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_Beautiful Switzerland_

VILLARS AND ITS ENVIRONS

_Painted and Described by_

G. FLEMWELL _Author of “Lucerne” “Chamonix” “Lausanne” “Alpine Flowers and Gardens” &c._

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY 1914

Beautiful Switzerland

_In this series have already appeared_:

LUCERNE CHAMONIX VILLARS AND CHAMPÉRY LAUSANNE

PAINTED AND DESCRIBED BY G. FLEMWELL

_Other volumes in preparation_

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Page

Villars: The Grand and the Petit Muveran _Frontispiece_

St. Maurice: The Château and the Rock of Dailly 8

Bex: The Croix de Javernaz and the Dent de Morcles 14

Les Plans: Avalanche falling from the Grand Muveran 20

Leysin, seen from Les Ecovets 24

The Chamossaire, seen from Villars 30

In the Village of Chesières 36

Mont Blanc and the Aiguille Verte, from Bretaye 40

The Dent du Midi, from Villars 46

Villars: The Mountains of Savoy 50

Villars: A Peep of the Dent de Morcles 54

Champéry: The Dent du Midi 60

VILLARS AND ITS ENVIRONS

There is no more interesting district in the Rhone valley, perhaps even in the whole of Switzerland, than that which lies around the north-western entrance to the upper and main portion of the Canton of Valais—that impressive, narrow entrance formed by the buttress cliffs of the Dent de Morcles and the Dent du Midi, just inside of which nestles the ancient town of St. Maurice. For this district is compact of great variety. It holds examples of all that goes to the making of Switzerland’s fascination. It holds the fertile plain with its broad, rushing river, the Rhone; it holds, in Aigle and St. Maurice, two châteaued towns with long and active histories of their own; it holds, in Bex, one of the most delightful spots imaginable for spring and autumn; in Leysin, a world-known mountain health resort; popular mountain pleasure resorts in Villars, Chesières, Gryon, Les Plans, Champéry and Morgins; and, in the natives of the Val d’Illiez, it holds a distinctive race with a distinctive tongue. Moreover, it contains, in the huge erratic blocks near Monthey and near Bex, remarkable vestiges of the great glacier which one time filled this valley and flowed on over what is now Lac Léman;[1] it has noble peaks in number and of no mean order for the climber; it possesses at least three glaciers which, though small, are full of individual interest and beauty; and it harbours a flora so rich as to have become renowned. And yet all of this, and more besides, is packed within a comparatively restricted area. One reason for this great variety in so small a compass is the curiously striking fact of the Rhone dividing Vaud from Valais, and thus at the same time dividing to a marked extent what is wild and truly Alpine circumstance from what is relatively tame and rural. For Champéry, although at some 650 feet lower altitude than Villars,[2] its _vis-à-vis_ across the valley of the Rhone, partakes of the rude Alpine character of Valais, whilst Villars has what may be called the civilized setting so generally characteristic of Vaud. The difference may be noted in their respective vegetations—in the trees and flowers. For instance, at Champéry the bell-gentian (_Gentiana excisa_) and the yellow pea (_Lathyrus luteus_) can be found within a few minutes of the hotels, whereas at Villars one must walk at least an hour and a half higher up to find the gentian, and the pea I have not found there at all. Or again, Villars possesses fine deciduous trees in quantity and its pines are perfect park-like specimens; whilst at Champéry deciduous trees are inconspicuous and the pines are of the rugged Alpine order. Villars possesses the finer panorama—one of the finest in Switzerland, particularly in winter—but Champéry provides the truer Alpine pictures, especially in summer.

Indeed the very variety of this district—historically, geographically, botanically sets a difficult task before so slight a volume as this present. However, an attempt must be made towards adequacy. No time can be wasted, and we had best start at St. Maurice and work diligently round in a circle by way of Bex, Les Plans, and Villars, thence to Aigle and Leysin, ending up with Monthey, Morgins, and Champéry, meanwhile knitting the whole district together with general and comparative facts.

ST. MAURICE

The scene as one approaches St. Maurice from the north-west is among the most noted in Valais. The old castle hugging the cliff to the right and dominating the swift and troubled Rhone rushing low beneath the ancient stone bridge, with the great sheer Rock of Dailly to the left—it is a memorable picture, particularly in spring, when the wild wallflowers and laburnum deck the castle cliffs, and the young tints of spruce and larch soften the stern aspect of the fortress. Fortress? Yes, the Rock of Dailly, buttress of the Dent de Morcles, is a veritable Gibraltar, designed to stop and crush all invasion by way of the Simplon and the Grand St. Bernard. From an arrant civilian’s standpoint it would seem an absolute impossibility for an invading army to live to pass the narrow defile of St. Maurice. Those innumerable and mighty guns hidden in the face of that grim precipice are apparently able to overwhelm all intruders, and the defile of St. Maurice would seem as safe to-day as when in olden times it was closed by a great gate. One has only to watch at nighttime the firing practice, illuminated by searchlights and directed against the forests and cliffs high upon the Dent du Midi, to be impressed with the awful deadliness of this rock-fortress. It seems, of course, a sacrilege so to insult the lovely, peaceful Alps; it seems a gross, insensate outrage upon a land pre-eminently designed to wean men from the cult of war.[3] But of its practical effectiveness in case of need there can be no manner of doubt. Napoleon to-day would have to go round some other way to get to Italy; he could not now use Switzerland as a convenient passage. And yet, and yet, it seems to me a shame when I remember the delightful months I spent upon the summit of the Rock of Dailly some five-and-twenty years ago, and think that now it is closed to mere civilians, that the magnificent prospect, with a sheer drop down upon the Baths of Lavey, is now only examined by the trainer of far-reaching cannon, and that the exquisite carpet of Alpine flowers around the Dent de Morcles is trampled under foot by companies and battalions. It is sometimes hard to reconcile one’s quiet ideals with the stern exigencies of life, and perhaps this is particularly so in Switzerland. It was on the slopes high above Dailly, now a vast manœuvre ground for troops, that I once fled hurriedly in the front of a stampeding herd of cattle driven mad by flies, and that I only just escaped destruction by scrambling on to the roof of a friendly cheese châlet. Needless to say, I do not rank such incidents among my quiet ideals.[4]

St. Maurice can boast of as long a history as any town in the country. Looking backwards it is lost in the mists of Time, and it only reveals itself with real distinctness when the Romans made the town the centre of their activities in Valais, and Julius Cæsar threw up walls and fortifications around it and gave it the name of _Tarnade_ or _Ager Tarnadensis_. The well-known savant and archæologist, Dean Bourban, of the Abbey of St. Maurice, says that the road which crosses the bridge and runs beside the Rhone, through the defile, through the town and on to Martigny and the Grand St. Bernard, is the selfsame road used by the Gauls on their way to Italy, and by the Romans on their way to Gaul and Germany. There is at Bourg St. Pierre, the last village on the road to the Grand St. Bernard, an ancient milestone, marking the twenty-fourth mile between Aosta and Martigny on the great military route which ran from Milan, through St. Maurice, to Mayence in Germany. On the front of the old town hall of St. Maurice is an inscription saying: “I am Christian since the year 58”. According to tradition St. Peter crossed the Grand St. Bernard and preached Christianity throughout Valais, and if this be fact, then he must of necessity have been to St. Maurice. But the town’s present name was not then in existence; it is derived from the massacre in 302 of the Theban Legion commanded by Maurice. The massacre is said to have occurred in what is now the Bois Noir, about two miles out along the road to Martigny—a wild sparse forest of stunted pines beneath which the lovely rosy springtime heather (_Erica carnea_) luxuriates. This forest was the scene, too, of the terrible rockfall in 1835 from the summit of the Dent du Midi, which mountain, in its grandest and most gaunt aspect, dominates this part of the valley, having as _vis-à-vis_ the Dent de Morcles.[5] The old Abbey of St. Maurice, built upon pagan foundations, was for centuries a spoilt child of the Church. Endowments and gifts were showered upon it by Charlemagne and other kings and princes, and its actually existing treasure is priceless, including as it does specimens of gold and silversmiths’ art from the sixth to the seventeenth centuries.[6] High up on the side of the precipitous cliffs at the back of the abbey is an ancient hermitage. As one looks at it from the town there appears no sign of a path or even of a ledge for the chapel; but on closer inspection one finds a steep and stony way up, bordered at intervals throughout its length by Stations of the Cross. When I visited it some years ago the hermit was absent, but there were rats in abundance. Pilgrimages to this chapel used to be frequent (I believe that it is closed at present), and I understand that on these occasions freshly broken stone was strewn about the path, and that those who felt their consciences in need of drastic measures went up the whole way on their hands and knees.

Ten minutes’ climb above the Château of St. Maurice (now the gendarmerie and prison) is the beautiful Fairies’ Grotto, one of the natural wonders of this district. It is noted locally as having been the residence of Frisette, the good fairy, after her troubles and vexations with the bad fairy, Turlure, who, if my memory serves me, frequented the woods and pastures around Bex. The Canton of Valais is remarkably rich in legend. If we accept the result of the patient and exhaustive researches of Mme F. Byse, Milton must have made himself familiar with certain of these fairy tales when he was at Bex on his way from Italy; for _L’Allegro_ is held to contain conceits and fancies gathered from this district. Emile Javelle, the famous author-alpinist (his title for himself was _clubiste inutile_!), in writing of his first ascent of the Dent du Midi, tells of his guide’s fear of the dreadful, fiery, devastating dragon that for ages had inhabited the very district through which they must pass that of Bonaveau and the _vallon_ of Susanfe, above Champéry. I myself have had narrated to me at midnight creepy hair-lifting stories of the doings of malevolent spirits doomed since ages to frequent certain old châlets around Champéry, notably those on the high plateau of Barmaz—upon which châlets I involuntarily keep one careful eye whenever I am in their neighbourhood. On another occasion at Champéry, in early morning, a hurrying man, with awe in his eyes, breathlessly gave me to understand that a boy, whilst sound asleep, had been transported on a blanket in the dead of the previous night from his bed in a châlet high above the village to the bed of the torrent far below the village, and that he had awakened to find himself lying among the boulders with the icy water all but dashing over him.

But we must be moving on. To reach Bex we may either cross the bridge, the other side of which is the territory of Vaud, and follow the road that winds along the base of wooded cliffs, or else after crossing the bridge turn to the left up a path that leads through the earthwork fortifications and then through vineyards to the sweet-chestnut woods of Chiètres and the timbered hill crowned by the remnants of the castle of Duin; or, if we are game for a long, delightful Alpine walk, we may leave St. Maurice by the south-eastern exit, cross the Rhone to the Baths of Lavey—boasting of evil-smelling but curative waters—past a picturesque waterfall, then up the ever-ascending road to the village of Morcles (taking its name from the great Dent which towers above it), thence a path leads up through the forest and across the pasture-slopes to the famous Croix de Javernaz[7]—famous for its grand view down the Rhone valley to Lac Léman and the Jura Mountains, and for its wonderfully rich Alpine flora; from there the descent is continuous until the highroad is struck at Bévieux, whence a tram runs in a few minutes to

BEX

As a town Bex is somnolent; a sort of old-world slumber which is scarcely dissipated even when the hotels are at their fullest. Perhaps that mood agrees best with the eminently dream-like landscape. I know no scene in Switzerland that is more suggestive of the studied and bewitching pose of stageland than that from the slopes of Montet immediately at the back of the town. On the left the Croix de Javernaz and the Dent de Morcles, with steep woods flowing to the plain; on the right the gaunt _Cime de l’Est_ of the Dent du Midi, its base enveloped in a filmy blue haze; and just in the centre of the picture the chestnut groves on the hill of Chiètres, topped by the old Tour de Duin cleanly defined against the opening in the cliffs at St. Maurice—an opening cut as if on purpose to disclose the snows and ice of the Aiguille du Tour and the glaciers of Trient and Des Grands. Seen in spring, when cherry blossom powders the woods, or when the apple trees are rosy-white and the fields all starred with flowers; seen in autumn, when the year’s last burst of life fires the beech and cherry and burnishes the larch and chestnut; seen at sunset, when the whole broad foreground is in cool-grey shadow and the sun’s red glow rests only on the glaciers beyond St. Maurice; seen at such moments as these this landscape is truly one of fairyland, one of which one can never tire, and which surely will bring to Bex an ever-increasing popularity. At present this easy-going little town (except when the _foehn_[8] sets its châlets ablaze—as has happened three times recently—or when its river, the Avançon, rising in vernal wrath, throws down the bridges and floods the streets!) is mostly renowned for its salt mines and baths. These salt mines are in the abrupt cliffs beyond Bévieux, and are said to have been discovered by a goat, which was noticed to be licking the rocks with most persistent relish. As goats are notoriously fond of salt, this tale may be quite true. To those who do not mind a rather damp scramble within the bowels of the cliff, these mines are well worth a visit.

But Bex is also renowned for its wild flowers. It was whilst director of the salt mines that Haller wrote his _Histoire des Plantes de la Suisse_. Milton could have been no keen observer of such things if he saw only fields of daisies! The hepatica (red, white, but mostly blue) in the woods about Bévieux are simply marvellous, relieved as they are by the carpet of dead beech leaves and by innumerable clumps of primroses, blue, white, and lilac violets, rich crimson and peacock-blue vernal vetch, yellow-and-white boxleaved polygala, and the lovely profusion of white and blush-tinted wood anemones. There are fields, too, of Star of Bethlehem on the plain towards the Rhone, where also the rare yellow tulip may be found. The brilliant-orange _Lilium croceum_ and the curious and very local Snake’s-head Lily are to be found in the neighbourhood, but I had better not say where. The gorge of the River Gryonne, at the back of the hill of Montet, is crowded in early spring with the beautiful Snowflake. _Astrantia major_ and _Trollius europæus_ (the Globe Flower) luxuriate together by the hill of Chiètres. But perhaps the hill of Montet is the paradise _par excellence_ of the botanist and flower lover. Here are orchids in abundance and variety—the Frog, Fly, Bee, Spider, and the yellowish-white Helleborine among others; _Gentiana verna_ carpets the short turf with heavenly blue; the tall yellow gentian is on the open summit; _Erica carnea_ grows on the steep hillside beyond the forest, and the shady woods that descend upon Bévieux are simply packed with Lily-of-the-Valley; the gem of this hill, however, is the mass of bright-blue Lithospermum, in colour almost rivalling the vernal gentian; why its Latin Christian name should be _purpurea_ I really cannot tell.

This, then, is what Voltaire, in his love of town life and society, was pleased to look upon as being buried alive in the “caverns of Bex”![9] Can we really be at a loss with Nature as she is at Bex? It would seem impossible. That Nature has shortcomings is only natural, and I think we may say, as says the inspired Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore, in _The Gardener_:

“Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust! The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect. The toys that you make for your children are fragile. You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you for that?”

Nature at Bex may not be perfect, but certainly in very many respects she is as perfect as she can be, and we are by no means deserting her though necessity obliges us to pass on to

LES PLANS

For Nature in most lavish mood accompanies us. No matter at what season, the two and a half hours road from Bex to Les Plans is full of beauty for the eye and mind, but if there is one season above the others when this beauty is the more bewitching it is that of spring. Oh, why—a thousand times why!—is spring in the Alps so neglected by travellers seeking charm and pleasure? Why are the Kursaals crowded in spring by those who, at Custom’s bidding, are waiting for a later, more healthy and resplendent season? Time will come when Custom in this matter will surely be sent to the rightabout, and Alpine spring will be as sought after as now is Alpine winter. It is only about twelve years ago that we who wintered on the Alps were looked upon as mere eccentrics; yet these few short years have proved that we were in truth the favoured pioneers of a season that is actually becoming prime rival to that of summer. In very faith I feel that so it shall be with spring, and that a few years hence a new and fascinating experience will have revealed itself to a hitherto indifferent world.[10]

As one emerges from the timbered gorge, one is confronted at once by the jagged mountains of the chain of the Grand Muveran; not as they appear in summer, with bare, forbidding precipice and scree, but as they can appear in springtime only, clothed about in winter’s dissipating snows and gladdened by an immediate foreground of glistening crocuses on the brown orchard slopes of Frenière. At this point, looking back, one has a splendid view of the giant hill that carries Villars upon its breast; but the village that one sees with its old church tower clinging to the side at a height of 1133 metres, and seemingly in difficulty to restrain itself from slipping into the gulf, is Gryon, where Juste Olivier, one of Switzerland’s most tuneful poets, spent his last years and sang imperishable songs—songs that have found a place in the heart and life of the people, particularly when the theme is the _mi-été_ festivities at Anzeindaz and Taveyannaz. These midsummer fêtes are held annually in connection with the cattle and cheese industry: they are delightfully typical of old-world custom, and the poet has done much to render them impervious to the destructive note of modern sophistication. Both pasturages lie on the mountains between Villars and Les Plans, and are easy excursions from either of these places and from Gryon. Anzeindaz is the more wild and romantic of the two, its surroundings lending themselves admirably to these picturesque timeworn merrymakings; for the pasturage lies at the foot of the rugged Diablerets, at the foot, too, of a glacier, and at the base of a wild col which, although this is a closed district against hunters, is a spot that knows well the poachers of eagles. There can be little doubt of which way Juste Olivier would cast his vote with regard to the railway that it is proposed shall desecrate these fascinating wilds, dissipating their guileless, primitive associations. He would be on the side of the angels; and the angels are on the side of the _Heimatschutz_ or League for the Preservation of Natural Beauty.

Les Plans lies snug upon a verdant, watered plateau surrounded on all sides but one by lofty mountains. To the west rises the steep glacier of Plan Névé and the massive form of the Grand Muveran, beloved of Eugène Rambert, famous alpinist-author-botanist, whose name, together with those of Juste Olivier and Jean Muret, is graven upon the Muveran’s sheer precipice at romantic Pont de Nant. At this latter place—only a brief walk from Les Plans—there is a most interesting Alpine garden belonging to the University of Lausanne; it is especially charming in spring, with floral gems of purest hues backed by the translucent ice and snow of the Glacier de Martinet and the Dent de Morcles.

We must now return to Bex and there take the mountain railway up to Villars. It is an exceedingly picturesque line, winding about through woods and pastures, and providing at each turn a changing, ever-widening prospect. The mountains to which we have become accustomed in the plain take upon themselves superior proportions, and their increasing majesty and mystery come as an inevitable, surprised delight. But, for the journey, I will confide you, without apology, to the tender care of a versatile and well-known devotee of this lovely neighbourhood, my friend Mr. D. R. Kelleher, who in his own quaint way will transport you to

VILLARS IN WANING SUMMER

“The incident occurred in a mountain train carrying slowly, as is its wont, up the wooded slope, a ‘conducted’ party of English tourists. A little grey-eyed man was sitting in the corner, opposite a prosperous-looking woman dressed in a black dolman and clinging with traditional awe to her umbrella. Both were manifestly thrilled by the scenes through which they were passing, and not a little bewildered by the profusion of wonders in Alp, tree, and sky. At last the lady, devastated by her curiosity, broke silence in the following scene:—

The Lady (_looking anxiously through window at clump of pine trees rich with yellow cones_): “John, look at yon trees with the fruit on.”

The Man: “Eh, but they look like bananas.”

The Lady (_lighting up with a bright idea_): “Ask guide, John.”

The Man (_turning to guide, a sad person, long stricken by stupid questions_). “Mister, are thoose things bananas?”

The Guide (_unable to rouse himself_): “I don’t know.”

The Man (_confidentially to his wife_): “He says he don’t know.”