From the inn, whose base was at the water's edge, was a lovely view, spreading across bright blue sea, and over the houses on their rocky ledge to the rosy tinted range of hills behind.
We were to rest here two hours, and determined to take a sketch. But, being about noon, the sun was blazing down upon the unsheltered white road and on the hard brown rocks in an unpleasant manner. So Nos. 2 and 3 crept up a perpendicular bit of cliff, on to a narrow, steep ledge, where there was a foot or two of shade; and here, with the cliff overhanging their perch, and the wonderful water, malachite and purple in its lights and shadows, beneath them, indulged in happy contemplation and artistic effort.
But, alas! solitude and silent reflection are not possible to the English traveller in Corsica; and although the boys of St. Florent were a most superior lot, kind and gentlemanly, they very soon invaded our retreat—creeping along to us on hands and knees (for our ledge necessitated this lowly position), and offering for sale some pretty shells, freshly gathered from their sea bed. For the modest sum of three soldi, or three halfpence, I invested in half a dozen of these. But my St. Florent shells never reached England.
Happening to look up from my sketch a few minutes later, I found that the little heap beside me had all dispersed, and walked themselves over the side of the cliff; whilst one particular beauty, that I had put in my pocket, having taken a little longer to free himself from his embarrassing situation, was yet in sight, making the best of his hermit-crab way back to mother sea. The small salesman evidently did not belong to the anti-vivisection society, for, seeing my discomfiture, he borrowed a hairpin with much solemnity, and catching the poor crab in mid career, began to pick him out, raising his large brown eyes to us in silent affliction when our humanitarian principles forced us to stop this proceeding.
On returning towards the shore, we found a small crowd of kindly intentioned women and boys gathered on the rocks beneath, to assist us in our perilous descent. Notwithstanding this little obstruction, however, we managed to alight safely, and rejoin No. 1, who, from her baking seat below, had been regarding our amphibious proceedings with some anxiety.
Directly after leaving San Fiorenzo, we began to ascend, the town behind us lying on its little peninsula among the wide blue waters like a crystal, and backed by hills glowing vividly in the hot noonday sun.
In an hour or two we reached the summit of the Col Cerchio, where the scene changed, the hills beside the road opened out, and revealed to us a fine panorama of inland mountains and villages.
The road to Ile Rousse lies nearly all the way through barren rocky hills, varied occasionally by greener cones. A wonderful, weird-looking mountain of red granite, called Monte Temorro, keeps always in sight, sometimes at one side and sometimes at the other of the winding road, but its precipitous bare head never lost. This mountain, in its bleakness, reminds me strongly of the pictures of Quarantana in Palestine.
The rocks grew wilder as at length we reached more level ground, and here there were some attempts at agriculture, refreshing after so much barren scenery.
Jogging along on muleback, we met a man and a woman, both seated on the same beast. It is only round Bastia that the Corsican women affect continental fashions and the side-saddle; everywhere else in the island the women ride cavalier style, and side-saddles are unknown. The two were driving before them a large flock of native sheep, black and white. Corsican sheep are simply lovely. They have long, soft, silky hair, instead of wool, upon their bodies, and their faces are full of expression, with large, pathetic brown eyes.