Wintering at Mentone

by William Chambers

Considering its extent, its numerous attractions, its choice of society, and its abundance of hotels, pensions, and villas and floors to be let for hire, Nice, as a place of agreeable resort, has a prodigious advantage over Mentone, which is in a comparatively primitive condition, with much to be done to bring it up to the Nicean finish. To all its recommendable qualities, Nice has further added a supply of pure water led on in pipes from the hilly ground behind; and this is a thing of first importance. If the public authorities would be but a little more liberal in their supply of scavengers to scrape and sweep the streets and by-ways, and to prevent the accumulation of nauseous rubbish on the shore side of the Promenade, they would merit a tribute of thanks from every one who makes a sojourn in the town. Granting all that can be said in admiration of the Queen of the Mediterranean, the question remains as to its availableness in a matter where health is so intimately concerned. In its very imposing size and stylish way of living there is, I fear, something objectionable. Health-seekers ought not as a rule to care for balls, theatrical representations, or the lavish exhibition of finery. What they generally want is the re-invigoration of an enfeebled constitution, through simple and natural agencies. Wherefore, the sea-side, the rural hamlet, or any other place where, by abandoning artificialities, Nature has fair-play to strengthen the animal system, is what is sought after. On this account, as well as on its higher claims in point of shelter and climate, there is no room to hesitate. Pleasure-seekers, or those to whom a town-life is indispensable, will stop at Nice; the less sophisticated will go twenty miles farther, and, with all its deficiencies, bask in the very garden of the Riviera.

The time of transit from Nice to Mentone by railway is an hour and six minutes, including stoppages at Villafranca, Monaco, and other places. It is a cheap, easy journey; but the line is carried through a number of dark tunnels, and to those who have sufficient time at command, and do not mind the cost of a carriage and pair of horses, the road forming the first stage in the Corniche will be preferred. On last, as well as previous occasion, selecting this famous highway across the mountains—the Alpes Maritimes, from which is derived the name of the department—I hired a carriage for the journey. The route is the commencement of the famous Corniche, which most tourists endeavour to see at least once in their lives. Until 1806, when it was partially completed, by order of Bonaparte, there was no other road along this part of the coast of Italy than the very insufficient pathway, fit only for mules, which had originally been made by the Romans on subduing the Ligurians. Snatches of this old Roman road are still in use by the country-people. It was only the pressing emergencies of the Revolutionary army under the conqueror of Italy, at the beginning of the present century, that led to the engineering of the Corniche—a name significant of a pathway winding its way along a natural precipitous cornice. On quitting Nice, the road rises along a mountain-side which commands a magnificent prospect over the valley of the Paillon, dotted with villas and orange-gardens. By and by, on attaining a great height, it gets behind the hills, and we lose sight of the sea. In this respect, the road was devised under the temporary but awkward necessity of avoiding a cannonade from British ships of war. Now that there are no longer any fears on this score, a new Corniche as far as Monaco is partly constructed, and will be a great improvement on the old one; though it will fail to afford such magnificent views as we now have of mountain scenery, and will prevent travellers passing through and seeing the ancient village of Turbia.

On both occasions on which I have passed this way, the weather happened to be of exceptional brilliance. The season was winter, and the height attained was two thousand feet, yet the air was mild and balmy, and in the open carriage, the only shelter required was an umbrella, to avert the dazzling rays of the sun. On the left were the rugged Alpine peaks stretching far away in the distance, while on the right we looked down the precipitous banks, laid out in terraces for vines and orange-gardens, to the picturesquely peninsulated shores of the Mediterranean. Midway, on our right, we come in sight of the ancient town of Eza, perched most picturesquely on the summit of a conical mount, and which figures in the early history of this singularly irregular line of coast. A more difficult piece of country for military manœuvres can scarcely be imagined, for there hardly appears a level spot in the whole territory; hence we have a pretty good idea of why the Ligurians so long defied their enemies, and also why the district, in its quality of Principality of Monaco, should have for such a length of time maintained an isolated existence. Of the final success of the Roman invaders we have an interesting memorial at the decayed village of Turbia, through which the road passes. It consists of the shattered remains of a colossal monument, erected in honour of Augustus Cæsar. Occupying a prominent rocky knoll, it is visible from a great distance at sea. Reaching it by an irregular path through the old village, we find the ruin surrounded by a wall, to prevent further dilapidation. What was the original form of the monument is nowhere mentioned. It was certainly a tall ornamental structure, bearing a gigantic statue of Augustus in white marble, of which fragments have been discovered. In the middle ages, the building was altered and enlarged to form a species of fortress, and thus it remained until it was destroyed by Marshal Villars, during the wars of Louis XIV. (1705). The present name of the village is said to be a corruption of Trophæa (Trophæa Augusti), but this is mere conjecture. A few minutes bestowed in a visit to this noted historical ruin, and in enjoying the outlook seaward, will not be misspent.

Ruin of Monument at Turbia, viewed from the south.

At Turbia, we come full in sight of the town of Monaco, perched on a rocky peninsula jutting into the sea, and still walled all around as it was in the days when it required to hold out against foreign enemies. Divided from it on the east by a small port, rises Monte Carlo, a plateau now noted for its gaming establishment, the only authorised resort of the kind in the south of Europe. The only other place on the route calling for a word of observation is Roccabruna, a cluster of antique buildings, the capital of a commune, jumbled up in a strange manner with huge brown rocks, that look as if they had been suddenly arrested on tumbling down the lofty hill behind them. From this we have a continued descent to Mentone. As we advance, the scene opens, and turning a corner of the road, we see the place of our destination stretching along the curve of a beautiful bay, backed by low hills, covered with evergreens, while behind these rises a semicircular range of arid mountains, towering several thousand feet high, and forming the screen from the north, that, constituting Mentone an Undercliff, gives it that peculiar mildness and dryness of climate for which it has attained celebrity. A drive for a mile along an avenue of plane-trees, environed with olive-grounds and villas, brings us to the spot where we are to spend the winter.

CHAPTER II.

The approach downhill from Roccabruna to Mentone offers one of the most pleasing sights in the Riviera. Before us is the town, skirting the sea-shore, backed by hills clothed in evergreens of varying tints. On our right is the wide expanse of the Mediterranean; and in the distance to the east are seen the headlands of Ventimiglia and Bordighera. It is a peaceful, secluded scene, and, lying full in the blaze of sunshine, comes up to our ideas of what is befitting as a resort for those in quest of health, or who wish to reside for a time away from the turmoil of the outer world. It is customary to say of Mentone, that here civilisation ends. We have arrived at the last town in France. Going farther in this direction, we enter Italy, where, generally speaking, matters are in a less advanced condition.

The whole of Mentone is comprehended in the curve of a bay, which, from Cap Martin on the west to Cap Murtola on the east, may measure five to six miles, by following the line of coast; but the curve is divided near the centre by a projecting ledge of rocks, on which stands a conspicuous square bastion or martello tower, forming an outwork of the older part of the town. The sweep of the shore is therefore broken into two bays, the western and eastern, a circumstance which imparts a divided character to the place. As regards the residences of strangers, there may indeed be said to be two towns, distinctly cut off from each other; the only channel of communication between them being a confined thoroughfare amidst old buildings.