Travel
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Where the Autumn Crocuses Grow
To see the Autumn crocuses in their glory, go to Soglio, in Switzerland. There they appear not as wan wraiths, haunting the shadows of an autumnal wood, as in England, but as pools of lilac mist spreading under the Spanish-chestnut trees, galaxies of stars shining on sunny slopes, their frail chalices, delicate and crisp, held up to tempt the mountain bees. It was on a September evening that the motor coach from St. Moritz set us and our baggage down in the village street of Promontogno, to await the " Poste " which was to take us up to Soglio on the heights above. Presently it appeared, a roomy type of gig, drawn by a substantial grey cart-horse, and driven by an equally substantial coachman, with a beam- ing smile and a flow of German conversation. Packed in with our luggage and the mail we were driven up the steep road that zig-zags through woods, and later through open glades and lawns dotted with great sweet-chestnuts. Among the trees were scattered the wide-eaved log huts, where in autumn the chestnuts are stored ; and over the mossy banks between were drawn the soft purple veils of the autumn crocuses.
The old horse plodded steadily upwards. Our driver encou- raged us from time to time by pointing to a white tower far above us, the chapel of Soglio. The sound of many waters was in our ears, and through the trees we saw the blanched column of the leaping fall. Our driver halted and uttered his one English word, " Beautiful." No doubt many tourists had employed it at that very spot. It was growing dark when we reached the village of Soglio, perched on the mountain side, some 4,000 feet above sea-level.
Our vehicle squeezed through a street so narrow that the over- hanging roofs of the tall old houses seemed to meet above our heads, emerged into a cobbled square, and drew up at the great door of the hotel. The hotel was once the ancient home of the de Salis family, a fine old place, with stone staircase, halls hung with dark pictures and armour, and a musicians' gallery. It seemed eerie that evening in my big bare room, panelled and celled with chestnut, with the four-post bedstead, and the double doors ornamented with locks and bolts of beautiful design. Very different it looked at six o'clock next morning when I was awakened by the sound of music and the tinkle of little bells, to find the sun pouring in through the jalousies. Running to the window, I saw beyond the grey roofs the snow- covered peaks of the Bondasca-gruppe clear-cut against the sunrise. In the square below the village goatherd, in baggy breeches aro leathern jerkin, with a red sash round his waist and a flopping hat of green felt, was playing on an accordion ; and at the sound of his music the villagers came from their houses driving their goats, each with its sweetly tinkling bell about its neck. Every morning the goatherd would collect his flock and take them to the high pastures for the day. In the evening he brought them back to the square ; and, sum- moned by his accordion, the people would come to lead home their own goats. It was pretty to see the goats scampering down the steep mountain-track behind the village and pouring into the square with a ripple of bells. They would surround the old fountain standing erect to drink from its brimming basin, and crowd about the hotel door nuzzling our hands for bread.
This little cobbled square was the centre of village life. Here the women came to fill their pitchers and wash their clothes at the ever-flowing fountain. Here, on a long bench against the wall, the villagers would sit gossiping of an evening ; and here, too, the hotel guests would sit out after
dinner, while the moon rose over the distant snow-peaks and the crickets sang in shrill chorus among the grass between the cobblestones.
Behind the hotel was a big tangled garden, its terraced paths bordered with phlox and marigolds, where tea was set under the shade of the fruit trees. The other meals were served in a fine room with open fireplace and great polished presses. Bowls of flowers stood on the long tables,- and often the dishes handed round were decorated with posies. One Sunday a large fish was set before us holding a bunch of purple pansies in its mouth.
The villagers were Italian in type, and spoke an Italian patois, for the frontier is only a few miles distant. All day long they were - working in •their precipitous fields ; the women toiling up and down with great pointed creels strapped on their backs, filled with manure to be carried up to some cultivated patch among the rocks. In these creels also they carried the hay (for no cart could travel on those steep slopes),
and whole armouries of scythes and rakes. The young women were fine and upstanding, with bright kerchiefs bound about their heads. Their mothers were bent with burden-bearing, their kindly faces wrinkled and burnt black by the sun. The only road was the one up from Promontogno ; but there were numberless walks by rocky paths along the mountain-side, crossing the leaping torrents by stepping-stones, with glorious views of the snowy ranges across the valley, and the rocky line of the Mesoccos away to the south-west. The flowers are said to be wonderful in June ; but in September they were over for the most part, save for such familiar blossoms as scabious and knapweed ; with large deep blue hare-bells, and starry grass-of-Parnassus about the mountain springs, and everywhere the diaphanous autumn crocuses.
There were other attractions besides flowers to be seen on our walks. Most delightful were the large grasshoppers, which when at rest were just the colour of the grey rocks, but when they sprang into the air spread out red or blue wings, like flitting fairies. Among the chestnuts were small squirrels, dark sable in colour with black tails, nimble and charming, and one day we found one of the great lizards of the neigh- bourhood. It was about a foot long, and very fat, covered with a brilliant emerald coat that looked for all the world as if crocheted in green beads.
A few miles' walk down through the chestnut-woods brought us to Castasegna, the pretty little frontier town, with its gardens full of pink hydrangeas. At the bottom of the street was the Swiss Customs House, and a few steps beyond it the Italian, both with their national flags flying. We watched the guard come out to examine the luggage on a passing car, and of a couple of " hikers " with purple shirts and big rucksacks. They seemed pleased to have something to occupy their time. Between whiles they were feeding tame pigeons that perched on their hands and shoulders, and chasing stray hens that persisted in crossing the frontier.
It was a sad day when the time came to cross it ourselves and go on into Italy. Better to turn again and remount the steep path to Soglio, through the chestnut-woods, with their grassy lawns dappled with sun and shadow and the drifts of autumn crocuses, like ghostly bluebells, under the trees.
E. D.
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