We soon passed away from the sea-coast and the sea views, and entered the inland country, among green hills, and past a broad river, with blue and snow-streaked mountains rising up before us.
Presently approaching the village of Cauro or Cavro, where we changed horses, the mountain of Bastelica stood out in unrivalled grandeur of white cone above us; and as we slowly ascended the steep road in the exquisite freshness of morning, the birds sang loudly and continuously from the banks of white cystus which covered the lower parts of the wooded slopes lining the road.
Though so early, it was almost too hot to walk; and when we reached Cauro, the horses were in a bath of perspiration.
From Ajaccio to Cauro and Bastelica is a favourite excursion; but it is a very long and fatiguing one for one day, and Cauro does not look a tempting place for a night's rest.
As we left Cauro and continued our steep ascent, the mountains grew grander, and the trees increased. Maquis of the most delicious sort followed the roadside, and the air was laden with the strong scent of the tall Mediterranean heath, which fought with arbutus and cystus for the foremost place, whilst cyclamen, golden bloom, and hellebore clustered at their feet.
Here we met some women whose costume astonished us considerably. Their white handkerchiefs were closely wrapped about their faces as well as heads, in Mohammedan fashion, covering up all their features, and leaving only the eyes visible. They appeared to be on their way to Ajaccio, and were driving a few cows before them; but it seemed more than probable that they would be suffocated with heat before they got there. On one other occasion, in the region of Bastia, we met with some more women dressed after the same uncomfortable fashion, but failed to discover its meaning.
Up on the summit of the Col, overlooking lovely views, was a most filthy, picturesque village. Queer little balconies surrounded half-ruined but inhabited houses, which were approached from the sloping hill-side by broken-down wooden bridges.
Stalking about in front of one of them, was a dignified and majestic-looking goat, enormously large, as are many of the Corsican goats, and of a peculiar piebald—pure white up to the shoulders, and jet black over head and neck. He seemed to hold the porcine and canine companions (who, with him, had evidently the right of entry into most of the houses) in supreme contempt; and it was a marvel to me how he had preserved the cleanly whiteness of his long hair—for the small specimens of ragged humanity who sat upon the dung-heaps close by, or swarmed noisily after the carriage, were so encrusted with dirt as to leave their original colour a matter of speculation.
But we did not pause long in this unsavoury village. We were soon through its one little street, dashing down—through green hills, and by falling streams with trees overhead, with a succession of exquisite mountain ranges, one layer behind the other, lying before us—to the cleaner village of Grosseto.
From Grosseto to Bechisano—a hamlet of some size, where we were to make the mid-day halt—the views were most lovely. For miles we wound above a verdant gorge, grassy broken hills on either side, and grey moss-covered rocky cliffs rising immediately beneath us from the bed of a foaming boulder-strewn river, sometimes hidden by the bending trees which caressed its rapid stream.