St. Vincent-de-Tyrosse.—The same, with a modern church.
Bayonne.—A large fortified town on the Adour, the scene of much fighting in the Peninsular War. (1) Cathedral, built when the town belonged to the English, dates from 1213, and the cloisters from 1240; the west end is the latest portion; (2) the Château Vieux, an imposing building of twelfth to fifteenth century date, now barracks.
Biarritz.—A very attractive watering-place of recent growth; rocky promontory, with slight remains of thirteenth-century castle, picturesque coves and harbours, and a spray-drenched statue of the Virgin.
When one leaves Mont-de-Marsan the road is still through forest, and for mile after mile the dark pines shut out the views. The marshy district of Les Landes, where the shepherds use stilts in getting over the wet places, lies to the north-west.
The traffic on the roads, with the exception of automobiles, is drawn either by bullocks or mules, with their heads yoked together in a wooden framework, in addition to their collars. A horse is rarely seen.
After passing the village of Campagne the road twists through the little town of Tartas, where there remain two towers of the fortifications dismantled by the order of Louis XIII. In the sixteenth century Tartas was one of the principal strongholds of the Protestants in Gascony. The church is modern.
After crossing the bridge over the Midouze the turning to the left is taken. One then goes to the right and to the left at the fork.
On passing over a rise a little beyond Tartas a great view to the south and south-east appears, and on a fine day one notices on the distant horizon what at first seems to be a long pale ruffle of cloud. The next glimpse, however, shows them to be the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees, ranging from 6,000 to 11,000 feet in height. The ethereal beauty of the huge mountain barrier that has for so long formed the frontier of France and Spain, when seen at a distance under the sunshine of a spring afternoon, is one of the loveliest sights in Europe. The delicacy of the amethyst and violet shadows is as exquisite as mother-of-pearl. The distant range appears and vanishes as the car races along a series of switchback hills, and every glimpse is a picture framed with the tall red stems of pines and firs, with a golden foreground of gorse.
There is scarcely a tree passed without gashes in the bark, and a small earthenware cup attached to each, into which the resinous gum trickles—if it is possible to use such a word in connection with a fluid of the consistency of the thickest honey. The inquiring individual who puts a finger into one of the pots to discover the nature of its contents is impressed for several hours afterwards with its adhesiveness.
