DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.61635#0202
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over the hills, only to be driven onwards by the
wind. As we rode we saw it relinquish one post
after another. On the nearest hilltop a little white
village shone in clear sunlight, a bright rainbow
above it ; over the second the clouds were break-
ing, while the third was still shrouded in showers.
—Before us was greyness, the Cevennes lost in
blue mist; behind, a country glowing and golden.
The early morning air was cold, but sweet and
pure, and almost all the way our feet were on the
rests, and we had but to enjoy ourselves. For
another such ride I would willingly spend ten days
fighting the wind.
By nine we were in Roanne, a town remarkable for
nothing but dust and delicious peaches and grapes.
The road crossed the Loire, and went straight
through the valley to the Cevennes.—The peasants
we met were blown about by the wind, turning
their backs to each strong gust, that almost blinded
them, but drove us on the faster.—At the very foot
of Mt. Tarare, closed in with high hills, was an old
posting village, with four or five large hotels falling
to ruin. It was hereabouts a shoe came loose from
the fore-foot of Mr. Sterne’s thill-horse. But we
met with no accident, nor, for the sake of senti-
ment, could we invent one.—The road began to
go over the mountain; and we wound with it,
between
over the hills, only to be driven onwards by the
wind. As we rode we saw it relinquish one post
after another. On the nearest hilltop a little white
village shone in clear sunlight, a bright rainbow
above it ; over the second the clouds were break-
ing, while the third was still shrouded in showers.
—Before us was greyness, the Cevennes lost in
blue mist; behind, a country glowing and golden.
The early morning air was cold, but sweet and
pure, and almost all the way our feet were on the
rests, and we had but to enjoy ourselves. For
another such ride I would willingly spend ten days
fighting the wind.
By nine we were in Roanne, a town remarkable for
nothing but dust and delicious peaches and grapes.
The road crossed the Loire, and went straight
through the valley to the Cevennes.—The peasants
we met were blown about by the wind, turning
their backs to each strong gust, that almost blinded
them, but drove us on the faster.—At the very foot
of Mt. Tarare, closed in with high hills, was an old
posting village, with four or five large hotels falling
to ruin. It was hereabouts a shoe came loose from
the fore-foot of Mr. Sterne’s thill-horse. But we
met with no accident, nor, for the sake of senti-
ment, could we invent one.—The road began to
go over the mountain; and we wound with it,
between