Wintering at Mentone

by William Chambers

On the spot occupied by the monastery originally stood a small chapel, where, according to the account of M. Ardoin, wonderful cures were effected by the intercession of the Virgin. We are told that about 1660, a sister of the Prince of Monaco, afflicted with a distressing leprosy, made pilgrimages to the chapel to offer prayers for her cure. The prayers were successful: and, in gratitude, the princess built fifteen niches or small chapels along the pathway, dedicating them to the ‘fifteen mysteries of the rosary.’ This recognition gave what may be termed a great lift to the institution, which forthwith swelled from a simple chapel with one or two priests into a regular monastery with twelve monks. In the eighteenth century, all went on flourishingly until the French Revolution, when the whole was abruptly put an end to, and the property taken possession of by the nation. In this state matters remained until in recent times some renovations were effected. Finally, in 1867, a small number of monks of the order of St Francis, who had been unhoused at Genoa by the appropriations of the Italian government, got leave to plant themselves down here; and, favoured by local munificence, the monastery was once more set on foot. So there it is, with its monks in brown woollen gowns and hoods, wearing sandals on their bare feet, and going about as walking curiosities. The piety of the district has not managed to restore the niches placed by the princess at different points of the ascending pathway. They stand in hopeless ruin, and we see, only by fragments of plaster, that they had at one time been pictorially decorated. Yet they continue to be used as praying stations by those who, on pious errands, mount to the Annonciade. The walk to the top is charming—the view of the hill-terraces fine. If a little fatigued, the excursionist can take a seat in the chapel, which is always open, and there note the votive offerings hung about the walls. Among these I observed two pairs of crutches, which had belonged to persons who (it is said) were cured of lameness by intercessions similar to those which had effected such wonders on the skin of the princess. M. Ardoin gives some historical details concerning the spot, which may interest visitors. His small pamphlet, Du Sanctuaire de N.-D. de l’Annonciade, may be procured in Mentone. Scattered about in bosky situations on the top and sides of the hill near the monastery, there are several small cottages, some of them more fanciful than are elsewhere to be seen. One is placed like a nest among the branches of a tree—a very pretty Jack-and-the-beanstalk idea, but not to be complimented on the score of convenience.

Another but more lengthened excursion can be recommended—that to the heights of Ste Agnes (pronounced Anèse). Invalids and persons stiff in the limbs will find the journey too fatiguing to be undertaken on foot. They will require to hire a donkey at a Station des Anes, and either a boy or woman will go to lead it up the steeps. Walking, however, is preferable, if the fatigue can be encountered; for much of the pleasure consists in sitting down now and then to loiter over and mark the beauties of the scenery. The route is, for about a third of a mile, along the right bank of the Borigo, and then the ascent commences. First, it winds by the usual broad and rudely made steps amidst orange and lemon gardens, laid out in terraces, irrigated at certain seasons by water gathered with the greatest possible care in well-built tanks. The design apparently is to conduct all the rain that falls by channels and gutters into these receptacles. When I made the ascent, the tanks were either wholly dry, or had a residuum of dirty fetid water. What the dwellers in the cottages did for water, was past my comprehension, unless supplies were brought to them in small barrels on the backs of donkeys.

The solitude, the simplicity of these hill-dwellings, furnish interesting matter of contemplation. Of the old Ligurian type, and speaking a blended patois of Italian and French, with some words of Arabic and Spanish, the people occupying the slopes of the hills cling with tenacity to their old usages and habits. From generation to generation, they have occupied their small properties. Simple and frugal in their way of living, consuming no foreign or taxable luxuries, they follow out their obscure destiny in a manner that entitles them to respect. Conquered by the Romans, harassed by the Grimaldis, they have been so fortunate as to suffer no absolute robbery of houses and lands. Dynasties may come and go. It is pretty much the same who are their nominal superiors. What they have to do is to attend to their patch of olives, oranges, or lemons. All the year round, the sun beats down on their little properties; and provided they can secure a proper supply of water for irrigation, they bask amidst permanent luxuriance. Water is to them most precious. Every proprietor must have a tank for receiving the runs of water from the pathways, in case of rain; and all along the hill-sides are constructed channels for bringing supplies from distant sources. With such appliances, a craggy steep, with but faint traces of soil, becomes fertile and beautiful. In buying pieces of ground, therefore, care is taken to stipulate for some sort of water privilege; such, for instance, as a right to have water turned on one or more days, or hours, per week. When there has been a long drought, as was the case previous to my visit, the suffering is considerable; though personal inconvenience is less thought of than loss of crops. In summer, when the heat becomes excessive, it is not unusual for these hill-dwellers to quit their small cottages, and live entirely in the open air. A whole family will, gipsy-fashion, bivouac under one of the leafy boughs of a fig-tree, and thus far exemplify in a European country the Asiatic usage referred to in Scripture.

Gaining the summit of the colline, and passing through a forest of pines, the path at length ascends the face of the mountains, becoming continually more steep until the top of the pass is reached at the small decayed village of Ste Agnes. The circumstance of snow occasionally powdering the summit in winter, appears to have suggested the dedication of the old church to Our Lady of the Snows. By a steep footpath, an ascent may be made to the ruined château, which is perched on the rocky peak. Tradition associates the ruin with a lady, canonised as Ste Agnes, and a redoubtable Saracen chief, the occupant of the castle, whom she Christianised; there is, however, no end of romantic legends of this kind in the Riviera, and any one so inclined might fill a volume with them. The fête of Ste Agnes takes place on the 21st of January, when a miscellaneous concourse gathers for the occasion, some on foot, others on donkeys, while ladies of infirm health are carried up in an arm-chair—the carrying being managed by poles, on the principle of a sedan. The ceremonies include a procession with a large pomme d’or, or golden apple; and besides gifts of money, some devotees place an apple covered with gold-leaf on the altar of the saint by way of offering. At the termination of the ceremony, pieces of the apples are freely distributed. M. Pessy, who mentions the fact, is unable to explain the origin of this strange and ancient usage. The peak of Ste Agnes may be considered as the central eminence in the wide semicircle of limestone mountains which shelter Mentone from the north and north-western blasts. It is not nearly the highest of the mountains, but it is prominent and singularly picturesque. In a fine day, the view from it is magnificent, the heights of Corsica being clearly outlined on the southern horizon.

We need say nothing special of excursions to Castellare, Castillon, the lofty Berceau, the sunny knolls of Gorbio, Cabrole, or the quiet nooks in the recesses of the different valleys. It is a common practice for a party of visitors, ladies and gentlemen, to go off in the morning for pic-nics to some choice spot, selected for its beauty. Seated under the olive trees, the baskets borne by the donkey-boys are opened, and their contents displayed. The grouping (faintly represented in the vignette frontispiece) is sometimes made matter of tasteful arrangement, and the tableau vivant, blended as to colour and figure, brings to remembrance the pictures of Watteau.

In none of the excursions do we see the pasturing of sheep, such as we are accustomed to at home. There is a general absence of animal life. The scenery communicates the feeling of perfect repose. In the recesses of the valleys, there is a sort of supernatural stillness. You are environed by trees, rocks, and hill-terraces, with châlets far up on which the sun is shining; but not a leaf is stirring, although at that moment, perhaps, there is a breeze on the sea-shore. I never quite understood what was done for supplies of mutton for market. The only sheep visible consisted of a single flock, under the charge of an old man and boy, dressed in antiquated costume. Standing high on their legs, the sheep had remarkable Roman noses, and long pendent ears like hounds. So thin, so lank were they, that a Scottish store-farmer would have looked on them with contempt. It was my impression they were half-starved. Every afternoon about sunset, they might be seen conducted into town for the night. They came down the dry rubbishy torrent of the Carei among the washerwomen at their dirty frothy pools, eagerly catching at every blade of grass that happened to be growing among the stones, eating, as a windfall, any bit of orange-peeling that happened to lie in their way. Then, getting out of the Carei to the sea-beach, they had a leisurely walk along the shingle, where possibly a stray turnip-top or decayed potato rewarded their explorations. Next morning, after being housed somewhere, they were out again for the day, and might have been observed grubbing in the by-ways, and on odd pieces of waste ground, where a mouthful of green food could be picked up. Such is all I can say about the feeding of sheep in this pleasant Arcadia. As for cows, they are not seen at all, but are kept within doors, where they are fed on the waste pulp of oranges, lemons, and citrons, the rinds of which fruits are for the most part manufactured as confections. Milk good, nevertheless, which I thought strange.

Pont St Louis.

Few will refrain from hiring a voiture to make a trip across the frontier by the Pont St Louis, as far at least as that projecting part of the mountains on which stands the old tower of Grimaldi. From the level space in front of the hotels in the East Bay, the Corniche ascends amidst gardens and villas until, at the distance of a mile, arriving at the ravine of St Louis, it is carried by excavation along the face of the precipice. It is really a grand work of art. The ravine, rugged and singularly picturesque, is spanned by a bridge of a single arch, connecting France and Italy. A rivulet trickling down the hollow is conducted by artificial channels to the immediately adjoining gardens, and issues some hundreds of feet below on the sea-beach. To have a proper idea of the value of the road, we would need to walk along the bottom of the cliffs bordering on the sea, making use of fragments of that ancient Roman way which was the sole thoroughfare previous to the construction of the Corniche. The walk is a scramble, with barely footing for a single individual. It is, however, in various respects worth seeing. We here have an opportunity of visiting several caverns in the overhanging cliffs, in which bones and flint weapons of the pre-historic era have been discovered, and may likewise see the arch of a Roman bridge, which spans like an attenuated thread one of the ravines.

The road from the Pont St Louis, cut by blasting out of the rocks, is the finest part of the whole Corniche. On our left we have the huge overhanging cliffs, and on our right the Mediterranean—view superb. Tourists will remember that at the top of the ascent, the road wheels round to the left, and becomes a little more tame in character. Just at the point of turning, we are opposite the old tower, which had been a residence of the Grimaldis. It resembles a Border keep, stuck high on the side of the hill, with a good outlook seaward. Adjoining it, and reached by an awkward pathway over some broken rocky ground encroached upon by a quarry, is a garden made in the face of the steeps by Dr J. H. Bennet. The thing is a marvel of artificial beauty. Five hundred feet above the Mediterranean, and with incalculable labour and taste, has this garden been established, ‘with a view to the cultivation of flowers, and to the tranquil enjoyment of invalid lazaroni life.’ Such is Dr Bennet’s own explanation of this singular garden among the rocks of Grimaldi. On entering, you walk along an avenue with built pillars on each side, whereon climbing plants are ingeniously trained. At my last visit, the garden had been considerably extended by a fresh purchase of rocks. Where the earth comes from, is at first sight a little puzzling. It is discovered to consist of what through ages had accumulated amidst small crevices in the gray limestone, and being carefully preserved when making the pathways, is found to be of immense fertility. Dwellers in northern climes can have no adequate idea of the productive power of even a single handful of earth in this favoured spot. A large bush will be seen growing out of a hole in the rock barely sufficient for its stem.