It was an exquisite day, and the sun, even so early in the morning, was "deliciously baking," said No. 3, "decidedly oppressive," said No. 1.
We departed in style, with our coachman on one side of the box and our conductor on the other, with five horses, and an energetic little black dog perched on the roof of the carriage, who evidently believed himself the guardian of the whole concern, and at the approach of every stranger ran, frantically barking, backwards and forwards, along his elevated platform, to the imminent risk of his neck. Once, indeed, the small beast overbalanced himself, and was only saved by alighting on the conductor's shoulder, where he was quickly transferred to No. 2's knee, and his acquaintance cultivated.
During the whole journey the conductor remains the same, but the coachman changes with each relay of horses. The conductor was a big, fine man, with a good head, and remarkably well-informed. As, however, he thought it necessary to descend and refresh himself ("with a little water," as he remarked innocently) at every village we passed, his conversation became less interesting and his company rather less agreeable towards the middle of the day; and we were not sorry when he found it necessary to retire to the summit of the diligence, and the terrier's company, for an hour or two of snoring repose. Both he and the coachman were armed with an enormously long whip, some five or six yards in length; and with these they simultaneously slashed at the poor horses whenever we came to any steep hill. This duty was, however, sometimes undertaken by a juvenile amateur of thirteen or fourteen, whose business and pleasure it was to run along by the side of the panting horses, cracking the long whip furiously against their steaming flanks, and encouraging them with every conceivable Corsican epithet of abuse and entreaty.
The road to Vivario, where was the mid-day halt, was for some time a continual ascent among beautiful views of snow-streaked ranges on both sides.
Further on, we passed through an avenue of chestnuts, not yet, however, in leaf, the great boles standing by the roadside among picturesque green and grey moss-covered boulders of limestone, from between which darted sparkling little streams and many waterfalls.
When we again passed over this ground in June, the place was a soft fairyland of beauty, the bright green chestnuts bending lovingly over the great stones, and throwing dappled light and shade over the uneven turf.
Monte Rotondo had accompanied us part of the way from Corte, but, at the large village of Serraggio, Monte D'Oro's great white flanks started out in dazzling brilliancy, and continued for the rest of the way to take its place.
Serraggio is beautifully situated; but it is not a tempting-looking village. The houses are tumble-down and dirty, and the pigs appear to walk amicably in and out of the houses.
From Serraggio to Vivario, passing by Ponte Vecchio, the route is perfectly lovely. It winds through the gorge of the Vecchio, the river foaming at the bottom, and wildest rocky hills, varied by snow mountains, rising up on either side. The peaks that stood over us were of the most eccentric shapes, pointing like grey and brown battlements up into the unclouded sky, and flowers of every description blossomed beside our path. The Mediterranean heath, especially, with its delicate little bell-shaped flowers and strong, sweet scent, grew luxuriantly by the roadside, generally in height from six to ten feet.
Ponte Vecchio is exquisitely beautiful. At a winding turn in the road the tall one-arched bridge spans the boiling river and boulder-strewn gorge, surrounded by every eccentricity of rocky hill and pine-scattered snow mountain.