Since the opening of the railway, the old inn where the diligences and private carriages used to stop has been closed; but I was made, in a homely way, extremely comfortable at the Scudo di Francia, kept by Signor Bonaudo and his wife. I stayed here over a fortnight, during which I made several excursions.
One day I went to San Giorio, as it is always written, though San Giorgio is evidently intended. Here there is a ruined castle, beautifully placed upon a hill; this castle shows well from the railway shortly after leaving Bussoleno station, on the right hand going towards Turin. Having been struck with it, I went by train to Bussoleno (where there is much that I was unwillingly compelled to neglect), and walked back to San Giorio. On my way, however, I saw a patch of Cima-da-Conegliano-looking meadow-land on a hill some way above me, and on this there rose from among the chestnuts what looked like a castellated mansion. I thought it well to make a digression to this, and when I got there, after a lovely walk, knocked at the door, having been told by peasants that there would be no difficulty about my taking a look round. The place is called the Castel Burrello, and is tenanted by an old priest who has retired hither to end his days. I sent in my card and business by his servant, and by-and-by he came out to me himself.
“Vous êtes Anglais, monsieur?” said he in French.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Vous êtes Catholique?”
“Monsieur, je suis de la religion de mes pères.”
“Pardon, monsieur, vos ancêtres étaient Catholiques jusqu’au temps de Henri VIII.”
“Mais il y a trois cent ans depuis le temps de Henri VIII.”
“Eh bien! chacun a ses convictions; vous ne parlez pas contre la religion?”