The sun still kept out as we began to ascend towards La Piana, on a road surrounded by richest herbage, shaded by pale green chestnuts, through groves of arbutus and myrtle, and scattered crags of fairest form, getting peeps of bluest sea below, and distant purple coast lines. For about two hours we ascended, often over queer high bridges spanning a rushing cascade, until we entered the winding mountain defiles, walled in on either side by the perpendicular rocks of La Piana.
The first, seen for long before entering this defile, was most peculiar in form, bearing an exact resemblance to a triple crown. Anything more beautiful than these rocks it would be impossible to conceive, but it was a beauty very different from those of Porto.
Brilliant was their colouring, rosy red, pale green, and soft grey, but upon and between their detached castellated heights grew luxuriant shrubs and waving larch-trees; and, although they often literally overhung the road from a great height, there was neither frowning precipice nor gloomy gorge beneath our feet.
On the sea side, the spaces between these rocky piles, rising in wildest and most fantastic shapes to heaven (often in spikes and high cathedral spires), was filled in by fairy peeps of sea and circling sandy bay, a thousand feet below.
No place can be imagined more perfect for a mid-day halt than here among these perfect rock towers and grottoes; and here we had intended to rest and eat our modest lunch; but, with a steady downpour of rain beginning to shut out distant hill and even overhanging crag, and running in little rivers along the stony road, we had no choice but to go on to the uninviting village, two miles further on.
On one of the last of the La Piana rocks we were amused to see a happy family of six or seven goats clustered, taking refuge from the storm of rain. The rock, which was high but narrow, was intersected by a number of small horizontal shelves; and on these the goats, black and white and parti-coloured, had leaped, one on each, looking exactly like a collection of Swiss carvings on a tall bracket.
La Piana is a wretched little village, boasting, however, a situation that no doubt would have been lovely in less unlovely weather. The inn, a poverty-stricken looking hovel-cottage in the village street, appeared at first deserted; but, after Antonio had fished up its owners from the kitchen downstairs, opened its hospitable door at the top of a flight of dirty stone steps to receive us. We found ourselves in a small, dark room, lighted only by a window about two feet square, or rather, by a window hole, for glass there was none, and shutters, of which one was closed, kept out wind and driving rain.
As usual the inhabitants, consisting of an old man, two women, and a baby or two, came in to stare at us, smiling good-humouredly, and full of curiosity; but unable to speak a word of anything better than Corsican patois.
We managed, with some difficulty, and by careful docking of the terminations of our words (which is the chief characteristic of the national dialect), to make our small stock of Italian serve to express our wants; and at length, after the usual offer of raw ham, sat down to a very good omelette mixed with broccia, and a box of London-marked sardines.
We then petitioned for a fire; and presently our smiling hostess brought us an apron full of fir cones, and placing them on some chips upon the large open stone hearth, we had a brisk crackling blaze, over which to warm and dry our damp garments.