Gradually we went winding up to the Bocca or head of the pass, every break in the trees showing wider and more extensive ranges of mountains; and great golden lichen-covered crags, surrounded by ferns and overhung by pines, presenting at each turn a more perfect study for a sketch. Corsica is certainly the heaven of a landscape painter, and Bavella is one of her highest attractions.
The road was rough and narrow, however, now; and here and there, where a party of cantonniers, or road-makers, were at work repairing, their heaps of stone still further narrowed the passage for the carriage, which on one or two occasions passed the corner with three wheels on the ground, and the fourth hanging over the edge of the precipice!
The forest ceased as we reached the Bocca, to recommence, at the same distance, down the other side. The top of the mountain was bare and rugged, crowned by a few cedars; but from this spot the most magnificent of views lay spread out before us. The forest lay all around us at our feet; from the other side of the gorge rose the wonderful Fourca di Basinao; and far away below swelled seven ranges of mountains, billowed and commingling in varied hues of purple, hazy blue, and vivid crimson.
A few steps further brought us to the edge of the slope leading down to the other side, and to the route towards Solenzara; and this view was almost more beautiful than the other. Forests of pine and lighter beeches covered conical hills, that looked as if we could have thrown a stone upon their tops; darker majestic rocks rose like gigantic ruined castles behind them; close beside us was an unbroken cone of pure snow; and, far away, beyond all, a wide sweep of bluest Mediterranean with the island of Asanzara lying, gem-like, upon its bosom.
All down this side of the hill, for two or three hundred yards or so, the bare rocky ground was covered with low huts of wood or stone, roughly put together, and not more than ten or twelve feet long. These huts, which were like a series of human mole-hills scattered over the hill-side, had an open space left for doorway, but neither door nor chimney. Peeping inside one, we saw that it was very dirty, with no other flooring than the muddy ground, and that the only article of furniture within was an old pan.
These wretched hovels are, for three or four months together, the homes of the poor cantonniers at work upon the roads; who herd here together anyhow, obtaining bread and country wine from the little locanda close by, placed under the brow of the highest slope.
At this locanda our horses were put up for the mid-day halt; and from it, presently, a little circle of five or six women issued, very curious to eye the foreign ladies, and, if possible, to question them. One of these was the landlady of the little public-house (for inn it was not), and the others were the wives of a few of the cantonniers whose energy or means had enabled them to follow their husbands.
They were not long in squatting round us in a ring as we sketched, talking rapidly in their Italian patois to each other, and persuading the brown-eyed, sweet-faced landlady—the only one of the party able to speak French—to ask us whence we came and who we were. She was too shy to begin at first, but, once started, kept up a brisk conversation. Here, in her little home, 3700 feet above the sea level, she had known but few visitors, especially foreigners, and she was full of interest and curiosity.
For some minutes we were plied by the usual round of questions as to our nationality, as to the beauty of England, and the riches of its inhabitants; and we found the usual difficulty in convincing them that we were not millionaires.
"Ah, madame!" said the woman, pointing to the little reticule which No. 1 carried over her arm; "you know there is enough money in that bag to make my fortune."