Part 18

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.

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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.

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But it would be endless to describe or even to enumerate all the many walks and excursions which are possible from Mentone. These are principally from the western side; but we had occasionally walks in the other direction. I have already mentioned the walk to the gorge of St. Louis. There is another walk which we sometimes had to the rocks below and beyond the gorge, called ‘Les Rochers rouges’ from their red colour. These derive a peculiar interest from their containing certain caves or fissures in the rock, disclosed or opened up by the formation of the railway, out of one of which was exhumed the skeleton, or what is called the fossil skeleton, of a man. This, of course, is held up as evidencing the existence of man anterior to the creation of Adam, by those who believe in the existence of Preadamites. The skeleton is in Paris, and I have seen neither it nor the _brochure_ of Dr. Rivière describing the discovery; but I noticed that the sides of the cave—as it at present stands, after the excavations for the railway—are not more than 20 feet apart at the bottom, the cave extending probably 40 feet inward, and about 50 or 60 feet high; but these eye measurements are sometimes deceptive. It is of very soft limestone, and in other parts of the rocks there are huge stalactites depending. It may therefore be very safely said that stalactite would at an early period form with great rapidity, and speedily cover up what the cave contained. I was informed, however, that the skeleton was found about 9 feet below the surface, in the midst of debris. In these caves, and elsewhere round about, many flint implements have been found, and some of them are collected in the Natural History Museum in the Hotel de Ville at Mentone. The workmen finding them sell them to strangers for a few pence.

Dr. Bennet’s and Mr. Hanbury’s gardens both lie in this direction—Dr. Bennet’s, on the rocks above the Italian _douane_ station; Mr. Hanbury’s, about a mile and a half farther on the road to Ventimiglia. They may properly be called hanging gardens, and are not laid out as gardens are with ourselves. Many tropical plants are growing in them in the open air.

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Our best excursion in this direction was that to the top of Belinda. We started on 31st January 1877, a party of eleven, with six donkeys. The walkers drove to Pont St. Louis, where they were overtaken by those on donkeys. All then proceeded a little beyond the bridge and the station of the Italian _douane_, and ascended by very steep paths to the village of Grimaldi, about 700 feet above the sea, on the slope or shoulder of Belinda, and seen from Mentone picturesquely buried among the olive trees. This is another of those curious old towns with the usual appendage of a church and spire. The slope on which it is built is all but perpendicular, so that house rises over house, and the back base of a house is greatly higher than the front. Clovelly in North Devon is nothing to it. Roads are impossibilities. There are no streets, only narrow paths, or at best donkey tracks, through it. By one of these paths, winding upward, we were led to a point right above the gorge of St. Louis. From this dizzy height, the party, halting, looked down upon the precipitous yawning gulf below, and then across the bay towards Mentone, and upward towards the mountains, which this new position threw into shapes different from any observable from other points. Having taken in this striking view, we are urged to proceed by a very rough path, some parts of which are so uncommonly steep that those riding were compelled to dismount from their donkeys, and manage the ascent, like the others, as best they could; and so, alternately scrambling up pretty nearly perpendicular parts, and alternately winding up and jogging on by gentle ascents, where the donkeys were remounted, and through a forest of young trees, we, in about two hours and a half from the time of leaving the hotel, inclusive of a halt of half an hour at Grimaldi, attained the top of Belinda.

This mountain is, as already stated, 1702 feet high, and the view from the top of it is very extensive. We fancied we saw westward along the French coast, beyond the Estrelles, as far as the Îles d’Or off Hyères. If so, this would be a distance of fully ninety miles. On the east side, we could not see along the Italian coast beyond Bordighera, as the mountains rise and shut out further view in that direction. The huge rocky Berceau towered up in close proximity, to the north; and behind it, away to the eastward, we saw the tops of the snowy Maritime Alps peering up in magnificent white drapery; while between them and the coast lay a peculiar species of high, barren, bleak, desolate–looking mountains, intersected by wild and bare river courses; and more immediately below us, portions of the ramparts of Ventimiglia; and beyond, the long arm of Bordighera, appearing, from this point of view, stunted and different from its aspect at Mentone. The wind was blowing piercingly cold from the north–east at the top, so that we could not gaze at the scene in this direction above a few minutes; but just below the top, on the western slope, we found shelter and sun warmth, and enjoyed our lunch and the splendid prospect. On returning, we descended by a different path, which in many parts might well be termed a _mauvais pas_. It was often so bad and so precipitous that the riders, in dread of their necks, were soon obliged to leave their saddles and walk. At last we reached the Corniche road, near to Mr. Hanbury’s garden, and by this road returned home. From the heights we had seen a cloud of dust hanging over the road to Mentone, in consequence of the wind having risen to a gale. We now were under the necessity of encountering this dust, and, barring the chill blast on the hill–top, it formed the only obstacle to a thorough enjoyment of this most delightful excursion, which occupied altogether between seven and eight hours.

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Although Mentone thus possesses so many walks and excursions in its neighbourhood, of which only a few have been touched upon, there are some people who, going there, fancy that it is an unattractive place. The fact is, that these people do nothing but walk up and down the promenade, perhaps also proceeding a short way up one or two of the valleys, and in all likelihood never even so much as venturing through the obstructions to the pier or the breakwater wall in course of formation, and now extending some length, from which one of the best views of the mountain range is to be had. It may be imagined, therefore, that a monotonous perambulation up and down the same road, however attractive in itself, may in time become tiresome, even if we put out of consideration those numerous dullards upon whom fine scenery or the charms of nature are altogether lost. In reality, however, it is one of the most captivating promenades to be found anywhere; and I always felt it to be in itself a very cheerful scene, whether when gay with its moving crowds in a morning, or when in the quiet repose of still life. But although preferring a quieter time, it is when thronged and all ‘the world’ of Mentone is there that seemingly to most people it is most inviting; and between the hours of 10 A.M. and 12, the Promenade du Midi is alive with promenaders, for the earlier part of the day is considered to be the best period for so walking. Twelve o’clock is the general lunch or early dinner hour, and after that, or even before, the wind sometimes rises; but before 12, it is usually warm—nay, hot; and many men as well as women walk out with white parasols (lined with green), and many with blue goggle spectacles, to protect their precious eyes from the white glitter of the road. Although the glistering blaze of the sun upon the water, if caught direct, is too dazzling to abide, I never personally found either the heat or the general glare so oppressive as to require these protections, and it rather appeared to me that it was beneficial to accustom the eyes to the light. On certain days a band of music plays in the gardens in the afternoon (at other times playing at the _cirque_, or at the new gardens at the East End), but we seldom heard it, except by accident, as we devoted the afternoon to more distant walks. To some people, however, the music was evidently an unfailing attraction, although, so far as I could judge, the audiences were mainly confined to French and Germans, and other continentals, who, with some excellent exceptions, never seem to have any enjoyment beyond occasionally a little light reading, a good deal of idle smoking, or an endless elaborate thrumming on pianos, and on whom, therefore, time hangs heavily. English people, women especially, have generally an occupation of some kind. In reading, writing, sketching, and other occupations, I was never myself without employment, and sometimes was pressed enough for time.

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On the promenade one sees a good deal of the peculiarities of the different countries represented in Mentone, especially in the matter of dress; and on this account, if for no other reason, it affords opportunities for observation not without their interest. Let us take a walk. It is, we shall suppose, the 21st December, the shortest day, cold and shivery in the north, and verging to eleven o’clock of the forenoon. The fishing operations of the morning are over, and the boats engaged in it have been drawn up upon the beach. The water carts, small wooden boxes drawn by men, have performed their rounds, and the roadway is moist, but is rapidly drying up under the burning beams of the hot sun; but the dust is laid. The sea is tranquil—not a ripple disturbs it, except at the very edge, where it lazily turns over in the tiniest of waves, as if the exertion implied far too much fatigue for this melting day. A ship has ventured out of the harbour, spreading its white sails in vain attempt to catch a breeze. A flock of gulls are resting, in quiet happiness and contemplation, their snowy bosoms on the glassy water. In the distance, bright Bordighera is stretching its long green sleeve far into the blue sea, its fair hand lighted by the sun; while its cathedral window, like a jewel on the finger, catches and glistens with a blazing ray. Nearer, the fortifications of Ventimiglia are peering round from behind a jutting hill. Belinda, high and verdant; the gorge of St. Louis, deep in the shade; and the lofty Berceau, just emerging into the solar beams, fill up the near background, against which is cast the pier, terminated by its old castle, and half concealing the little sheaf of masts which it girdles, and bounded landward by a line of tall picturesque old buildings, out of and above which the minarets of the town churches gracefully rise. Then down along the promenade, on the one side, rests the irregular and diversified line of hotels and houses and gardens, partly filled with low trees, refreshing to the sight; while a low, scrubby, ill–kept belt of evergreens, dusty and withered, strives at some parts to guard the frontier on the other side against a careless tumble down the bulwarks bordering the beach; and all along this level road, common to man and to beast (for there is no footway), a crowd of people is streaming. In the view of so much that is grand in nature, we are at first hardly conscious of the concourse. We begin to move down the promenade,—’cric–crac,’—turn the shoulder suddenly, and find a _voiture_ has almost run us down. Neither man nor horse apologizes. They pass on unheeding our well–merited indignation; and, as we cast a fierce look and waste an English word, down comes another at full speed with angry ‘crack, crack.’ Glad, like others, to jump unscathed away, we are about to sit down upon one of the many wooden seats or forms which the providence of Mentone has placed here and there to lessen the lassitude of the human frame. In the very nick of time we luckily discover a warning label, and are thankful we have not become for the day men of mark; for the bright green seat, so delightfully clean and pretty and enticing, has just been repainted. We look out for another, for the sun is hot, and our limbs are getting jaded, and fortunately detect one to which the attention of the municipal adorners of Mentone has not as yet been directed.