One of the most interesting and most usual walks or drives from Mentone is to this Cape Martin—to the point it is above two miles distant; and it is at present, or was while we were there, reached either by the rough, stony beach, disagreeable for the feet, but the shorter way, and pleasant, as passing by the ocean and having the view open to the scenes around. In time, it is expected that the promenade will be extended all along the coast to the cape, which will make approach to it by the shore a most agreeable walk. The other access, much longer, is by proceeding along the dusty high road leading to Monaco to some distance beyond the Hôtel? du Pavillon, and passing under a railway viaduct which crosses the road to a rough side road or avenue which diverges to the left and winds through a delicious plantation of fine old olive trees, with knotted, and gnarled, and divided trunks, and long, vigorous branches which stretch fantastically overhead and interlace; while the sun glinting through them here casts alternate lights and shadows on the white limestone road, and there shoots in streaks through the openings, speckling the forest with glancing radiance, shifting and changing as the olive boughs wave, and their tender leaves turning now their silver breasts and now their green backs to the breeze, shimmer in the light; while the carpet of grass is spread underneath, dotted over with violet and anemone; and the distance is dark, shut out by the thicket of trees, and the background of shrubs, and banks, and hill. As the road proceeds, it again passes under another railway bridge, the trains over which whistle and whirl on, scaring the passers-by, and breaking incongruously on the quiet of the scene, as if winged demons had escaped and in a state of fright rushed in hot and fiery to disturb the tranquillity of the land and break its peace. Then walled gardens are passed, closely planted with orange trees, laden in bunches with their tempting fruit. Still keeping on this rustic road amidst more olive trees, we at last arrive upon an open part, and behold a church of curious design on the one hand, and the blue Mediterranean on the other, and before us the avenue along the margin of the promontory. Here it had unhappily been intended to have built a town, and as a commencement three villas have been erected; but the situation is not only too distant from Mentone, but is on the wrong side of the hill, seeing the sun leaves it in cold shade soon after noon; and thus, though commanding a splendid view all along the coast eastward, they have not found favour, and stand silent and all but deserted. Beyond these villas, and at the entrance to the wooded hill, the carcass of an unfinished Roman arch, intended no doubt as a grand portal to the projected new town, spans the road, which, proceeding by the border of the promontory, and overhanging it, looks down through the trees and rocks to the lovely sea sporting about in little pools, or surging and breaking on its natural bulwarks, while the slopes of the hill above on the right hand side are densely overspread with wood. At the end of the avenue, where the shelter of the hill terminates, the strength and usual lie of the wind are manifested in the bent and twisted forms of the trees, most of which are inclined, curved, or in some cases doubled down, as if bowing in lowly obeisance towards Mentone in the north-east, the south-west winds blowing fiercely across the ocean when they come. The walks through the forest and up to the semaphore on the top are charming, and make Cape Martin one of the most enjoyable of the easy excursions from Mentone, so that the visitors have great cause to congratulate themselves that the building speculation came to nought. If building be ever resumed, it is to be hoped the forest will be spared to the public, and that any houses will be placed on the west or sunny side; although it would be a mistake there too, as it is wholly without shelter from the west. It is not unusual for large parties to come to picnic in the woods and enjoy the scene, bringing their lunch with them. Some houses were commenced on a level plateau at the point, one of them suspiciously like an incipient restaurant, but, no doubt, being found to be too much exposed, were abandoned, and what little was put up is now going to wreck and ruin. It is to be hoped that Cape Martin will never be desecrated by any such concern in the future. Here, at and round the point, the land is surrounded by a belting of rocks and sharp pinnacles, worn so by the breaking of the waves, and upon these pinnacles the sea is continually breaking. In stormy weather, it is beautiful to observe the waves rolling in and striking the rocks with great violence, and dashing high into the air, shivering into millions of shining particles, forming spray, which spreads and scatters in brilliant showers all round. Nor is it less beautiful, when the breeze is gentle, to watch the waves rolling majestically in, the hot sun shining through the long well-dressed line as if it were through purest glass of the brightest sea-green, and then to observe the rearing crests tumbling grandly over as they charge to the death and deliver themselves one after another on the rocky beach, which with a calm steadiness receives the shock.
From Cape Martin fine views are had of Monte Carlo, Monaco, with the more distant Antibes, and even the Estrelles; while north-eastward, as if in long white robes, the young Mentone lies nestling or cradled in at the foot of the high range of mountains which, like gigantic Titans, in mute serenity hang over, and watch and guard with placid pride the smiling, sleepy little town to which they have given birth. With scenery so romantic, the point of the cape has become a very favourite haunt of the artist. It is seldom a visit is paid to it in which, if the weather be fine (for in cold weather one cannot sit long), persons are not to be seen taking sketches or elaborating more finished pictures, for which a capital foreground is furnished by the bent and distorted trees.
But it would be endless to describe or even to enumerate all the many walks and excursions which are possible from Mentone. These are principally from the western side; but we had occasionally walks in the other direction. I have already mentioned the walk to the gorge of St. Louis. There is another walk which we sometimes had to the rocks below and beyond the gorge, called ‘Les Rochers rouges’ from their red colour. These derive a peculiar interest from their containing certain caves or fissures in the rock, disclosed or opened up by the formation of the railway, out of one of which was exhumed the skeleton, or what is called the fossil skeleton, of a man. This, of course, is held up as evidencing the existence of man anterior to the creation of Adam, by those who believe in the existence of Preadamites. The skeleton is in Paris, and I have seen neither it nor the brochure of Dr. Rivière describing the discovery; but I noticed that the sides of the cave—as it at present stands, after the excavations for the railway—are not more than 20 feet apart at the bottom, the cave extending probably 40 feet inward, and about 50 or 60 feet high; but these eye measurements are sometimes deceptive. It is of very soft limestone, and in other parts of the rocks there are huge stalactites depending. It may therefore be very safely said that stalactite would at an early period form with great rapidity, and speedily cover up what the cave contained. I was informed, however, that the skeleton was found about 9 feet below the surface, in the midst of debris. In these caves, and elsewhere round about, many flint implements have been found, and some of them are collected in the Natural History Museum in the Hotel de Ville at Mentone. The workmen finding them sell them to strangers for a few pence.
Dr. Bennet’s and Mr. Hanbury’s gardens both lie in this direction—Dr. Bennet’s, on the rocks above the Italian douane station; Mr. Hanbury’s, about a mile and a half farther on the road to Ventimiglia. They may properly be called hanging gardens, and are not laid out as gardens are with ourselves. Many tropical plants are growing in them in the open air.
Our best excursion in this direction was that to the top of Belinda. We started on 31st January 1877, a party of eleven, with six donkeys. The walkers drove to Pont St. Louis, where they were overtaken by those on donkeys. All then proceeded a little beyond the bridge and the station of the Italian douane, and ascended by very steep paths to the village of Grimaldi, about 700 feet above the sea, on the slope or shoulder of Belinda, and seen from Mentone picturesquely buried among the olive trees. This is another of those curious old towns with the usual appendage of a church and spire. The slope on which it is built is all but perpendicular, so that house rises over house, and the back base of a house is greatly higher than the front. Clovelly in North Devon is nothing to it. Roads are impossibilities. There are no streets, only narrow paths, or at best donkey tracks, through it. By one of these paths, winding upward, we were led to a point right above the gorge of St. Louis. From this dizzy height, the party, halting, looked down upon the precipitous yawning gulf below, and then across the bay towards Mentone, and upward towards the mountains, which this new position threw into shapes different from any observable from other points. Having taken in this striking view, we are urged to proceed by a very rough path, some parts of which are so uncommonly steep that those riding were compelled to dismount from their donkeys, and manage the ascent, like the others, as best they could; and so, alternately scrambling up pretty nearly perpendicular parts, and alternately winding up and jogging on by gentle ascents, where the donkeys were remounted, and through a forest of young trees, we, in about two hours and a half from the time of leaving the hotel, inclusive of a halt of half an hour at Grimaldi, attained the top of Belinda.
PROMENADE DU MIDI,
MENTONE.
This mountain is, as already stated, 1702 feet high, and the view from the top of it is very extensive. We fancied we saw westward along the French coast, beyond the Estrelles, as far as the Îles d’Or off Hyères. If so, this would be a distance of fully ninety miles. On the east side, we could not see along the Italian coast beyond Bordighera, as the mountains rise and shut out further view in that direction. The huge rocky Berceau towered up in close proximity, to the north; and behind it, away to the eastward, we saw the tops of the snowy Maritime Alps peering up in magnificent white drapery; while between them and the coast lay a peculiar species of high, barren, bleak, desolate-looking mountains, intersected by wild and bare river courses; and more immediately below us, portions of the ramparts of Ventimiglia; and beyond, the long arm of Bordighera, appearing, from this point of view, stunted and different from its aspect at Mentone. The wind was blowing piercingly cold from the north-east at the top, so that we could not gaze at the scene in this direction above a few minutes; but just below the top, on the western slope, we found shelter and sun warmth, and enjoyed our lunch and the splendid prospect. On returning, we descended by a different path, which in many parts might well be termed a mauvais pas. It was often so bad and so precipitous that the riders, in dread of their necks, were soon obliged to leave their saddles and walk. At last we reached the Corniche road, near to Mr. Hanbury’s garden, and by this road returned home. From the heights we had seen a cloud of dust hanging over the road to Mentone, in consequence of the wind having risen to a gale. We now were under the necessity of encountering this dust, and, barring the chill blast on the hill-top, it formed the only obstacle to a thorough enjoyment of this most delightful excursion, which occupied altogether between seven and eight hours.