Part 37

The French and Spanish form the bulk of the visitors during August and September, these months constituting, _par excellence_, what is called the season, while during the winter months the English take possession. In the winter months the hotel charges undergo great modification, and _pension_ can then be had in some of the best hotels at 7 francs per day.[45] It is noteworthy that _pension_ at Biarritz and Pau, and elsewhere in the south of France, includes wine. House accommodation, too, in the winter months is correspondingly cheap. The best months for enjoying Biarritz, we were informed, are the months of April and May, when the heat is sufficient but not oppressive. The month of July is sometimes unbearably hot. A family who had been there during July told us that they could hardly venture out in that month till late in the evening; and if the sirocco prevailed, they were even obliged to close the windows, the hot sand percolating through every crevice. The band of music, I understood, plays only during the two months of the season, and removes at its close, when the enclosure is dismantled.

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But the great attractions of Biarritz consist in its beach, its rocks, its grand seas, and in its capacities for good bathing. We were never fortunate enough to witness a storm in the bay, although there was occasionally enough of swell upon the water to show what a storm could be. Our landlord, speaking of the appearance of a storm on the ocean, described it as ‘terreeble;’ and no doubt it is, and not very safe, too, as sometimes people are washed away by an unexpected dash and sweep of the ocean. But a standing evidence of the force of the waves is exhibited by the remains or ruins of the breakwater, begun in view of here affording a port of refuge and pier. Regarding this scheme Count Russell says (p. 13):—

‘Napoleon III. suggested it, meaning to connect by a breakwater several of the detached rocks scattered on the north–western side of the Porte Vieux, and thus to form a small harbour, only open to the north. A clever engineer, M. Palaà, was entrusted with this almost superhuman undertaking, but the only result has been, after years of labour and more than one sacrifice of life, to accumulate a shapeless and useless mass of ruins along the intended harbour. The breakwater (or what is left of it) was built with concrete; artificial square blocks weighing 36 tons (some of them 48) were sunk by hundreds at random and just where they liked to fall! But the tremendous surf has been playing with them as if they were pebbles, and in 1868 one of them was carried right over the pier (22 feet above low–water mark) like a toy or a feather! For these and for financial reasons the works are now suspended. They have already cost £120,000, and all to no purpose. In fact, nothing human can resist such a sea as the Sea of Biscay, except, perhaps, at St. Jean de Luz, where nature has half made a harbour.’

The sea is by far too treacherous and violent to make boating safe, and we seldom, if ever, saw pleasure–boats out, although they were lying in the harbour.

Some isolated rocks stand out in the water, separated from the mainland, with which, I fancy, they have at one time been connected. They are rough, and rugged, and bare, and honeycombed, and even, occasionally, altogether perforated by the water; bearing witness in their haggard condition to the violence of the waves by which they are continually assailed, undermined, broken up, and thrown down. It is, indeed, very beautiful to see, during a swell, the water lashing the rocks and dashing over in clouds of white spray, or sometimes through the perforations or over and down the rocks in streams of white foam. During the day we used to stand and observe the swell surging into the large cavities formed by continual action, and tossed out again, as if the rocks had said with Phineas, ‘Friend, thee isn’t wanted here;’ while the whole water around, nothing daunted, was boiling and excited, dancing and glancing and sparkling in the sun as if in glee, or in the spirit of fun and mischief. This, too, in calm weather. But at night we used to hear the boom of the waves as they tumbled into these caverns and were as promptly turned out again, as if it had been guns firing—for which, indeed, at first we were inclined to mistake the sound.

Unlike the Mediterranean Sea, the tide has the usual ebb and flow of the Atlantic, consequently not only is the beach more interesting, but the town is kept more healthy. The sands afford the usual occupation and delight to children, but shells and seaweed are rare. A good many jelly–fish are thrown up; some gelatinous animals of a large size perhaps were octopi. We used often to sit by the beach and watch the sea, especially under the Basque Rocks, where the waves, with the slightest breath of wind, would come charging gallantly in, high and crested, and turn gracefully over in long lines when they neared the shore. Over the rocks the inhabitants would seem to have the odious habit of running their drains or dirty water, both unsightly to the eye and leaving disagreeable black pools below. This surely might be remedied. It does create a drawback to this most enjoyable beach. Equally objectionable, if not more so, is the practice, so offensive at Cannes, of putting the outlets of the town drains close to each of the bathing–places. The tide, no doubt, is such at Biarritz as to remove the stuff carried down, but there could or should be no difficulty in carrying the pipes away to some distance from parts where people enter the water to bathe, and at all events in not making them so obnoxiously near and prominent.

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There are three bathing establishments at Biarritz. One, and the largest, is on the Grande Plage, between the Villa Eugenie and the hotels, though much closer to the latter. It is a large wooden building of one storey, in the Moorish style, and opening from the promenade, three or four steps leading down at each end to the sands. When the tide is low there is a long space of sand to traverse. At the west side, where the rocks are, a rope for the use of the bathers is stretched between two rocks running seaward. The second is on the Port–Vieux, a creek perhaps 400 or 500 feet long by 100 to 150 feet wide. The wooden building forming the bathing establishment, of very neat design, with a balcony running all round, and a red–tiled roof, is built on three sides of the square down to the usual high–water mark. The fourth and open side is to the sea, which for a good way out is hemmed in by rocks, between which a rope, slack but strong, is stretched across the creek, hanging, in very low tide, considerably above water, but in high tide having the middle part submerged. One side of the house is devoted to the dressing–rooms of the ladies and the other to those of the gentlemen, and long wooden stairs on each side enable the bathers to reach the sands. A few yards brings into sufficient depth for bathing, but at low water the sea goes back so as to land one among the rocks, especially in spring tides, and bathing is then not so pleasant, especially to non–swimmers; but this condition does not last above an hour. When the wind is in the west, even when hardly perceptible, there is more or less surf at the edge, and in strong west or north–west winds the swell must be such as to prevent bathing altogether at the Port–Vieux. But in this case more shelter will no doubt be had at the Grande Plage, which is to a small extent protected on the west by rocks. In stormy weather it must be altogether impossible to bathe anywhere. The third bathing establishment is at (though raised some feet above) the Basque beach, and is intended for the convenience of those residing in that neighbourhood on the plateau above. It is smaller considerably than either of the other two, and can be reached from the sands by ascending a ladder or stair of steps, or from the town by descending a zigzag path from the top of the nearly perpendicular rock against which it is placed. The arrangements of all are, I suppose, on exactly the same principles: little boxes under cover of the establishment for undressing and dressing, towels, and the usual appliances, including a tub of hot water to take the sand out of the feet.

The establishment at the Grande Plage is much the largest, but we always gave the preference to the Port–Vieux, where the Empress formerly used to sit and watch the bathers if she did not bathe herself. The town and road are high above it, and descending by a handsome stone staircase, one is confronted at the bottom by the ticket office, where (those not bathing can without charge go down to the beach) those intending to bathe pay according to their requirements, usually from half a franc to a franc each, the assistance of a bathing man being charged half a franc additional. No gratuities are expected, but a box at the dressing–room entrance–door modestly appears, into which those who choose may in passing drop a coin now and then. Bathers can be supplied with a bathing dress, and have it washed, but most people naturally prefer to have their own habiliments.

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Bathing is the great occupation of the visitors. Many bathe twice a day, and some, I believe, all the year round, wind and weather permitting. The sea is full of saline particles, and is usually warm, while the atmosphere is also warm and salubrious, so that bathing is even advantageous to those who dare not venture on it in the British Isles. Unless the wind be blowing, say, from the north–west, it is almost always possible to obtain a dip. To call a bathe there a dip, however, would be exceedingly inappropriate. It is a steady, serious occupation of some duration, and more or less protracted according to the heat of the weather and the enthusiasm of the bather. The times for bathing are in the morning before breakfast, after breakfast between ten and twelve, and in the afternoon between three and six. During the bathing hours spectators in crowds, perhaps not so numerous and certainly not so noisy as at Ramsgate on a forenoon, but stationed upon every available point, or quietly standing or sitting on rocks, sands, or chairs, or on the steps or balconies of the establishments, amusedly watch the performances, which are extremely interesting, and to British eyes peculiar. At the Port–Vieux special vantage–ground is gained by the road, which, like a gallery, envelopes the three sides, and being higher than the roof of the building, enables the passers–by to peer down from perhaps 50 feet above on the aquatic sport below.

For ladies and gentlemen array themselves in bathing costume, in which they march down to the water from the establishment—the ladies in general wearing over all a cloak or shawl, which they drop ere they reach the edge, and it is taken charge of by a friend or a bathing man. The ladies’ habit, of which the fanciful patterns (possibly imagined and engraved in far–away Paris) exhibited in dressmakers’ shop windows afford but a faint and incorrect idea (as, for example, in representing ladies appearing in lace frills, and trig, tight, little laced boots), usually consists of a short tunic with equally short sleeves, not reaching to the elbows, and knee–breeches reaching barely to the knees, the tunic girt at the waste by a girdle, to which is attached in the majority of cases, _à la_ John Gilpin, two empty yellow gourds as floats. Then very often a straw hat is stuck upon the head, and tied by a ribbon over the crown and broad brim and under the chin, giving the appearance of a frightful ‘ugly;’ while on the feet are generally worn a pair of local shoes made of canvas, with thick hemp soles, which, decorated with devices in worsted, are very commonly worn by the residents, and even for walking about the beach by many of the visitors, and are sold for 2 or 3 francs per pair. The bathing dresses vary in pattern and shape, and are of all colours. White is seldom worn. Bright colours—red, scarlet, green, light blue, yellow, amber—are often seen; in short, the aim with many is apparently at something stunning, suitable for the adornment of a pretty mermaid. To add to the effect, smart young ladies will also have their dresses embroidered, and otherwise made attractive and bewitching, in the way only a graceful girl knows how; and really it must be confessed that this bloomer costume is exceedingly becoming, at all events to the younger ladies. Stout old ladies cut a figure in it sometimes remarkable.

The gentlemen, on the other hand, look like harlequins, for their costume in general consists of a somewhat tight–fitting dress either of cotton or woollen, and most commonly in stripes of two colours, and of all colours and shades, though white and blue stripes are the most common. Their dress costs from 6f. to 20f. (a very good woollen one in red and black stripes cost me 13f.). Some of the old gentlemen wear a straw hat loose on their heads, so that occasionally it is seen floating away from the wearer by reason of an accidental wave or submersion. I suppose the object of the straw hat is to obtain protection against the beams of the sun, but it suggests the uncomfortable idea that the wearer never plunges his or her head under water, the doing of which would, I doubt not, afford equal protection against the sun’s heat, and is in any view always necessary to prevent a flow of blood to the brain in bathing.[46]

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In these varied and brightly–coloured costumes, the bathers cut gay figures. But the picture is composed and completed when they enter into action. At the edge of the water, the gentlemen bathers, sometimes portly and rotund, having threaded in bare feet their way down through the ladies sitting on the stairs, and through the crowd of spectators on the sand, wait with patience in their brilliant, tight, and unusual attire, the observed of all observers, the arrival of their lady friends, if they any have, and on their arrival, taking their hand, accompany them into the water; or the ladies take the hand of a bathing man engaged to attend them, and march in under their charge, and presently they are in the clear salt water, alive with bathers in every colour and in every form of movement practised by those who go down to the sea to bathe. Some rush from the shore wildly and inhumanly into the water, and, wickedly regardless of frightening the small fishes, dive head foremost with a splash, and strike out. Others stalk in majestically, and either quietly push far out, or paddle about pretending or attempting to swim in shallow water. Then other gentlemen are giving encouragement to their little boys or girls, or to their wives, or possibly their lovers, or improbably their sisters, either dipping them, or helping them to swim, or teaching them to float, or joining in other usual maritime gyrations. Others catch hold of the rope stretched out if the water be low, and dance about in a mad and profitless way, or if the tide be high, the swimmers catch at it as they pass and take a rest; and sometimes, if at a proper height, an adventurous one will sit upon the rope, like a sparrow on a telegraph wire, when (perhaps beholding admiringly from the treacherous seat some fat lady floating on her back on the surface, her bathing integuments undulating in the water like the tentacular folds of a jelly–fish) of a sudden somebody else, perhaps waggishly, perhaps innocently, clutches at the slack rope, and with unexpected shock upsets the unwary, abstracted philosopher, who with a whirl capsizes heels in the air, and head making discoveries through eyegate, nosegate, and mouthgate in the brine below. Or two recently arrived English young ladies will walk in, hand in hand, scorning the aid of a bathing man, and perform together, with all the regularity of clockwork, an endless series of curtsey ducks in the water without stirring from the safely selected spot. Other ladies, to vary the programme, are carried out by a bathing man and dipped horizontally in the wave, so that head and feet obtain ablution simultaneously; or a stout matron will take hold of a bathing man, who swims out with her on his back apparently, so that she enjoys the luxury of being buoyed up and drawn through the water, and can say, ‘I’m afloat.’ But these sham swimmers are notably the exceptions. The great matter of observation is that the vast majority of the ladies, young and old, swim about as easily as the gentlemen, though they are in doing so generally accompanied by a man swimming behind or beside them in case of accident; and, indeed, one important occupation of those employed as bathing men is to teach the young idea how to swim, an accomplishment which, after a few lessons, they are usually able to master, and young girls are constantly seen swimming about among the others, like minnows among the tritons. Some ladies, after long practice, are very adventurous; two of them will go out together in a boat a considerable distance, when, throwing off their cloaks, they will dive head foremost from the side of the boat and swim ashore, the boat following. One little girl was most clever. She would go out to what looks like the vestige of an old pier, and, jumping high, perform a somersault, and, diving under the water, ‘come up smiling,’ swim about, and do it again and again. I have, however, seen many older diving belles jumping from the same pier. In fact, bathing in all its forms is here carried by the ladies to an enviable perfection altogether unknown at home; and while it not merely affords a most invigorating exercise, it becomes a most valuable branch of education, tending to lessen the risk of casualties at sea. It were well that at home the good example could be followed.

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The late King of Hanover was at Biarritz while we were there. Being blind, he was carried into the water upon a _chaise–à–porteur_ by four men, his suite bathing with him. His daughter was said to bathe at an early hour in the morning, and many ladies, we were told, bathed as early as six o’clock. During the time we were there, and the weather being cold, forenoon and afternoon were preferable.

The bathing men will never dip one’s head unless expressly desired to do so, and never propose it—a great mistake. The bathing dress is not at all inconvenient or uncomfortable while in the water, but it is heavy out of it, especially if of woollen material (decidedly the best kind), because it absorbs and retains a great deal of water.

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Away from the beach all the walks are on the high roads, which are principally three,—to the railway station, to Bayonne, and to the lighthouse. The distance to the lighthouse by the road is considerably farther than by the beach, from which to the platform on the top of the rocks whereon it stands, access is had by a steep path. From the top of the lighthouse, 220 feet from the level of the sea to the lantern, a most extensive view is had northward up the west coast of France, bordered by the Landes—a low sandy coast, now planted with pine trees to guard against the incursions of the sea—stretching 100 miles towards Bordeaux; and in the other direction along the Spanish coast, bounded by a chain of mountains far as the eye can see; while inland the view extends towards the Pyrenees. A steep path leads from the lighthouse to a small recessed platform half–way down the rock, where in calm weather one can behold the swelling and surging sea below ever and anon dashing against the rocks, and where men repair with long rods and lines to fish. But in stormy weather it is dangerous even to stand on the ground above; people are exposed to be swept away by unexpected rushes of the sea, and many have been drowned there in consequence. The fish caught at this platform, so far as we know, were small. Indeed, at Biarritz there are not many caught, though the table is always supplied from neighbouring fishing stations. Lobsters, however, seem to be plentiful.

The Villa Eugenie, between the lighthouse and the town, is an object of interest to every one visiting Biarritz. It is shown to the public on Mondays. Entrance is had by the west approach, where there is a lodge and large but not elegant stabling accommodation. The grounds are not extensive (about thirty acres in all), but sufficient for a marine residence of the kind; nor do they exhibit much attention to horticulture, though perhaps it is hardly fair to judge of them in present circumstances. The house, of three storeys, commenced in the year 1854, forms three sides of a square, with an _annexe_ (I presume, offices) on the east side. It still belongs to the Empress, who, of course, never occupies it now, and she will not sell or let it. Ringing the bell, an old servant (who expects a small fee from each party for his trouble) opens the door and shows visitors through the house. Our troop consisted of several distinct parties, mustering probably above a dozen persons in all. The rooms are of comfortable size, and compose just what an Empress would consider to be a snuggery. The dining–room is the largest room in the house, the windows facing on one side the west to the town and sea, on another northward to the sea and lighthouse. On a rough guess, and speaking from recollection, it is probably from 40 to 50 feet long and from 20 to 25 feet wide, the ceiling lofty. The reception–room is comparatively small. The bedrooms of the Emperor, Empress, and Prince are just of a comfortable size. There are many small bedrooms, very nicely decorated, for use of the suite or for visitors. The floors are polished, and the staircase is so slippery that people are cautioned to take great care in descending, the steps not being carpeted. It was melancholy to think it was no longer possible for poor Eugenie to occupy this delightful residence.[47] Perhaps it is the only place in France where the Imperial arms remain, and one sees upon it also the touching monogram ƎNE, which reads up or down. The place would to our Queen be objectionable as being so close to a town; but to a French lady this, no doubt, would give it additional attraction, and it must be recollected that Biarritz in reality largely owes its existence to the Empress having built her villa there. For this the French people should be grateful, although it looks a little unlike it, because in the grounds two pillars in front of a small unfinished chapel for the Imperial family use have been much broken. This, however, may merely have been the result of accident.

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It is a pleasant drive to Bayonne, which lies about five miles off. Like many other roads in France, such as at Pau, the road proceeds a long way in a straight line, flanked by regimental rows of trees, which, affording shade from the sun, have a peculiarly stiff effect. Here, as elsewhere, too, contrary to the Roman beau–ideal of a road that it should be level, this one, though straight, yields to the inequalities of the ground, and is alternately in hollows and on elevations. But people ought to be thankful the road is so good, for, speaking of a time about forty years ago or more, Dr. Taylor (_Climate of Pau_) says:—

‘There was no carriage road from Bayonne to Biarritz, the only conveyance being _en cacolet_, which contrivance consisted of a pair of panniers laid on the back of a horse or mule, into each of which a traveller of equal weight, if possible, had to perch himself at the same instant with his fellow, and to preserve their position as best they could. In the event of one being lighter than the other, there was a make–weight of stones put along with him in the pannier to adjust the equilibrium.’