The Road to the Riviera

OF all the thousands of people who annually flock to the Riviera, how many know anything of the country through

which they pass ? The dining saloon of the Blue Train, and next morning, the dazzling whiteness of the Hotel Negresco, are the limit of their impressions. And yet the pleasant land of France, with all its lovely ways, lies at their feet.

The best way to see France is by motor. Although the roads are not all they might be, the inns and feeding are excellent. And since straight roads are always the dullest and in France frequently the worst, what matter if it takes seven days instead of two to reach the Mediterranean ? Besides, sooner or later, all roads lead to the Riviera.

The best-known route is by Paris—Dijon—Lyon—Avignon. Since the War, however, the Lyon—Avignon strip has steadily deteriorated, so it is best avoided.

Then there is the western road through Normandy, so strangely home-like to us English. The motorist can follow the sea by Brittany and the Cole des Basques, then turn eastward through the legend-land of Tarascoh, Nimes and Carcassonne.

Or—and this is the best way of all—he can take the middle route, the Royal Road to Tours. Thence, through Burgundy to Grenoble, with a final swing down the Route des Alpes.

To know France one must have seen Touraine, for this is the very heart of France. Here, not only is the purest French spoken, but in the low woods pricked by turrets of stately chateaux, in the wide sky and placid-flowing river, in all the soft, gay light of Touraine, there is that feeling of effortless harmony which belongs only to an ancient people.

And the time to see Touraine is early autumn. In October the beech woods hang gold above the river and the first faint frosts have coloured the vineyards. Men, women and boys, all are busy gathering grapes. Even the dogs are called in, and one meets them along the roads dragging little carts crammed with fruit.

From Tours, a quiet little road beside the Cher leads to Chenonceaux. Of all the Loire Chateaux, Chenonceaux is the most lovable. Unlike Chaumont or Chambord, it does not seek to impose itself. Hidden among trees, it dreams and muses by its quiet liver, and instantly one loves it.

Presented by Henry H as a love-gift to Diane de Poitiers, the history of Chenonceaux has ever remained aloof from politics. Its memories are sentimental and intimate. Here it was that Mary Queen of Scots spent her first honeymoon. Here also, more than a century later, Jean-Jacques Rousseau passed a pleasant summer, remarking that " the living was of the best and I grew as fat as a monk."

There is a happy, lived-in feeling about Chenonceaux (it is now the property of M. Menier, the chocolate maker) utterly different from the stricken magnificence of Blois and Amboise. Perhaps it is the loggia effect of a long gallery thrown across the Cher, or it may be because of its garden, a green river-garden, that Chenonceaux is so immediately intimate. Grass lawns, without too many statues, run down to the water's edge. Clumps of dahlias, tawny-orange and scarlet, lighten the clipped hedges. An old gardener in a wide-brimmed sun-hat gently rakes a path. Blackbirds whistle in the thickets. The secret is suddenly plain- Chenonceaux is lovable because it is alive From Chenonceaux the road—a long French road flanked by poplars, like tranquil golden torches—returns to the Loire. For many miles road and river run side by side. Once more one is struck by the immense plenty of this river country. All Touraine seems like a plain with a great silver " S," which is the Loire, shining through it. And the peace which belongs to a great river inevitably clings to the country too.

Southwards, through Burgundy, a change steals over the landscape. Undulating slopes and fat clumps of sycamore replace the plains and poplars of Northern France. Horses and dairy cows graze in the pastures. That intense atmo- sphere of rurality so characteristic of France has momen- tarily disappeared. From a peasant's landscape the country has gradually merged into a prospect for seigneurs.

Another striking feature is the extraordinarily fine physique of the peasants.' Taller than the average Englishman, the men are hardy and well made. The women, of almost Saxon fairness sometimes, are apple checked and robust. Everybody looks happy and healthy. Nobody wears that tired, strained look so pitiably evident in England. One seldom meets a hollow cheeked Frenchman. Perhaps French cooking is re- sponsible for these happy faces !

Then there is the silence of France. Silence, but for the hum of " Tranquil "—our car. Here one can motor a whole day through an almost empty country. Wide fields, beautifully tilled, stretch to the sky line. Occasionally, on the horizon, a horse and harrow is seen, but never a sign of farm or hamlet. To our eyes, accustomed to the clustering villages of England, Central France seems prac- tically uninhabited. - At Grenoble, where the snow line of the Alps glitters above the town, abruptly the country changes. Roads become whiter, people swarthier. Cream coloured " boeufs " plod before the plough. The mountains are musical with goat- bells.

For nearly two hundred kilometres the road climbs steadily, now hundreds of feet above the leaping Durance, now winding through woods aflame with maple, again crossing open slopes crimson with " feuille morte."

At Digne the traveller gets his first taste of " givre des Alpes " ; nor knows till later that the succulent bird he enjoyed at dejetmer was a song thrush Still flying south, downhill now, we slide by Grasse, where the slopes are terraced in lavender and the very air tastes of flowers. On, still' on; while the wind, which has become sud- denly warm, is fragrant with mountain thyme, and oranges glow in the gardens. Round a last bend and—behold! But a few kilometres below shine the white houses of Nice. Beyond, east and west, stretches the great blue glitter of the Medi- terranean !

EVELYN BARRETT.