It lies in the very heart of the wildest mountains of Corsica, surrounded on every side by their gaunt and precipitous flanks. Monte Rotondo, one of the highest of the inland chain, raises its snow-crowned head to look over the solemn blue-grey hills immediately behind Corte; and two broad foaming rivers dash down the gully beside the town, and unite, after passing under their handsome stone bridges, in the narrow valley just beneath.
Corte is itself at no mean height above the sea level; and, at the time of our first visit, was exceedingly cold, with a sharp north wind rushing through the town from the numerous mountain ravines.
The citadel, which of itself is not much, is built, with extraordinarily picturesque effect, upon the summit of a precipitous hill, rising from the midst of the town; up whose sides run a few houses, until the overhanging rocks force them to give place to the prickly pear. The main streets in Corte are wide, and paved with rough stone, with enormously high, factory-like houses, of seven or even eight stories, on each side. The houses are remarkably hideous, even for Corsica; built of dirty white stone, and red roofed, without any eaves, the windows irregular and poor, and the open doorways (into large buildings) often showing dirty and poverty-stricken interiors.
Very steep side streets, impassable for carriages, and sometimes giving place to a series of stone steps, lead up into the higher parts of the town, and towards the citadel and church.
Fine elm-trees make a nice avenue all up the main road, at the end of which are the two respectable hotels of Corte, Hotels Pierracci and Paoli, so precisely opposite that the rival guests can look into each other's windows.
If it were not for its dirt, and its ugly houses, the beauty of Corte would be almost unrivalled in European scenery. How one sighs in Corsica for the lovely grey cottages with broad eaves, and for the stately art-decorated mansions with graceful towers, of beauty-loving Italy!
No such thing is to be seen here. I doubt if, from one end of Corsica to the other, there is one building with any pretensions to real architectural beauty.
Art has never been much cultivated in the island. A people who for centuries have lived in a condition of incessant warfare and personal insecurity have but little time or inclination to indulge in the peaceful pursuits of their more luxurious neighbours; and Corsican architecture partakes of the Corsican character, being stern, rugged, and primitive. Many a village, nestled in some exquisite situation among snow-capped hills and orange groves, we found perfectly ruined, in an artistic point of view, by its ugly dwellings.
The churches are the only redeeming feature in Corsican architecture. Their campaniles, or bell-towers, are generally lofty and picturesque, divided into several stories, and standing apart from the body of the church.
Hotel Pierracci, which had been recommended to us, we found a fair hotel in many respects, but intensely national in its peculiarities. The despotic Briton, coming straight from club luxuries and obsequious attentions, would feel himself decidedly out of place there, and not a little miserable.