Our three summer pilgrimages in Britain have left few unexplored corners in the tight little island—we are thinking of new worlds to conquer. Beyond the narrow channel the green hills of France offer the nearest and most attractive field. Certainly it is the most accessible of foreign countries for the motorist in England and every year increasing numbers of English-speaking tourists are seen in the neighboring republic. The service of the Royal Automobile Club, with its usual enterprise and thoroughness, leaves little to be desired in arranging the details of a trip and supplies complete information as to route. An associate membership was accorded me on behalf of the Automobile Club of America, whose card I presented and which serves an American many useful ends in European motordom. Mr. Maroney, the genial touring secretary, at once interested himself in our proposed tour. He undertook to outline “Still,” said Mr. Maroney with characteristic British caution, “we would feel better satisfied with one of our own men on the job; but it is the best we can do for you under the circumstances.” We learned that our guide was a young Englishman of good family, at present in somewhat straitened circumstances, which made him willing to accept any position for which his talents might fit him. He had previously piloted motor parties through France and Italy and spoke four languages with perfect fluency. He had done a lot of knocking about, having recently been in a shipwreck off It is a fine May afternoon when we drive from London to Folkestone to be on hand in time to attend to the formalities for crossing the Channel on the following day. Police traps, we are warned, abound along the road and we proceed quite soberly, taking some four hours for the seventy-five miles including the slow work of getting out of London. The Royal Pavilion Hotel on low ground near the docks is strictly first-class and its rates prove more moderate than we found at its competitors on the cliff. Our car is left at the dock, arrangements for its transport having been made beforehand by the Royal Automobile Club; but we saunter down in “She’s an airship now,” said an old salt as the car reached its highest point. “We did fetch over a sure-enough airship last week—belonged to that fellow Paulhan and he’s a decentish chap, too; you’d never think he was a Frenchman!”—which would seem to indicate that the entente cordiale had not entirely cleared away prejudice from the mind of our sailor-friend. Our crossing was as comfortable as any Channel crossing could be—which in our case is not saying much, for that green, rushing streak of salt water, the English Channel, always gives us a squeamish feeling, no matter how “smooth” it may be. We are only too glad to get on terra firma in Boulogne and to see our car almost immediately swung to the dock. I had read in a recently published book by a motor tourist of the dreadful ordeal he underwent in securing his license to drive; a stern official sat beside him and put him through all his paces to ascertain if he was competent to pilot a car in “But the examination ‘pour competence,’” I said. “O,” he replied, “I just explained to his nobs that we were in a great hurry and couldn’t wait for an examination—and a five-franc piece did the rest.” A piece of diplomacy which no doubt left the honest official feeling happier than if I had given him a joy-ride over the cobbles of Boulogne. Filling our tank with “essence,” which we learn, after translating some jargon concerning “litres” and “francs,” will cost about thirty-five cents per gallon—we strike out on the road to Montreuil. It proves a typical French highway and our first impressions are confirmed later on. The road is broad, with perfect contour and easy grades, running straight away for miles—or should I say kilometers?—and showing every evidence of engineering skill and careful construction. But it is old-fashioned macadam without any binding material. The motor car has torn up the surface and scattered it in loose dust which rises in clouds from our wheels or has been A few miles beyond Montreuil the Captain steers us into a narrow byroad which leads into the quaint little fisher town of Berck-sur-Mer and, indeed, the much-abused “quaint” is not misapplied here. The old buildings straggle along the single street, quite devoid of any touch of the picturesque and thronged Swinging back into the main highway, we soon reach Abbeville, whose roughly paved streets wind between bare, unattractive buildings. In places malodorous streams run along the streets—practically open sewers, if the smell is any indication. Abbeville affords an example of the terrible cobblestone pavement that we found in nearly all French cities of the second class. The round, uneven stones—in the States we call them “niggerheads”—have probably lain undisturbed for centuries. Besides the natural roughness of such a pavement, there are numerous chuck-holes. No matter how slowly we drive, we bounce and jump over these stones, which strike the tires with sledge-hammer force, sending Out of Abbeville we “hit up” pretty strongly, for it is nearly dark and we plan to reach Rouen for the night. The straight fine road offers temptation to speed, under the circumstances, and our odometer does not vary much from forty miles—when we are suddenly treated to a surprise that makes us more cautious about speeding on French roads at dusk. In a little hollow we strike a ditch six inches deep by two or three feet in width—a “canivau,” as they designate it in France—with a terrific jolt which almost threatens the car with destruction. The frame strikes the axles with fearful force; it seems impossible that nothing should be broken. A careful search fails to reveal any apparent damage, though a fractured axle-rod a short time later is undoubtedly a result of the violent blow. It seems strange that an important main road should have such a dangerous defect, though we find many similar cases later; but as we travel no more after dusk, and generally at much more moderate speed, we have no further mishap of the kind. We light our lamps and proceed at a more sober pace to Neufchatel, where we decide to stop for the night There is nothing of interest in Neufchatel, though its cheese has given it a world-wide fame. It is a market town of four or five thousand people, depending largely on the prosperous country surrounding it. We are early away for Rouen and in course of an hour we come in sight of the cathedral spire, the highest in all France, rising nearly five hundred feet and overtopping Salisbury, the loftiest in England, by almost one hundred feet. At the Captain’s recommendation we seek the Hotel Angleterre—which means the Hotel England—a bid, no doubt, for the patronage of the numerous English-speaking tourists who visit the city. There is a deal of dickering before we get settled, for the rates are One could not “do” Rouen in the guide-book sense in less than a week—but such is not the object of our present tour. If one brings a motor to France he can hardly afford to let it stand idle to spend several days in any city. We shall see what we can of Rouen in a day and take the road again in the morning. Our first thought is of Jeanne d’Arc and her martyrdom in the old city and our second of the cathedral, in some respects one of the most remarkable in Europe. It is but a stone’s throw from our hotel and is consequently our first attraction. The facade is imposing despite its incongruous architectural details and has a world of intricate carving and sculpture, partly concealed by scaffolding, for the church is being restored. The towers flanking the facade are unfinished, both lacking the tall Gothic spire originally planned and, indeed, necessary to give a harmonious effect to the whole. A spire of open iron-work nearly five hundred feet in height replaces the original wooden structure burned by lightning in 1822 and is severely criticised as being Once inside we are overwhelmed by a sense of vastness—the great church is nearly five hundred feet in length, while the transept is a third as wide. The arches of the nave seem almost lost in the dim, softly toned light that streams in from the richly colored windows, some of which date from the twelfth century. If the exterior is incongruous, the interior is indeed a symphony in stone, despite a few jarring notes in the decorations of some of the private chapels. There are many beautiful monuments, mainly to French church dignitaries whom we never heard of and care little about, but the battered gigantic limestone effigy discovered in 1838 is full of fascinating interest, for it represents Richard the Lion-Hearted—the Richard of “Ivanhoe”—whose heart, enclosed in a triple casket of lead, wood and silver, is buried beneath. The figure is nearly seven feet in length and we wonder if this is a true representation of the stature of our childhood’s hero, who, “starred with idle glory, came Bearing from leaguered Ascalon The barren splendour of his fame, And, vanquished by an unknown bow, Lies vainly great at Fontevraud.” Another memorial which interests us is dedicated to LaSalle, the great explorer, who was born in Rouen. He was buried, as every schoolboy knows, in the great river which he discovered, but his memory is cherished by his native city as the man who gave the empire of Louisiana to France. Rouen has at least two other churches of first magnitude—St. Ouen and St. Maclou—but we shall have to content ourselves with a cursory glance at their magnificence. The former is declared to be “one of the most beautiful Gothic churches in existence, surpassing the cathedral both in extent and excellence of style.” Such is the pronouncement of that final authority on such matters, Herr Baedeker! But, after all, is not Rouen best known to the world because of its connection with the strange figure of Jeanne d’Arc? Indeed, her career savors of myth and legend—not the sober fact of history—and it is hard to conceive of the scene that took place around the fatal spot in the Vieux-Marche, now marked with a large stone bearing the inscription, We acknowledge the hopelessness of getting any adequate idea of a city of such antiquity and importance in a day and the Captain says we may as well quit trying. He suggests that we take the tram for Bonsecours, situated on the steep hill towering high over the town from the right bank of the river. Here is a modern Catholic cemetery with many handsome tombs and monuments and, in the center, a recently erected memorial to Joan of Arc. This consists of three little temples in the Renaissance style, the central chapel enclosing a But one will not visit Bonsecours to see the church or the memorial, though both are interesting in their way, but for the unmatched view of the city and the Seine Valley, which good authorities pronounce one of the finest panoramas in Europe. From the memorial the whole city lies spread out like a map—so far beneath that the five-hundred-foot spire of Notre Dame is below the level of our vision. The city, with its splendid spires rising amidst the wilderness of streets and house-roofs, fills the valley near at hand and the broad, shining folds of the Seine, with its old bridges and wooded shores, lends a glorious variety to the scene. The view up and down the river is quite unobstructed, covering a beautiful and prosperous valley bounded on either side by the verdant hills of Normandy. This view alone well repays a visit to Bonsecours, whether one’s stay in Rouen be short or long. Out of Trouville our road still pursues the coast, running through a series of resorts and fishing villages until it swings inland for Caen—a quaint, irregular old place which, next to Rouen, declares Baedeker, is the most interesting city in Normandy. We are sorry that many of its show-places are closed to us, for it is Sunday and the churches are not open to tourist inspection. In St. Stephen’s we might have seen the tomb of William the Conqueror, though his remains no longer rest beneath it, having been disinterred and scattered by the Huguenots in It is Pentecost Sunday and the streets are thronged with young girls in white who have taken part in confirmation services; we have seen others at many places during the day. It is about the only thing to remind us that it is Sunday, for the shops are open, work is going on in the fields, and road-making is in progress; we note little suspension of week-day activities. The peasants whom we see by the roadside and in the little villages are generally very dirty but seem happy and content. The farm houses are usually unattractive, often with filthy surroundings—muck-heaps in front of the doors—not unlike what we saw in some parts of Ireland. The road from Caen to Bayeux runs as straight as an arrow’s flight, broad, level and bordered—as most main roads are in France—by rows of stately trees. We give the motor full rein and the green sunny fields flit joyously past us. What a relief to “open her up” without thought of a policeman behind every bush! Is it any wonder that the oft-trapped Englishman considers France a motorist’s paradise? The spires of Bayeux Cathedral soon rise before us The main road from Bayeux to St. Lo is one of the most glorious highways in France. It runs through an almost unbroken forest of giant trees for a good part of the distance—a little more than twenty miles—and the sunset sky gleaming through the stately trunks relieves the otherwise somber effect. By happy accident we reach St. Lo at nightfall and turn into the courtyard of the Hotel de Univers, a comfortable-looking old house invitingly close to the roadside. I say by happy accident, for we never planned to stop at St. Lo and but “Notre Dame de Saint-Lo has a very unusual and original plan, widening towards the east and adding another aisle to the north and south ambulatories. On the north side is its chief curiosity, an out-door pulpit, built at the end of the fifteenth century and probably used by Huguenot preachers, to whom a sermon was a sermon, whether preached under a vaulted roof or the open sky. What strikes one most about the interior of the church is its want of light. The nave is absolutely unlighted, having neither tri-forium nor clerestory, and the aisles have only one tier of large windows, whose glass is old and very fine, though in most cases pieced together; the nave piers are massive, with a cluster of three shafts; those of the choir are quite simple, and have one noticeable feature, the absence of capitals, the vault mouldings dying away into the pier.” ST. LO FROM THE RIVER We shall remember our hotel as the best type of the small-town French inn—a simple, old-fashioned house where we had attentive service and a studied effort to please was made by all connected with the place. And not the least of its merits are its moderate charges—less than half we paid at many of the larger places, often for less satisfactory accommodations. The new causeway makes Mont St. Michel easily “A lift in Mont St. Michel? It wouldn’t be Mont St. Michel any longer!”—a hint of how carefully the atmosphere of mediaevalism is preserved here. The abbey as it stands to-day is largely the result of an extensive restoration begun by the government in 1863. This accounts for the surprisingly perfect condition of much of the building, and it also confirms the wisdom of the undertaking by which a great service has been rendered to architecture. A rough, stony road takes us to St. Malo and adds considerable wearisome tire trouble to an already strenuous day. We are glad to stop at the Hotel de Univers, even though it is not prepossessing from without. A STREET IN ST. MALO St. Malo’s antiquity and quaintness are its stock in trade, and these, together with its position on a peninsula, with the sea on every hand, make it one of the most popular resorts in France. Steamers from Southampton bring numbers of English visitors—we find no interpreter needed at the hotel. The town is encircled by walls, the greater part recently restored. They are none the less picturesque and the mighty towers at the entrance gateways savor strongly indeed of mediaevalism. In the older part of the town the streets are so narrow and crooked as to exclude motors, the widest not exceeding twenty feet, and there are seldom walks on either side. The houses bordering them show every evidence of There is more rough, badly worn road between St. Malo and Rennes, though in the main it is broad and level. Its effect on tires is indeed disheartening—we have run less than a thousand miles since landing and new envelopes are showing signs of dissolution. Part of the game, no doubt, but it is hard to be cheerful losers in such a game, to say the least. Rennes, we find, has other claims to fame than The road which we follow in leaving the town is the best we have yet traversed in France; it is broad, straight and newly surfaced, and the thirty or more miles to Chateaubriant are rapidly covered. Here we find an ancient town of a few thousand people, and an enormous old castle partly in ruins, a fit match for Conway or Harlech in Britain. Its square-topped, crenelated towers and long embrasured battlements are quite different from the pointed Gothic style of the usual French chateau. Beyond Chateaubriant the road runs broad and straight for miles through a beautiful and prosperous country. Evidently the land is immensely fertile and tilled with the thoroughness that characterizes French agriculture. The small village is the only discordant note. We pass through several all alike, bare, dirty and uninteresting, quite different from the trim, flower-decked beauty of the English village. WOODS IN BRITTANY Angers is a cathedral town of eighty thousand people on the River Maine, two or three miles above its confluence with the Loire. It is of ancient origin, but the French passion for making everything new (according to an English critic) has swept away most of its old-time landmarks save the castle and cathedral. The former was one of the most extensive mediaeval fortresses in all France and is still imposing, despite the fact that several of its original seventeen towers have been razed and its great moat filled up. It is now more massive than picturesque. “It has no beauty, no grace, no detail, nothing to charm or detain you; it is simply very old and very big and it takes its place in your recollections as a perfect specimen of a superannuated feudal stronghold.” The huge bastions, girded with iron bands, and the high perpendicular walls springing out of the dark waters of the moat must have made the castle impregnable against any method of assault before the days of artillery. The castle is easily the most distinctive feature of Angers and the one every visitor should see, though I must confess we failed to visit it. We should also have seen Our Hotel, the Grand, though old, is cleanly and pleasant, with high ceilings and broad corridors which have immense full-length mirrors at every turn. The prices for all this magnificence are quite moderate—largely due, no doubt, to the Captain’s prearrangement with the manager. The service, however, is a little slack, especially at the table. At Angers we are in the edge of the Chateau District, and as my chapter has already run to considerable length, I shall avail myself of this logical stopping place. The story of the French chateaus has filled many a good-sized volume and may well occupy a separate chapter in this rather hurried record. |