CHAPTER IV
ARGELÈS.
Road v. Rail—Scenes, sublime and ridiculous—Hôtel d'Angleterre— Questions and "The Argelès Shepherd's Reply"—A forbidden path—The ride to Ges, Serres, Salluz, and Ourous—Argelès church—Route Thermale—Ges—The tree in the path—"A regular fix"—Serres—" It's a stupid foal that doesn't know its own mother "—A frothing stream—A fine view—Pigs in clover—Salluz—Ourous—Contented villagers—The high road—The bridge on the Pierrefitte road— Advice to sketchers—"Spring's Bitters and Sweets"—The "witch of the hills"—Large green lizards—"Jeannette's Lamb"—Round the Argelès valley—Château de Beaucens—Villelongue—Soulom—The old church—Hôtel de la Poste, Pierrefitte—St. Savin—The verger and the ancient church—Cagots—"The Organ's Tale"—St. Savin's tomb— The Château de Miramont—Jugged izard—Market-day—Sour bread and the remedy—Arrival of the first parcel.
Although the railway line takes very nearly the same route as the carriage road, the drive is decidedly preferable, and when it can be undertaken for ten francs—as in our case—there is little to choose between the modes of conveyance on the score of cheapness, especially as a landau can carry a very fair quantity of luggage. We considered ourselves amply repaid for our choice as we wound underneath the rocky crags and by the side of the river, anon ascending the curve of a small hill with the fresh fields below, a little church or ivied ruin standing out on the mountain-side, and high above all, the snowy summits so majestic and so intensely white. There was occasionally a ridiculous side to the picture too, when we put a flock of sheep in rapid motion in a wrong direction and the luckless shepherd had to start in hot pursuit—using the politest of language; or, again, when some natives on tiny donkeys or skittish mules came by, their faces breaking into a respectful grin as they wished us "bon jour." Skirting the railway line for a short distance, we drove into Argelès rather unexpectedly, our ride having seemed all too short. However, there was our hotel—the Grand Hôtel d'Angleterre (everything is grand now-a-days)—standing boldly by the road, with the quaint, though poor-looking village about it, and for another few days that was to be our abode. [Illustration] This hotel, though possessing less of a reputation than the Hôtel de France, nevertheless commands a finer view on all sides, and is a pleasanter abode on that account. The afternoon was still young when we arrived, so as soon as we had stowed our luggage we sallied out for a walk along the road to Pierrefitte. A short way from the hotel, an old shepherd was standing in the middle of the road leaning on his staff, with his flock of sheep all round him, and the dog lolling idly on the grass. The tall poplars by the roadside waking into life, the merry stream meandering at their feet, and the back ground of mountains tipped with snow, filled up the scene. We accosted the old man with a good-day, and asked him several questions about the weather and himself, all of which he answered in a genial way, and which strung together made up
"THE ARGELÈS SHEPHERD'S REPLY."
Good-day, sir! The weather, sir; will it be wet?
You see, sir, I hardly can say,
We gen'rally know at the earliest dawn
What weather we'll have in the day;
But at night—in these mountains—I couldn't be sure,
And I'd rather not tell you, sir, wrong.
And yet, what does a day here or there make to you?
If it rains, 'twill be fine before long.
Have I always looked after the sheep, sir? Why, No!
I've served in the army, sir, sure.
Let me see—ah!—it's now thirty summers ago
Since those hardships we had to endure.
Ay, I fought with your soldiers 'mid bleak Russia's snow,
Half numb'd in the trenches I worked,
And suffered what few of you gents, sir, would know,
But somehow, we none of us shirked.
Was I wounded, sir? No, sir! thank Goodness for that,
Though I've seen some stiff fighting, 'tis true.
In Africa 'twasn't all sunshine and play,
And in Austria we'd plenty to do.
Do I like being a shepherd, sir, roaming the hills,
Just earning enough to buy bread?
Well, I wouldn't have cared all my days, for the ills
And the life that as soldier I led.
No, sir! no! though 'twas well enough then, Peace, you see,
Is the best when one's hair's turning grey!
Will I drink your good health, sir? Ay, proud I shall be,
And, thanking you kindly—Good-day!!!
Strolling on, we soon reached the bridge over the River Gave d'Azun, and leaving the old structure "whose glory has departed" on the right, we crossed over and continued along the road for a short distance, till we noticed a lane leading off to the left, which we followed. This in time bore further round in the same direction and suddenly ended at the entrance to a field. However, keeping straight on, we came in view of the river's bank and to this we kept, recrossing by the railway bridge below, and then back by the fields home, completing a round none the less pleasant because a captious critic might have called it trespassing.
As lovely a ride or walk as can well be imagined, even by an imagination as fertile as this lovely valley, passes by way of the four villages of Ges, Serres, Salluz, and Ourous. Although the weather was rather unsettled, we started one morning about 9.15, and following the road towards Lourdes for about two hundred yards, took the sharp turn to the left (with the telegraph wires) up into the town. Gaining the church, we bore along to the right into the open "Place," at the left corner of which the Route Thermale to Eaux Bonnes and Eaux Chaudes begins. For about half a mile this was our road also, but after that distance, the Ges route branched off to the right, and the views of Argelès, and the rest of the valley from it, as we wound upwards, were particularly lovely. The horses were very fresh, having only lately been brought from the mountains, after a winter of idleness, and they walked at a fast pace fretting at any stoppage whatever, which they did not endeavour to disguise, any more than their inclination to shy at anything they possibly could. As far as Ges the way is easy to follow, but it is wise to inquire frequently afterwards, as so many equally important (this importance is decidedly on the negative side) looking paths branch off in every direction. The good people we saw in Ges, a village of thatched cottages looking the worse for rain, said we should find the "road vile," but this did not daunt us, and with a "bon jour" we passed on. We had not gone very far, however, when to our dismay we saw a huge tree right across the road. Our position was an awkward one. The road was rather narrow and without any protection; there was only the steep hillside above, and the steep hillside below. To go up was quite impracticable, to go down was destruction! My horse approached the impediment very quietly, and allowed me to break off several of the worst branches, and then scramble by. Miss Blunt's horse came close up to it as though intending to pass quietly, but, instead, wheeled round on the extreme edge of the path in anything but a pleasant fashion, either for the rider or the observer. [Illustration] Dismounting and tying my steed to one of the branches on the near side of the road, I held back as many of the others as possible, and the horse came up quietly again, but repeated the disagreeable business, still more dangerously. Having broken off several more, and again pulled back the others, the skittish animal consented to pass. But in passing he bent down a very pliant bough, which, when released, flew back and hit my peaceful steed sharply on the legs. For a few seconds his efforts to get free were—to put it mildly— unpleasantly severe, especially as he became with each effort more entangled in the tree. When the reins were at length unknotted, he quieted a little, and after being led a few yards, submitted to be mounted very peaceably, and we descended, with the fresh leaves above and below us, into Serres. Here we had occasion to remark that "It's a stupid foal that doesn't know its own mother," as one pretty little thing would persist in following our steeds, until a sturdy "paysanne" turned it back. The correct route all this time was the upper one (or that to the left), and we now came to a very lovely bit, where two swift frothing streams dashed down beneath the trees, near a small saw-mill. A fine view up the valley behind us, to the snow peaks towering over the ruddy hill-tops, was enjoyed, as we continued along the ascending and uneven path. In the fields above, some shepherds were driving a flock of sheep, and a woman, reposing under a huge blue gingham, was watching the vigorous onslaught of several pigs in a small clover patch. A few villagers, in their Sunday best, stood by the wayside discussing some topic with languid interest, which they dropped, to wish us "bon jour" and tell us the road. More lovely effects of light and shade over the hills towards Pierrefitte, with filmy clouds shrouding the tallest summits, and here and there a glimpse of the blue sky, and we passed into the straggling hamlet of Salluz, after which the path branched up—still to the left—through the trees. Winding down again, we came to Ourous, to which apparently the inhabitants from all the other villages had come, dressed in their Sunday best, to mass. "Young men and maidens, old men and children," women tottering with extreme age, were all assembled round about the old church, looking contented and happy, smiling, and wishing us a "bon jour" as we rode in a circular direction through the village, till we reached a spot where the road forks, the one to the right leading to Argelès, the one to the left to Lourdes. The former looked so stony that we chose the other, and had not gone very far before a smooth and broader path to the right (from which a grand view of the whole valley opened before us) brought us down to a few houses, between which we passed, and reached the high-road. A good trot along this, by the side of the railway line, and we were back at the hotel, convinced that the badness of the road and all drawbacks were amply—and more than amply—outweighed by the succession of beautiful scenery.
Two walks, one ending in rather a scramble, branch off immediately below the bridge, on the Pierrefitte road. The one we took, at a respectable hour of the morning, which ascends the left side of the mound, is the prettier by far, as it discloses lovely glimpses at every turn. We followed it till it branched off in two directions (the one to the left being the real continuation), but at this point we turned off into a field, deep in grass and studded with flowers, where some comfortable-looking boulders invited us to rest. Miss Blunt,—whose soul thrills with delight at the vastness and beauty of nature,—never allowed opportunities of committing the choicest bits to canvas or paper, to escape her; and, some picturesque display having caught her eye, directly she had located herself on an accommodating boulder, she was at work. Herrick's good advice, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may—Old Time is still a- flying," might be adapted, she thinks, to sketchers in mountainous regions, and she speaks from bitter experience when she suggests:
"Paint in your snow-peaks while you may,
If clouds are quickly flying,
For those heights now in bright display
May soon in mist be lying."
The beauty of the scene was without alloy, the colouring splendid, and up the road above us, beyond which rose the hill, a shepherd was leading his flock of sheep, now and then clapping his hands or shouting to a straggler, but as a rule walking quietly on, the whole flock following in a continuous line. Not wishing to be idle, I took out my pencil to indulge in a poetic eulogy. How far I succeeded may be judged from the following lines, which might be called
"SPRING'S BITTERS AND SWEETS."
Here on a moss-grown boulder sitting,
Watching the graceful swallows flitting,
Hearing the cuckoo's note.
Sheep on the hills around me feeding,
While in their piteous accents pleading,
The lambkins' bleatings float.
—Oh, dear! a fly gone down my throat.
Spring's gentle influence all things feeling,
New life o'er hill and valley stealing:
Buttercups, daisies fair,
Studding the meadow, sweetly smiling,
Bees with their hum the hours beguiling,
Breezes so soft and rare.
—Oh, what a fearful wasp was there!
Grand is the view from this grey boulder,
Each high snow-peak, each rocky shoulder:
Charming, yet wild, the sight.
Cherry-trees, with white blossom laden,
And 'neath their shade a peasant maiden,
Comely her costume bright.
—Oh, how these impish ants do bite!
Onward the winding river's flowing,
Its spray-splashed stones in sunshine glowing,
The peaceful oxen by.
From the tall trees the magpies' warning,
As on their nests intent, our presence scorning,
From branch to branch they fly.
—Oh! there's an insect in my eye.
I've done: such pests one really can't defy.
Miss Blunt couldn't defy them either, so, as it was getting near luncheon-time besides, we retraced our steps, but had not gone very far before we suffered a severe disappointment. Some fifty yards below us in the path stood a seeming counterpart of "Madge Wildfire"; a wild, weird, wizened looking creature, whom we immediately recognised as a "witch of the hills." Her hair unkempt, her bodice hanging in tatters from her shoulders, her patched and threadbare petticoat barely fastened round what should have been her waist (and a waste it was) by a hook and eye held by a few threads—even such as this, up the path she came. But what a miserable failure she was! When she came close to us, instead of pouring out a torrent of mad words, telling of her woes and wrongs, or at any rate breaking into a disgusting whine such as
"Oh, gentles, I am mad and old,
My dress is worn and thin;
Oh, give me one small piece of gold!
To clothe my wretched skin;"
she didn't even offer to tell our fortunes, but passed timidly by. It was enough to have disappointed a saint! and we were only restored to a pleasant frame of mind by finding Mr. Sydney at the hotel on our return.
[Illustration]
In the afternoon we took the other path—previously mentioned as branching off below the bridge over the Gave d'Azun,—which leading sharply to the right, passes beside the river for a short distance, and then leads among the fields, finally—like others in Argelès— losing itself there. Just as the poplars which run with it ceased, we had a lovely view up a dip between two fertile hills, to the snow-peaks near Barèges; a narrow path skirts the side of the hill, on the right, in the direction of the morning's sketching ground, but this we did not take, making, instead, for the hill standing immediately above the river. Up this a certain distance we clambered—scaring a few large green lizards that were sunning themselves on the stones,—by a sheep track we managed to discover, till we could look down on a mass of tangled brushwood by the riverside. Scrambling down to this through the wild vines and briars, we succeeded, after many fruitless attempts, in gaining the water's edge. There was no place to cross and the current was far too swift to attempt jumping, so we had to turn back. While deliberating on the right path, a little girl, looking very wretched, with blurred face and torn clothes, came round a corner, and asked us if we had seen a lamb anywhere. We were sorry we hadn't, very sorry indeed; all we could do was to endeavour to recollect a rhyme and adapt it to her case, that we learnt in the nursery when we were something under fifteen, and, although it didn't seem to assuage her grief much—probably because she didn't understand a word of English—we think it ought to be quoted in case it should be useful to others.
JEANNETTE'S LAMB.
Jeannette had a naughty lamb,
That looked like dirty snow;
And wherever Jeannette went
That lamb would never go.
It wandered from her care one day,
(Oh, stupid little fool!)
It made her cry her heart away
While searching brake and pool.
And Jeannette tore her dress to rags,
And scratched her hands and face;
But of her dirty little lamb
She couldn't find a trace.
The lamb fell in the river deep,
But Jeannette never knew.
Though Satan finds some mischief still,
For little lambs to do.
However, she listened very submissively till we had finished, and then wandered off again still searching for her lamb, while we retraced our steps.
There is a drive round the Argelès valley, which on a fine day is simply splendid, and ought certainly not to be missed. At ten a.m. a landau with two good horses was at the door, and away we went towards Argelès station, across the line, over a new piece of road, and then across a rather shaky, but wholly quaint, wooden bridge (under which flows the Gave de Pau) to the base of the hills. As we continued along this road in the direction of Pierrefitte, the views of the mountains on the Argelès side were especially fine. The Pic d'Arrens (7435 ft.) and the Col de Tortes (5903 ft.), with the wild Pic de Gabizos (8808 ft.) with its toothed summits, behind it—in the direction of Eaux Bonnes: over Pierrefitte the Pic de Soulom (5798 ft.), the Pic de Viscos (7025 ft.), and far up the Cauterets valley the Cabaliros (7655 ft.), the Pic de Labassa (9781 ft.), and the Pyramide de Peyrelance (8800 ft. about). An especially interesting part arrives, as the road approaches the wonderful old ruin of the Château de Beaucens (with "oubliettes" towers, a "donjon" of the 14th century, and west walls of the 16th ditto), which stands on the left, not far from the village of the same name. Crossing the river again, we just managed to pass over some newly-laid road, to the village of Villelongue—above which, on the left, towers the imposing Pic de Villelongue—and soon after found ourselves beside the river again at the foot of the Pic de Soulom, where it is very lovely, and crossing another bridge, reached Soulom itself. It seemed to us an old and somewhat dirty town—not to say filthy—but the church is worthy of a visit. It was formerly fortified, and the construction of the belfry—if such it can be called—is curious. The inscription over the door, "This is the house of God and the gate of heaven," written in Latin, seems somewhat grotesque for such a building, although the dome is painted to represent the sky in all the "intensity" of a starlight night. A few yards along the road and we stood on the bridge over the "Gave de Cauterets," at the other side of which is Pierrefitte —and from which point the scenery is especially grand. Passing the Hôtel de la Poste (recommended) on the left, and the way to the station on the right, we bore up the hill in the former direction, towards St. Savin.
This old place—in fact the oldest village in the valley—is an easy walk from Argelès, and should certainly not be excluded from a visit. Having passed the dismantled Château de Despourrins and the statue at the roadside erected in the poet's (Despourrins') honour, we had a grand glimpse of the valley below; and, leaving behind the Chapelle de Piétad (16th century), which stands on a point above the road, we entered the village. The street leading to the ancient Roman Church is ancient too, reminding one, in the curious construction of the houses, of Chester, the style of supporting the upper part on wooden beams, reaching over the road, and leaving a passage beneath, being very similar. The church has been restored and is in capital preservation. As there were so many objects of interest, chiefly connected with the great St. Savin himself, we sent for the verger, sexton, bellringer, parish beadle, or whatever the "goîtreux" individual called himself, and paid great attention to all he had to say. Although a good deal was quite unintelligible, the following are some of the most interesting facts. Entering at the small side door, immediately within stands a curious and very old bénitier (font), with two curious individuals carved in the stone supporting the basin. These are supposed to represent two "Cagots," a despised race for whom the font itself was constructed. Very few people know anything about their origin, but they were greatly detested by the inhabitants of the country, and not even allowed to worship in the same church, or use the same "holy water" as the rest. They still exist about Gavarnie and a few other spots, and we hope to learn more of them. The old battered organ next presents itself to the view, with the long flight of steps leading up to it, but as it wished to tell its own story, without further description behold
"THE ORGAN'S TALE."
Good people who gaze at my ruinous state,
Don't lift up your noses and sneer:
I've a pitiful story I wish to relate,
And, I pray you, believe me sincere.
I was young, I was "sweet," in the years that are gone,
The breath through my proud bosom rolled,
And I loved to peal forth as the service went on,
O'er the heads of the worshipping fold.
How time speeds along! Three whole centuries—yes!—
Have passed since the day of my birth;
And, good people, I thought myself then, you may guess,
The loveliest organ on earth.
Such pipes and such stops! and a swell—such a swell!!!
My music rang under the dome;
And the way that I held the old folks 'neath my spell
You should know; but alas! they've gone "home."
Then my varnish was bright, and my panels were gay
With devices both script'ral and quaint;
I frightened the sinner with hair turning grey,
But charmed into rapture the saint.
Those faces once painted so brightly would smile,
And put out their tongues at my voice;
As the pedals were played, they would wag all the while,
And the children below would rejoice.
Now is it not sad to have once been so grand,
And now to be shattered and old?
To look but a ruin up here, where I stand
Decidedly out in the cold?
Each "pipe is put out," and my "stops" are no more,
I belong to a "period" remote;
And as to the tongues that wagged freely of yore,
They have long disappeared down the throat.
My pedals are broken or gone quite awry,
My "keys"—you may "note"—are now dust;
No longer a "swell"—not as faint as a sigh—
While my bellows, good people, are "bust."
I am twisted and worn, in a ruinous state,
But prythee, good people, don't sneer!
My joys and my sorrows I've tried to relate,
And in judging me don't be severe!!!
Leaving the organ, and passing behind the "high altar," we beheld the tomb of the redoubtable saint, who is supposed to have been shut up there at the end of the 10th century, though the gilt ornament (?) above is some four centuries younger. The set of old paintings to the right and left represent scenes in the good man's life, who, if he had only changed the i in his name to o—and the king would have agreed readily—by the perpetual allusion to Savon, would perhaps have done much for the natives generally. The robing-room, wherein the head of the revered man is kept in a casket, and the "Salle du Chapitre," with quaint carvings of the 12th century, beyond, are other places of interest.
The "Château de Miramont," which adjoins, is now used as a convent (or college), and visitors are not permitted to inspect it. We bought a lithographed print of the church and its environs for half a franc, from our round-backed guide, besides depositing a "douceur" in his horny palm, and consequently parted with him on the best of terms. The road for some distance being rather steep, we preferred to walk and let the carriage follow, but when nearing the junction with the Pierrefitte road, we mounted again and bowled along at a smart pace over the well-known bridge to the hotel.
There was nothing striking about our hotel life, although we found it pleasant, being a "parti carré." We were generally the sole partakers of the table-d'hôte, at which the food was excellent, the jugged chamois (izard) being especially good. Light, however, was at a premium. It may have been all out of compliment, to bear testimony to our being "shining lights" ourselves; still, for all that, we should have been glad to forego the politeness, and receive, instead, a reinforcement of lamps.
Argelès itself is a peculiar old place; though devoid of much interest, except on market-days. The curious houses and towers, the street watercourses (as at Bagnères de Bigorre), the church, and the strange chapel-like building now used as a diocesan college, are all that is noteworthy even, excepting the "State schools," built three years ago.
On a Tuesday, when the market is in full swing, the square in front of the post-office looks bright and cheerful, and vegetables flourish. We took a very pleasant walk after passing through the stalls, and down past the Hôtel de France. The route we followed leads to the right, close by the new State schools, among some poor cottages, where it turns sharply in the opposite direction, and runs down beside some fine old chestnut trees to the river. Continuing, the track leads up a fine glen, with views of the snow- peaks towards Eaux Bonnes, which well repaid our walk.
Returning again by the town, we wandered about through the narrow streets, taking a farewell survey before leaving for Cauterets, whither we were next intent.
There is another episode connected with Argelès, that will live in our memories, and it is one that future travellers, methinks, may have reason to appreciate, if not to endorse.
Everybody learns from unhappy experience how sour the bread is throughout the Pyrenees, only excepting two or three resorts, and as we were aware of the fact before leaving Pau, we arranged with Monsieur Kern, of the Austrian Bakery, Rue de la Préfecture, to send us a certain amount of bread every day. The first night at Argelès was spent without it, but on the evening of the following day a packet was brought into the drawing-room, where we were assembled, and at the magical word "bread" every eye brightened, and every face relaxed into a smile. Let no one cavil. This was one of the episodes that link Argelès to us with a pleasant charm.