The pass of Roccapina is wild and picturesque, overlooking the sea, and many a rocky range. The open pass is bordered by loose boulders, and far beneath lies the little bay of Roccapina, three or four large coasting vessels lying in its harbour, mere black atoms in the distance; the white sandy road winding down to it, dotted with charcoal carts drawn by their six or eight mules, looking like so many moving centipedes upon the hill-side.
The long headland, which juts far out into the sea and protects one side of this bay, has upon its furthest height a high round tower, and upon the summit of the nearer hill, one of the greatest natural curiosities in Europe. It consists of the figure of a lion, seated upon the high peak with a lordly air, looking out to sea—an entirely natural formation in the rock.
For miles this lion can be seen, lifelike as if from the chisel of a sculptor, his very features being marked out by the natural indentations of the granite, and his pose full of spirit and vivacity.
Behind the headland, sweeps of blue sea and distant points of brown and purple rocks form a fine background, and in front the ground slopes away by a rocky winding road to the sea level.
A little Douane, represented by one pleasant elderly gendarme, and a tiny inn, are the only dwellings on this bleak and lonely spot, or for miles around its windy solitudes.
A tame tortoise, and some queer Corsican ware inside the bare little inn, consoled us during our mid-day halt for a passing shower, and our bread and cheese was augmented by the only luxury possessed by the good-natured landlady, who sold us an apronful of walnuts for twopence, and laughed cheerily at our original Italian.
Distorted and fantastic boulders gave way after a time, on the road down, to macchie and plains of corn-fields bedecked by sheets of scarlet poppies, as we left off following the margin of the sea-shore and struck inland once more amongst the green hills.
A wide rock-strewn plain, with a rocky line of hills in front, and a dry sandy road, nearly stifled us, and we were glad to get into a lovely lane hedged by arbutus, up which twined the loving purple vetch, to a height of more than eight feet, and where flowers—scarlet, blue, white, and golden—hid everything but blue sky from our aching eyes.
Breezy hills, peeps of sea, and malarious-looking plain, followed each other in quick succession, as we wound up and down, never leaving the sea-coast far behind.
Reaching the top of the last stony height, about six miles from Bonifacio, a splendid view lay spread before us. As far as the eye could reach the great Mediterranean glittered like a blue mirror to the horizon, with its white cliffs and low blue hills, surrounded by many small islands, while the white bastion walls of Bonifacio glistened in the noonday sun far off upon the mainland, overtopping all.