From Tarbes the road climbed a high hill above the city and then flung its marvelous coils through the mountains to Pau, that fashionable English resort where the Pyrenees can be seen marshaling their peaks in such grandeur. The country around Pau looked very English. There were neat villages with high-pitched roofs, spreading trees, and a feeling of repose in the scenery very characteristic of the large English estate. With almost fantastic suddenness, the landscape changed. Peasant houses showed traces of Spanish influence. We saw no horses; plows and country carts were drawn by bullocks. Such fine looking cattle of the Pyrenees, hundreds of them! It seemed at least every few minutes that a new drove crowded in confusion down the road or across it, and made it very difficult for us to get through. There were many bulls. One hears so many exciting tales about the savage bulls of the Pyrenees that we were prepared for an attack at almost any time.

If any one would like to make sure of having an eventful experience, we suggest that he motor through the Pyrenees in a red car. Other motor cars kept the dust clouds flying. At one railway crossing we counted ten automobiles waiting for the bar to be lifted.

A score of hungry motorists were lunching in the village inn of Orthez when we arrived. One of them, a Frenchman, told us by all means to see the curious fortified bridge that crosses the Gave in this village. "C'est trÈs curieux. C'est quelque chose À voir!" The ruin, with the high stone tower in the middle of the bridge, is a thrilling relic of the religious wars. One can see the tower window through which the unfortunate priests and friars were forced by the Protestants to leap into the rapid stream. Those who breasted the strong current were killed as they climbed out on the banks.

Bayonne was calling us. Our speedometer registered the kilometers so quickly that there were fully two hours of daylight to spare when we crossed the long bridge over the Adour in search of the Grand HÔtel. One street led us astray, and then another, until we were in the suburbs before discovering our mistake. It was a fortunate mistake, for we were here favored with a view of the fortifications of Bayonne and the ivy-covered ruin of Marrac, the chÂteau where Napoleon met the Spanish king Ferdinand and compelled him to renounce the throne in favor of his brother Joseph. It is one of the strange turnings of history that the same city where Joseph was proclaimed King of Spain should have witnessed, six years later, the downfall of his hopes.

Our return search was more successful. We found the Grand HÔtel, and then were half sorry that we had found it. The hotel was crowded, the only chambre placed at our disposal not large enough for two people. An extra cot had been put in to meet the emergency. The room was gloomy, and opened on a stuffy little court. Many repairs were under way, so that the appearance of the hotel was far from being at its best. Had it not been raining heavily we would have gone on to Biarritz; but the torrents were descending. For one night we submitted to the inevitable and to the inconvenience of our cramped quarters. On descending, we noticed other tourists still arriving. Possibly these new victims were stowed away in the elevator or in the garage.

Our stay in Bayonne was, under the circumstances, not long, but long enough for us to become acquainted with the jambon delicieux and the bonbons for which the city is so well known. After paying our compte, including a garage charge of two francs,—the first which we had paid since leaving ChambÉry,—we covered the few remaining kilometers to Biarritz, stopping en route to pick up ten liters of gasoline in order to avoid the more extravagant prices of that playground for Europe's royalty and aristocracy. The choicest feature of our rooms at the HÔtel Victoria was the splendid outlook upon the Atlantic and its ever-changing panorama of sky and sea. The Spanish season was in full swing. There is always a season in the golden curve of Biarritz's sunny sands. The Spanish invasion during the hot summer months is followed by that of the French, when Parisian beauties promenade in all the voluptuous array of costly toilettes. For a couple of months, Paris ceases to be the proud capital of French animation and gayety. During the winter, the place takes on the appearance of an English colony; and the Russian royal family has made spring a fashionable time for the invasion from that country.

The charm of Biarritz is irresistible. It is easy to see why Napoleon III made it the seat of his summer court and built the Villa EugÉnie, which has since become the HÔtel du Palais. If one searched the whole coast line of Europe, it would be hard to find a spot so rich in natural beauty. The sea has such wide horizons; no matter how calm the weather, the snowy surges are always rolling on the Grande Plage. Other smaller beaches alternate with rugged, rocky promontories. The coast line is very irregular, full of arcades, caverns, and grottoes. At sunset, when the wind falls and the air is clear, the coast of Spain appears, the mountains respond to the western glow, and the low cadence of the waves makes the scene too wonderful for words.

We always looked forward to the morning plunge into the cool breakers. Eleven o'clock was the popular hour. Then the Plage was covered with brilliant tent umbrellas. There were the shouts of the bathers as the green, foaming combers swept over them. The beach was a kaleidoscope of color and animation. Dark-eyed seÑoritas, carrying brightly colored parasols and robed in the latest and most original French toilettes, walked along the shore. The Spanish women are very fond of dress, and especially of anything that comes from Paris. Often the breeze would sweep aside their veils of black silk, and show their powder-whitened faces. French girls, daintily gowned and with complexions just as "artistic," were busy with delicate embroidery. There were Basque nursemaids whose somber black-and-white checkerboard costumes contrasted with the latest styles from the gay metropolis. All types were there, from the portly German who adjusted his monocle before wading into the frothy brine, to the contemplative Englishman who smoked his pipe while watching the animated scenes around him. Where will one find a more cosmopolitan glimpse of fashionable Europe in the enjoyment of a summer holiday! After the plunge comes the drying off on the warm sands, or the walk, barefooted and in bathrobe, along the Plage; then lunch in the casino restaurant above the sea, while an Italian orchestra plays music that one likes to hear by the ocean. For our tasse de cafÉ we would choose one of the cafÉs along the crowded avenue Bellevue. What a display of wealth and fine motor cars!

The Grande Plage at Biarritz

Copyright by Underwood & Underwood