I made no response to this, for I began to feel my ignorance regarding manners and customs in Corsica.
The next morning, the usual rain was pouring down in bucketsful overhead; but very thankful were we, after a sleepless night, an early breakfast, and a dear bill, to depart from Hotel Colombani, with its indescribable dirt and smells, its exquisite views, and its loud waitress.
CHAPTER VI.
THE HAUTE BALAGNE.
The road from Calvi to Belgodere, usually the third day's journey from Bastia, mounts nearly the whole way, Calvi being on the sea level, and the village of Belgodere high up amongst the hills. It passes along one of the most famous routes in Corsica, that which runs through the mountains overlooking the Haute and Basse Balagne.
The Balagne shares with Cap Corse the reputation of being the richest and best cultivated district in Corsica, and consists of a splendid valley, apparently from three to seven miles wide, filled with rich grain fields and vineyards, and scattered with fruit trees. Oranges, cherries, and figs lined the road, and crept down towards the valley, varied by thick groves of olives. As the road ascended more and more, the view across the valley becomes more extensive and magnificent, until at length the most splendid panorama of mountain ranges, of snow Alps, and of peeps of blue sea, lies before the traveller.
Both Mr. Lear and Miss Campbell speak of this Balagne country as one of the most beautiful conceivable, and its views as unparalleled; but, unfortunately for us, we passed the first half of it in a downpour that veiled everything a dozen yards off with a thick white curtain. The second half was seen imperfectly, yet grandly, as the sun broke out in gleams, parting the mists in eccentric mood; showing here a mountain, there a bit of sea, and further on a line of sparkling valley.
For several miles we had to return upon our yesterday's road, but at Lumio branched off. The castle was wrapped in a grey cloak this morning; and long before we could see them, we heard the numerous swollen cascades rushing down the hillside in front of us, then dashing below in a leaping waterfall as we passed over the stone bridge.
The drenching rain had now continued three hours, making a temporary bath of the bottom of our carriage, and dripping in a melancholy sequence of drops through the rather ancient hood above our heads.
Stopping at the half-way house, to bait the horses, we found they were better off than we, for that absolutely nothing was procurable for lunch but sour bread and uneatable goat's cheese.
Both mind and body were beginning to feel thoroughly damped, when a sudden lifting of the clouds, and ray of blessed sunshine, revived our hopes and restored our equanimity. We left off feeding the handsome, timid retriever, who, sitting half-drowned in the middle of the river course which we called our road, was gratefully accepting bits of brown dusty bread, and began to look about us. All around the olives were trembling with the rain, looking more purely silver than ever with the dewdrops hanging on their grey foliage, and beneath our feet stretched the rich, winding valley, filled with rolling banks of vapour.