the south of the island.

Our open carriage was exceedingly comfortable, with a hood in case of bad weather; the bay horses went well, and the coachman appeared irreproachable.

There is no feeling in the world so exhilarating and delicious as that experienced in starting off on a Bohemian tour, without luggage, without responsibilities, unhampered by fear of railway time-tables or the care of boxes, dawdling or hurrying at will, starting at what hour one pleases, and out all day in the fresh mountain air, with _al fresco_ meals and a turf siesta. It is the gipsy's life, robbed of its discomforts, but not of its primitive ease and romance.

As we rolled round the circular bay, and up the winding ascent on the further side, the water sparkled calmly in the glassy mist of morning sunshine, and the _Agincourt_ lay with deserted deck, like a "painted ship upon a painted ocean."

But the road leading to the town was already all astir with country people coming in for the races; and, further on, higher up the hill, as the pretty white houses of Ajaccio on their spit of land grew less and less distinct against the blue Mediterranean, we met with more and more of these.

Men and women, all on muleback, and all seated astride--sometimes two men, or a woman and boy on one animal--the men with their gun behind their shoulder, and their red gourd slung by their side,--were driving strings of cows, horses, and foals before them, for the fair which was to be held that morning prior to the races.

All the men lifted their caps politely; but some of the animals objected strongly to us and our carriage, and could scarcely be got to pass us.

We soon passed away from the sea-coast and the sea views, and entered the inland country, among green hills, and past a broad river, with blue and snow-streaked mountains rising up before us.

Presently approaching the village of Cauro or Cavro, where we changed horses, the mountain of Bastelica stood out in unrivalled grandeur of white cone above us; and as we slowly ascended the steep road in the exquisite freshness of morning, the birds sang loudly and continuously from the banks of white cystus which covered the lower parts of the wooded slopes lining the road.

Though so early, it was almost too hot to walk; and when we reached Cauro, the horses were in a bath of perspiration.

From Ajaccio to Cauro and Bastelica is a favourite excursion; but it is a very long and fatiguing one for one day, and Cauro does not look a tempting place for a night's rest.

As we left Cauro and continued our steep ascent, the mountains grew grander, and the trees increased. Maquis of the most delicious sort followed the roadside, and the air was laden with the strong scent of the tall Mediterranean heath, which fought with arbutus and cystus for the foremost place, whilst cyclamen, golden bloom, and hellebore clustered at their feet.

Here we met some women whose costume astonished us considerably. Their white handkerchiefs were closely wrapped about their faces as well as heads, in Mohammedan fashion, covering up all their features, and leaving only the eyes visible. They appeared to be on their way to Ajaccio, and were driving a few cows before them; but it seemed more than probable that they would be suffocated with heat before they got there. On one other occasion, in the region of Bastia, we met with some more women dressed after the same uncomfortable fashion, but failed to discover its meaning.

Up on the summit of the Col, overlooking lovely views, was a most filthy, picturesque village. Queer little balconies surrounded half-ruined but inhabited houses, which were approached from the sloping hill-side by broken-down wooden bridges.

Stalking about in front of one of them, was a dignified and majestic-looking goat, enormously large, as are many of the Corsican goats, and of a peculiar piebald--pure white up to the shoulders, and jet black over head and neck. He seemed to hold the porcine and canine companions (who, with him, had evidently the right of entry into most of the houses) in supreme contempt; and it was a marvel to me how he had preserved the cleanly whiteness of his long hair--for the small specimens of ragged humanity who sat upon the dung-heaps close by, or swarmed noisily after the carriage, were so encrusted with dirt as to leave their original colour a matter of speculation.

But we did not pause long in this unsavoury village. We were soon through its one little street, dashing down--through green hills, and by falling streams with trees overhead, with a succession of exquisite mountain ranges, one layer behind the other, lying before us--to the cleaner village of Grosseto.

From Grosseto to Bechisano--a hamlet of some size, where we were to make the mid-day halt--the views were most lovely. For miles we wound above a verdant gorge, grassy broken hills on either side, and grey moss-covered rocky cliffs rising immediately beneath us from the bed of a foaming boulder-strewn river, sometimes hidden by the bending trees which caressed its rapid stream.

From the pretty stone bridge of two uneven arches which presently spanned this river, a beautiful view was obtained of winding waters, green tufted rocks and background of jagged blue mountain tops. Every turn was a richer study for an artist, and Nos. 1 and 3 lived in a constant frenzy of effort to secure a sketch, under the unfavourable conditions of a rapidly descending carriage, and two minutes of time allowed.

The irritation became a little less when once more we commenced ascending towards Bechisano; but the sky was now growing heavy and ominous with dark blue clouds, and the shade cast over us by a great hill--covered from top to bottom with ilex-trees, some hoary and grey with age, but for the most part shining in their rich young green with golden shoots--was no longer welcome, but depressing and gloomy.

Close to Bechisano, and exactly as we reached the summit of the Col San Georgio, the storm burst upon us. It had been raining more and more heavily for some time, when suddenly, without a previous rumble of any kind, came a vivid flash of lightning that blinded us, accompanied instantaneously by a crash of thunder like the firing of artillery.

After that storm, I never felt a moment's suspicion of Corsican horses.

We were creeping up the hill, the driver walking beside them; and although he put out his hand and silently clutched the reins, the jump they gave was almost imperceptible. As for him, he never turned a hair, but continued his silent reflective walk with the same equanimity, whilst the lightning flashed about him playfully, and spouts of rain poured down from his wide-awake hat.

The next hour was spent in a vain endeavour to keep out the driving sheets of rain which made all nature a blurred blot around us; and when we got out at Bechisano our feet were in a pool an inch or two deep, and our shawls made running streams over the floor of the dirty little inn. This inn was a wretched welcome, even for travellers so drowned and depressed as we were. There was a better one about half a mile further on, at the other end of the village; but, through some mistake, for which he afterwards deeply reproached himself, our driver halted here.

The little broken glass door led into two very small rooms, one opening out of the other, both stone floored; with one or two apologies for chairs, and a greasy table in the first room. This apartment had no fireplace; so necessity forced us to take refuge in the inner one, where a few sticks burnt upon the hearth, and where the family of four or five men and women, a dog, and a due proportion of babies, were huddled together, but they politely endeavoured to make room for us and our steaming garments. It was difficult not to stumble over the smaller fry, as the tiny room appeared to have no window, and was only partially lit up by gleams from the wood fire.

Logs, however, were piled up for our benefit; and as we made a feeble effort to dry our soaked feet, a cheerful maiden prepared our mid-day meal in the next room.

The floor of this room was in such a condition, that, when we entered and took our places beside the round table, we kept our eyes carefully turned heavenward, for fear of losing our appetites. We need not have feared, however, for there was nothing to eat.

Raw ham, with a steel fork sticking in it, was first offered to us; and when we declined that, then raw fish, and afterwards some third dish, likewise raw, of what nature I forget. We were hungry, and began to be desperate.

"Could nothing cooked be had?" inquired No. 3. "For the English do not eat their food uncooked."

The woman looked amazed and perplexed. "Mais non?" she asked, incredulously, as we pushed away the unpalatable dishes.

But our relief was great when it turned out that the inn boasted a small leg of mutton, which could at once be got ready for us. This was done by placing the meat upon a charred log, with a dish beneath, and dropping lard upon it. When roasted, it was more like a rabbit leg than a mutton leg, but was not bad, and, together with a very good omelette, soon disappeared, to the relief of our famine.

There are but two things which it is safe to order for lunch in these third-rate Corsican inns, and which are invariably eatable and good--omelette and broccia.

One of the queerest anomalies in Corsica are the perfectly clean dinner napkins, with which you are invariably supplied in the poorest inns; and which contrast with the total absence of tea-spoons and saucers at breakfast, and the appearance of the dirty two-pronged forks at dinner.

The old man, to whom the establishment belonged, assisted at our lunch, and was delighted to air his French, which, like his daughter's, seemed to consist of a capacity of saying half a dozen words, and not understanding one.

Conversation, under these circumstances, with the most polite intentions, became somewhat embarrassing; and pleasing diversions were caused by the entrance of a blind man, led in to the fireside in the inner room, and the occasional onslaughts made by mine host upon the juvenile inquirers, who, regardless of the pouring rain, pressed their wet noses persistently against the panes of the glass door, to obtain a glimpse of the Inglese.

They had their reward when, shortly afterwards, the carriage came round again, and we packed ourselves in, amid an admiring crowd.

It was still raining, but not so heavily, and there was no possibility of a recurrence of the pond beneath our feet, as our driver had bored three little holes in the flooring of the carriage to act as drainers.

From Bechisano to Propriano, a drive of about four hours, the road is one continual descent through steep rocky hills of picturesque form; some covered with shrubs, and some with trees, and often overhanging the road as it winds by the edge of the precipice.

Not far from Bechisano we passed a great boulder, hanging over the road and supported by two or three tiny ones, reminding one of a huge cromlech. Near to it spread a many-tongued waterfall, spanned by a stone bridge, from under which it poured its heavy volume of water into the gorge beneath.

Ilex and great hedges of Mediterranean heath grew by the roadside; and, as we approached the large village of Olmeto, and the hills opened out a little, a superb panorama of mountains rose behind us.

Olmeto is a gloomy-looking village, perched half-way up the mountain side ascending from before Propriano.

It has something forbidding about its aspect, and gave one a shudder as one passed through. The houses are filthy, and many of them lie in untouched ruins, with here and there a half-broken balcony, and, much more rarely, an unbroken window; and the men who stand and slouch at the street corners have a dark, inhospitable, hang-dog look about them, which is no improvement upon the usual national expression, half contemptuous, half good-natured, of lethargic pride.

Olmeto and the neighbouring village of Olio have both an exceedingly bad reputation.

The men out-Herod Herod in idleness, even for Corsicans; and nearly every man carries his gun and pistol, even to patrol the village street. Two or three murders occur every year in Olmeto alone; and the only wonder is that the number is not greater.

The vendetta is of course very strong at Olmeto; and altogether, it must be an uncomfortable place to live in.

No women at all were visible in the village, either on our passing through it on our way to Propriano or on our return some days later; the presumption being, that the weaker but wiser sex were, Corsican fashion, making up in some degree for the dangerous idleness of their lords by their own household industry.

Coming back to Ajaccio by this same route, our driver pointed out to me, near the Col San Georgio, about half-way between Bechisano and Olmeto, a little maquis-covered hill by the lonely roadside.

There, he said, among the thick shrubs, about a year ago, a man concealed himself to lay wait for a passing gendarme.

This man's father had been a bandit, whom, in the performance of his duty, years ago, the gendarme had shot.

Upon the bandit's death, his son had taken to the hills, vowing vengeance upon his father's murderer.

For years he had waited patiently for his victim, until this day, when he knew he must pass by alone.

Shot after shot pursued the gendarme from his hidden foe, until at length one pierced his neck, and laid him stiff upon the grass, where his dead body was found some time afterwards by a passer-by.

Tombs were scattered along the roadside beyond Olmeto here and there; and an avenue of young trees was planted for some way down the descent. The mountains were magnificent; and before us rose a peculiar, high, conical hill, rearing itself abruptly from the gorge, surmounted by a crag which bore the most extraordinary likeness to a ruined castle.

Peeps of blue sea shone out at our feet as we went lower and lower; and presently, turning a corner, the full wide sweep of the Gulf of Valinco, glittering in evening sunshine, opened out before us. Heavy white surf lined the red shore, and five or six good-sized charcoal vessels, trading to Italy, lay in the harbour.

Propriano gleamed white and pretty just above the sea, surrounded by its many little bays, as we dashed down the hill-side, through green country lanes, lined by wide hedges of brilliant purple vetch and ponderous prickly pear. Then, reaching the plain, we wound round the boggy, sandy shore, and mounted into the little narrow street of Propriano, full of shouting children and grunting pigs, up to the door of the Hôtel de France.

Very grand was the title of our inn, but not so grand its exterior, nor the dirty little staircase and ground floor. The upper storey, however, showed us a clean, airy, cheerful salle à manger, into which opened three little bedrooms of inviting appearance, and apparently irreproachable cleanliness. The muslin window curtains were crisp and new, the floors were swept, and the blankets, as well as the sheets, bore inspection. The washing basins, too, were much beyond the usual regulation size of a soup plate.

Whilst the good and cheap dinner was preparing, Nos. 2 and 3 took a turn up the little town, and scrambled out upon the sea-shore.

A lovely blood-red sunset showed off to advantage the purple range of hills opposite, with the Genoese tower at their furthest point, and cast deep shadows over the Col San Georgio, with its sparkling snow neighbours, and Olmeto lying on its flanks in sullen twilight. But it was impossible to enjoy any view with a pursuing crowd of yelling, mocking children at one's heels; and the usual scourge cut short our walk.