Notwithstanding the cold wind and the uncertain weather, we could not leave Bastia without an expedition in the Cap Corse direction. Cap Corse is the northern peninsula of Corsica, stretching out into the Mediterranean for many miles, like a long tongue. At its extremity are fine rocks and one or two lighthouses, but these we were fated not to see.
We started from the hotel in good time, leaving behind No. 1, who preferred the quaintness of the Bastia architecture, and wished to sketch in the streets.
Our equipage was a little open carriage, drawn by a pair of lively chestnut ponies that went like the wind; and we were further escorted by "Bigemark"—a black and tan quadruped apparently belonging to the pointer breed, intelligent and affectionate, but not endowed with the fatal gift of beauty, and possessed of barely a remnant either of ears or tail. Our first object was to see the Caves of Brando, wonderful grottos of limestone formation, in the hillside close by the seashore, about seven miles from Bastia.
The road to Brando was charming, following the shore the whole way, about a dozen yards above the sea level; the slope downwards being clothed with splendid cacti, and with groves of olive, orange, cherry, walnut, and fig trees, with here and there an ilex. Out of the forests, the two common trees of Corsica are the olive and the ilex; and beautifully they harmonize together, the rich shining green of the ilex contrasting effectively with the silver grey of the olive.
The forest trees consist chiefly of pines, firs, and beeches, varied by a few oaks and cedars; and the chestnut woods generally stand alone.
Bordering the slope, and amongst the olives, bloomed flowers of every description and colour; whilst great grasses, pale pink asphodel, and giant golden spurge, grew like young trees among the rocks, and all along the roadside the weird prickly pear raised its ghostly arms in a huge hedge.
Beyond this, almost from beneath our feet, stretched far away the wide sweep of Mediterranean, sparkling with countless flashes, and bearing on its laughing bosom the islands of Capraya, Elba, and Monte Christo. Monte Christo was but a blue cone above the waters; and Capraya, though larger, was cloudy and mysterious; but Elba lay before us majestically grand in the dappled sunlight, precipitous walls of barren rock and smiling hillside standing out in a fine contrast.
On the other side of the road, and rising steeply up, were rocky hills, well clothed with the sweet-smelling macchie; whilst, between every rocky rift, showed glimpses of wilder mountains, the inland chain of Corsica, raising their grey heads from misty veils of morning.
Macchie, in Corsica, is a word that means much. It is, literally, scrub or undergrowth; but it is, practically, one of the most perfect garments ever woven by nature. It may be thick or thin, but is generally composed of a dense mass of shrubs, from two to four feet high, massed over and carpeted under by the richest and most luxuriant flowers.
The pink and the white cystus, the common weed of Corsica, which covers miles of country with its red or snow-white bushes on their sturdy growth, is the usual foundation of the macchie; but mingled with it are a score of other low growing plants, of various and often aromatic scents.