Where the deep ravine rose towards us, and two steeply-falling brooks united to form its torrent, the church of Esino stood forth, the ornament of a bold green spur projecting from a broad platform covered with fields and trees.
Half the village lies a few hundred yards higher on the hillside, and the only inn—a mere peasant's house of call—is the first house in the upper hamlet. The blacksmith appeared to be the official guide to the Grigna, but in his absence a substitute was provided in the master of the inn. His first act was to pack an enormous basket of bread and wine, of which he said we might consume as much as we liked and pay him accordingly, a primitive but not, as we afterwards found, particularly economical arrangement. His next proceeding was to offer a few coppers to a girl to carry the basket to the last shepherd's hut. In the Bergamasque country we soon became accustomed to our porters acting as contractors and subletting a portion of their contract to any chance passenger or herdsman they met on the way.
A charming path leads up from Esino to the Cainallo Pass, the direct way into Val Sassina. Large beeches grow in clusters amongst tufts of underwood, or overshadow shallow ponds, the frequent haunts of the herd. Below lies the long ribbon of the lake, its waves reduced to a ripple, which the sloping sunlight hardly makes visible. Away beyond the green gulf leading to Porlezza and the hills of Maggiore glows the supreme glory of the Alps, the snow-front of Monte Rosa. Right and left the faint and far forms of the Grand Paradis and Grivola and the Oberland peaks attend in the train of their queen.
Instead of crossing the pass the route to the Grigna turns southward along the ridge until some 500 feet higher it reaches the edge of a great horseshoe-shaped recess in the north-east flank of the mountain. The limestone here breaks below into many fantastic spires, the precipices opposite are abrupt, and the whole landscape has a severe and bold character unexpected in this region.
The circuit to the opposite side of the recess where the real climb begins is somewhat tedious. Beyond a cattle-alp, which affords milk, the mountain becomes a bare mass of limestone, the hollows in which are filled, first by grass, then by snow. The top lies still far back, and the ridge on the right which cuts off most of the view looks tempting. It is not comfortable ground, however, except for a tolerable cragsman. Keep below to the last, and when you clamber on to the highest crest your patience will be rewarded.
A moment before a rock was before your eyes, now there is nothing but the straight-drawn line of the Tuscan Apennine. The vast plain of Lombardy has, for the first time all day, burst into sight. Surely there are few sights which appeal at once to the senses and imagination with so much power. Possibly the Indian plains from some Himalayan spur may have richer colours, certainly the northern steppe from Elbruz has greater boundlessness. But they are not so much mixed up with associations. This is Italy; there are Milan, Monza, Bergamo, a hundred battle-fields from the Trebia to Magenta.
It is natural to compare the Grigna panorama with those from Monte Generoso and Monte San Primo. As a perfect view of the Lake of Como the Monte San Primo is unrivalled. The delicious dip from Monte Generoso on to Lugano perhaps surpasses in beauty the wilder plunge of the Grigna upon the Lago di Lecco. But for the plain and the great range I unhesitatingly give the palm to the higher mountain.
The last spurs of the Alps are here singularly picturesque. The bold forms of the Corno di Canzo and Monte Baro break down to display the shining pools of the Laghi di Pusiano and d' Annone, and the hills and towns of the Brianza, a fair garden country full of well-to-do towns and bright villas, the country seats of the Milanese. Hither Leonardo may have come, and looking across the narrow lake or from beside some smaller pool or stream at the stiff, upright rocks of the Grigna and the Resegone, have conceived the strange backgrounds with which we are all familiar.
From mountains of middle height the general aspect of the range is ordinarily one of wild disorder. It is but rarely any distant group is completely seen; only, wherever the nearer ridges subside, one or two peaks come into view disconnectedly and as it were by chance. From more commanding summits the contrary effect is produced; intervening and minor masses sink into their proper place; they no longer produce the impression of a hopeless labyrinth, but combine with the great peaks to form well-defined groups.
In most Alpine districts the Grigna (7,909 feet) would rank among minor heights; on the shores of Lago di Como and at the edge of the Lombard plain it is a giant. Its extra 2,000 feet enable it to look not only over neighbouring hills but into the hollows which separate them—hollows filled with an air like a melted jewel in its mingled depth and transparency of colour. The snowy Alps, raised now, not merely head, but head and shoulders above the crowd, range themselves before the eyes in well-ordered companies.