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