In Foreign Parts
Cycle Tour Through the Riviera

In Foreign Parts.

Cycle Tour Through the Riviera.

(By H. and F. Rieck, of Coff’s Harbour.)

Mentone (Riviera, Possente),
December, 1907.

During October till the middle of November last, great devastations were caused in many parts of Europe, especially in Italy, by hurricanes, waterspouts, earthquakes, earthslips, etc. As reported in our last letter to this paper, relating our cycle tour through the Alps, South Tyrol, and through the Lombardian Plains, extraordinary high temperature, terrible drought, and dust storms prevailed a few weeks before the rain torrents came down. We were very fortunate indeed to find, during these continuous downpours, the fishing town of Cornigliano, near the great seaport of Genoa, a pleasant, comfortable, high and dry place of residence. During seven weeks the storm raged, and caused the usually calm and quiet Mediterranean Sea to throw her breakers up to the rocks below our balcony, so high that sometimes the white froth splashed up to our windows. At last the full moon seemed to disperse the black clouds, and a steady eastern breeze dried soon the roads and pathways, which, during the latter weeks, were in a fearful state. Now, as the elements were quiet again, and the sky had managed to regain its usual dark blue and friendly aspect, we set to work to prepare and pack our touring wheels for our long journey along one of the most beautiful and interesting routes in Europe.

Italian and French Riviera.

Leaving Cornigliano at 7 a.m., a few minutes ride brought us to the thriving factory town of Sestri, with its hundreds of chimney stacks. Even here in Southern Europe the days in winter time (December) are very short; therefore, we were obliged to start early, while a thick mist rested over land and sea, but with one stroke the rising sun cleared sky, sea, and the whole landscape. Joyfully we spin along towards south-west, where the snow covered tops of the Gavoyau Alps far away towered high over the green heights of the Appenine Mountains. As noted in our last report, this highly beautiful coast country on the Mediterranean Sea resembles in many points our own home near Coff’s Harbour; but here on the European Riviera history and a long time of civilisation have left their traces.

In the thriving factory town of Sestri, hundreds of chimney stacks cause the air to be thick with smoke. The roads, owing to the mountain chain running parallel with, and sometimes directly into, the sea, are almost impassable through the great number of horse, ass, and mule carts, omnibuses, electric trams, and motor and other carriages moving along the twenty or more feet high blasted cuttings and tunnels through the solid rocks. Sestri is an important place for trade, but no one would desire to live there unless obliged for the sake of business.

Between Sestri and Pegli we observed some magnificent country seats, ancient palaces with grand old parks and gardens, which could not hide their charms, as is usually done in the whole of Italy, France and England, by the erection of high, rough garden walls. Here such walls could not hide this splendour, as the whole landscape lays in terraces, and gentle mountain slopes open to the eyes of the world. Here these old aristocratic seats, which in the past embraced the whole of the lands as feudal properties, appear in modern times to dwindle away before the spreading manufactories and overflowing population. The most beautiful of all villas hereabout is at Pegli, and is kept open to the public. These charming castles, parks and gardens, and much landed property, belong to the princely old Italian family Palavincini, a member of which was accidentally killed not long ago, together with other persons, at the automobile races between the towns of Brescia and Milan.

The little town of Pegli, situated in a warm, pretty bay, is very much patronised in winter by foreigners from the colder parts of Europe, and it is a bathing place for the Italians from the dry, hot inland parts in summer. Here remain many pretty residences, some small and grand, and scarcely any factory chimney stacks met our gaze. But between Pegli and Voltri, the next town, we saw, to our great astonishment, as wood of any kind is enormously dear, several shipbuilding yards, where about twenty very large craft, apparently coal barges, of solid oak hardwood, were in all stages of construction. Voltri is a somewhat bigger and busier town than pretty little Pegli. It has more back country. A very broad, but at present almost dry, creek opens out of a broad valley, which contains, besides low flat grass meadows, some ploughed agricultural lands, a very rare occurrence on this coast. The gentle mountain slopes are lovely and almost all laid out in terraces, the steep parts being firmly secured by stone walls. Olive and citrus trees, fruit trees, such as figs, peaches, apricots, Japanese plums, and trellises of vine, are planted at wide intervals, and between and underneath them are cultivated all sorts of vegetables. Flowers of many kinds are grown in large fields. The gardens here are cultivated with great care, not so much to please the cultivator by their scent and beauty as for profit. The products are sent wholesale during the winter months to the cold parts of Europe north of the Alps, and bring a good profit.

It is a fact that everywhere in Italy and South France, besides silkworm culture and silk factory, the cultivation of olive trees and the manufactory of olive oil is of very great importance. On dry, hot, stony mountain slopes, where any kind of cultivation seems excluded, stretch extensive groves of these strange trees, barren, crippled looking, crooked, and often near 100 years old. Almost without any expense, they bring rich incomes to their owners. When the tiny, little cherry-like black fruits fall ripe to the ground they are picked up by people, who have rented the right of gathering them, and thus the oil crop, from the owner. We were told the amount of the rent is very high in proportion to the value of the land and cost of tenure and cultivation. The growth of young olive trees is very slow, and consequently it is the general opinion in these parts that “Olive planting makes fathers and grandfathers poor, but sons and grandsons rich.” Olive oil is that sort of delicious oil in which everywhere sardines are packed. Italians and others accustomed to using olive oil in frying, baking, etc., prefer it to butter. We have seen here endless numbers of enormous casks of olive oil being transported on drays towards the big Italian steamers bound for Argentine and other ports of South America and West India; also enormous shipments of wine, raisins, figs, conserved tomatoes, etc., to all parts of the earth. Also, immense numbers of people from all parts of Italy, France, Spain, the African Coast, Syria, and other parts of Asia Minor, are leaving the port of Genoa by big Italian ocean steamers, closely packed, like swarms of bees, for South America, etc., etc. Genoa seems to be glad to get rid of such elements.

South of Voltri runs a long, steep headland far out into the sea. The railway line, which hitherto always kept with us along the high road close to the sea shore, now left us, and crept straight through the tunnel into a precipitous rocky wall; while our road, rather steep, leads through a very interesting landscape full of waterfalls, mills and manufactories. After a hard uphill journey we reached the height, and had a splendid view. A smart east wind blew us on our wheels with great rapidity down many curves in a splendid long run towards the sea beach, and eventually we reached the small but neat and clean seaside town of Savona. It is similar to Voltri, but larger. It is situated on both sides of a broad but unnavigable river. As a back country there is a large valley, which creates for the seaport a brisk traffic. Savona has a fine breakwater, behind which a little fleet of tug and passenger steamers, sailing crafts, barges, fisher and freight shebacks, laid at anchor. Our course led us along a beautiful terraced slope full of wine and olive groves. We saw large plantations of oranges, lemons, and other kinds of the citrus trees here, covered with flowers and buds, green and full-ripe fruits, growing in the open air, and not protected as on the Garda Lake (described in previous articles) with large glass windows, etc. The citrus trees here look more healthy than in many parts of Australia, for they do not suffer from aphis and scales. This may be due to the nightly frosts over here. Under the verandah of a clean and cosy little wayside inn we took a light lunch, and got also for 60 centesimi a litre of very excellent wine, of such perfect quality as we had never drank before. It is known as Asti, a world-renowned wine, which grows in this district. About ten miles south-west of Savona, in the town of Noli, we found good night quarters. In this extreme European winter time, where the days are very short, with our heavily packed wheels we made in a slow and comfortable speed a tour of about 70 miles, and it was 7 o’clock when we rested beneath the wine-clad roof of the verandah of the hotel.

On the next morning, after crossing an extra long, steep and barren mountain, we ran down into the fine little shipping port of San Maurizio, a harbour with considerably more shipping than Savona. There we saw coal stacks enough to stock a much more important place. Port Maurizio is a strongly fortified place, is mostly built on the heights of the mountains, the tops of which are crowned by military strongholds, like Genoa. Directly after passing the high, bleak promontory on the way to Port Maurizio, we noticed a decided change in the vegetation. The whole country is sheltered against the N.E., and faces the full sun from the south. From here towards the south the most tender sub-tropical plants, except bananas, are cultivated without artificial shelter, and from here towards the south-west we saw peas and beans in blossom, also fine eucalyptus trees, and wattle in bloom, whose delicious perfume reminded us of our home in the Northern Riviera of N.S. Wales. Next we reached San Remo, celebrated and beautiful, not by nature alone, but also by high art. After admiring the numerous palaces, villas, hotels and parks, we sought out the Royal castle, called Villa Zirio, where the late much-lamented German Emperor, Frederick III., father of the present Emperor William II., suffered and died. It is a large, simple, but massive white building, surrounded by a garden and park. A large bronze tablet on the enclosure wall bears a memorial inscription—“This tablet has been erected to the memory of their Emperor by German veteran soldiers, who fought under his banner in 1864, ’66, and ’70-’71.” We descended from our cycles and had a quiet rest on a stool opposite this tablet. Afterwards we rode on through the fine, broad streets very cautiously, for the traffic was rather dangerous through the many automobiles. Our road took us again across a high headland to the quiet little village of Aspedaletto, where we secured our night’s rest. The following morning brought us to Bordighera, beautifully situated between gardens, palm groves, and wine and flower plantations. This place could rightly be called the

Winter Garden of Europe,

for the wholesale firm of Ludwig Winter sends from here Christmas requisites, palms, dracaenas, yukkas—flowers of all descriptions, not only during winter seasons all over Europe, but also to trans-Atlantic parts. From this firm, gardeners, seedsmen and nursery firms in South America, Africa, Australia, and even China and Japan import. Olive trees, all sorts of other fruit and ornamental trees and shrubs, seeds in all states of germination, are carefully preserved and packed. These products are grown and nursed by a great number of competent gardeners in several gardens and plantations, which we visited, and which reminded us of the Royal English Gardens at Kew, near London. We had the pleasure of visiting Mr. Winter, who received us very cordially. Besides being a thorough theoretical and practical botanist and gardener, Mr. L. Winter is a very able business man. Besides superintending all his enormous plantations, etc., he is the managing chief of a large office wherein a large number of young clerks are employed as bookkeepers and correspondents in not less than six different languages.

The next town was Ventimiglia, the last Italian place close to the boundary of France. As we were not this year members of any cycling club it took us several hours to get our wheels through the Customs. Then we had to cross another promontory before arriving at Mentone, with its broad electrically lit and beautifully decorated esplanade. On wheels without lights, we arrived amongst an elegant French-speaking society crowd, promenading on the esplanade along the sea; but the sight of the uniforms of French police (sergeants de ville) made us speedily jump off our bikes and direct our steps towards the friendly protecting shelter of the Hotel de France. The old Italian name, Mentone, is now changed. The town, together with the Savoyan territory, of which the town of Nizza is the capital, was, through the peace of Villafranca (1859), as compensation for the help of the French Army against Austria ceded to the then French Emperor, Napoleon III., and called further on Menton. Close to Menton, where we stayed two weeks, is the independent territory of the Prince of Monaco, who, as is widely known, and to the dishonour of Europe, is suffered to rent to a company the right “to keep in his principality” public gambling tables. This “gambling hell” brings to the Prince several millions of francs yearly, and is the centre of a mass of brilliant palaces, gorgeous drapery and jewellery shops, arcades, restaurants, hotels, promenades, gardens, parks, etc., etc., called Monte Carlo. This place is so frequently described all over the world, in brilliant and alluring colours, that it would have been prudery and pedantry on our part, especially as we were residing so very comfortably near, to refuse to see it—especially after having, on our long journeys in Europe, seen so many superior sights. Churches, cloisters, castles, theatres, operas, museums, picture and sculpture galleries, luxurious gardens, parks, towns, villages, forests and fields, mountains, lakes and oceans, etc., had been visited, and so we could not neglect to step for a moment into this comparatively small piece of—hell!

We went by electric tram, in company with two very respectable Hollandish ladies (mother and daughter), to Monte Carlo. After a very strict inspection of our passport and personal attire, also after inquiry into our independent worldly position and purchasing powers, we received a certificate giving us right of entry, and had therewith the liberty of free and undisturbed use to visit, and free of any pay, tip or any obligation, and to play on the gambling tables, all the many saloons, gardens, concert halls, reading and conversation cabinets, which are all arranged in a luxurious and artistic style. In several enormous halls are placed very many large billiard-shaped tables, covered with green cloth, upon which the roulette or card game is kept going. All these tables are closely surrounded by elegantly dressed crowds of strange-faced people of all ages and sexes. We hear the languages of different nationalities, but mostly French spoken in a soft murmur. The expression on the faces of the players seemed to us to more or less display a kind of madness. Perhaps the strange scents, or a feeling of disgust at being allowed to witness these scenes and to use all these expensive arrangements without any payment on my side, caused me a certain feeling of disgust. Neither my wife nor I would have any obligation towards the arrangeurs of this gambling hell. Perhaps I might be able, in paying my share, to break and smash this wicked gambling bank. Perhaps this was my noble intention, so as to get rewarded for such a brave act by carrying a few millions away in my pockets. Therefore I put upon four figures of the table—Nos. 2, 3, 4 and 5—one five-franc piece. A few minutes later and the croupier, with his little wooden rake with a long handle, had this silver coin scraped away. It was lost, together with a deluge of other silver, gold and notes. I did not break this hellish bank, but the institute of evil-doers had luckily also not the power to break me, for I turned my back to the table, and we went out together to have a good look at the gorgeous flower gardens and parks of exotic trees and shrubs, in the shelter of which, last year, men and women to the number of 26 had ended their lives by suicide. It was with very mixed feelings that we returned to our peaceful quarters in Menton.

Many roads lead from Menton into the valleys of the neighbouring Savoy mountains. With our cycles we would not be able to go far in this direction; but as we were pretty tough pedestrians, we made walking tours and saw many interesting sights. Among these were many evolutions and strategic movements executed by a new kind of French mountain tirailleurs. Like the Boers in the Transvaal war, these riflemen move about and are clad and equipped quite unlike the usual French infantry. I have a notion that these French mountain riflemen could be, not only in their dress, but mainly in their manoeuvring, a pattern for our Australian Mounted Rifles. These Savoyards wear no helmets, shakos, etc., but a very broad, plate-formed Tam-o’-Shanter-like cap, as worn by the Baskish-Gachu peasantry of these mountains, and a simple coarse strong linen or hempen uniform of a colour like the rocks on the mountains. These nimble, tough little Savoyards carry scarcely anything during their manoeuvres, except arms and ammunition. To two or three men belongs a big mule, which carries—besides blankets, tents, provisions, and other luggage—a soldier supposed to be sick or wounded. These big mules possess an extraordinary and goat-like ability for climbing. They live on scanty wayside grass, bush, thistles, etc., and the obstinate, trickish habits of the animals, mountaineers appear able to overcome.