The Pir Larriccio flourished here in abundance, a lovely variety of the ordinary fir—its bunch of dark green foliage only on the top, and its tall branchless stem often over 100 feet high. Many of these trunks, when felled, have been measured to be from 150 to 200 feet high; and one or more have exceeded that height. The trunks are perfectly straight, and of great girth at the bottom; and, as they are very tough to fell, they are usually burnt to a certain degree first. This custom is an unfortunate one for the beauty of the forest, as, when a strong wind blows, the smoke and flames will char and blacken many noble trees on either side. The forestiers, too, are careless in their work, and kill and injure ruthlessly many a noble monarch of the glade whose life is not required for the charettier.
The Bocco di Vergio, or highest part of the forest of Valdoniello, is 4760 feet above the sea-level, and the main road across it was reported by the guide to be now indistinguishable and unsafe from the deep snow which covered it; so he led us by what he politely termed a lower route. This route consisted of a hill like the side of a house, covered with loose stones and fragments of broken timber, and up which was no vestige of any path whatsoever. Looking up its almost perpendicular face, one would have said that nothing less light and agile than a goat could possibly have scaled its surface. But we soon found that our mules were intended to do so, and that we must stick on as best we could.
We must have rolled, with concentrated force of the action of gravitation, down the hill had they slipped; but, fortunately for us, they did not; and by wriggling their bodies, eel-fashion, and occasionally leaping over a stout trunk or standing erect upon a small pointed boulder, they managed at length to reach the top in safety.
A few more yards of easy climbing brought us to the summit of the Vergio,—treeless, bleak, cold and bare, rising nakedly out of its warm fringe of forest.
Here we ate our bread and cheese, thankful to leave our rough-paced beasts, lying on the short dry turf, with snow on every side of us; the big guide, a few yards off, face downwards, enjoying a heavy snooze.
This man, who wore a velveteen coat and one wellington boot, boasted the historical name of Colonna. Historical names abound among the poor herdsmen and villagers of Corsica, and many a ragged loafer has the blood of a grand old family in his veins.
I remember one wayside friend whose clothes would scarcely hold together, whose cognomen was Pozzo di Borgo, and who, when I told him it was a good name, said, "Yes, he had heard that the first of his family was a count."
The capability for extemporary slumber possessed by Colonna was something extraordinary. If we did but stand still for a moment to admire the view, or stoop to gather some flowers, our heavy friend would promptly drop upon the side of the road like a log, generally with the cloaks he carried for us bundled under his head in a comfortable pillow.
He was communicative, too, after his slow fashion.
"Do you find many 'continentale' ladies who will ride upon this man's saddle?" we asked him.