Wanderings by southern waters, eastern Aquitaine | Page 3

deep loneliness. He will see ravens and hawks about the crags,
and about the river half covered in summer with floating pond-weed,
watercress, and the broad leaves of the yellow lily, he will notice many
a water-ouzel bobbing with white breast, water-hens gliding from bank
to bank, merry bands of divers, and the brilliant blue gleam of the
passing kingfisher, which here is allowed to fish in peace, like the otter.
The Gouffre de St. Sauveur has its legend. It is said that when the
church of St. Sauveur, on the neighbouring hill, was in imminent
danger at the time of the Revolution, the bells were thrown into the
pool so that they should not fall into the hands of the enemy.
Imaginative people fancy that they can sometimes hear them ringing at
the bottom of the water.
After leaving the pool--now very sombre in the shadow of the wooded
hill--I crossed a ridge separating me from the Gouffre de Cabouy, out
of which flows a tributary of the Ouysse. Thence I reached the deep
and singularly savage gorge of the Alzou, which brought me to
Roc-Amadour, when the after-light of sunset was lingering rosily upon
the naked crags.
* * * * *
Rocks reach far overhead, dazzlingly white where the sunbeams strike
them, and below is a green line of narrow valley. A tinkling of bells
comes from the stony sides of the gorge, where sheep are browsing the
scant herbage and young shoots of southern-wood; and from the
curving fillet of meadow, where the grass seems to grow while the eye
watches it, rises the shrill little song of the stream hurrying over its
yellow bed, which may be dry again to-morrow. This Alzou is no more
to be depended upon than a coquette. After a period of drought, a storm
that has passed away hours ago will cause it suddenly to come hissing
down over the dry stones; but the next day no trace of the flow may be
found save a few pools. Or it may grow to a torrent, even a river, that in
its wild career scoffs at banks, and spreads devastation through the
valley.
It is April, and the nightingales, the swallows, the flowers, the bees,
and the kids, whose trembling voices are heard all about the rocks, tell
me that the spring has come. I cannot rest in my cottage on the side of
the gorge, not even on the balcony that seems to hang in the air over the
depth; the sounds from the valley, especially those that the imagination

hears, are too enticing.
Upon a high ledge of rock to which I have climbed, not without some
unpleasant qualms, I stretch myself out upon a strip of short turf
sprinkled with the flowers of the white rock-rose and bordered with
candy-tuft, and try to drive out of mind the only disagreeable thought I
have at this moment--that of getting down to the path, where I was safe.
The worst part of climbing precipitous places is not the going up, but
the coming down. Not a human being or dwelling is in sight, so that I
can contemplate the wildness of the scene to my mind's content. But a
very hoarse voice not far above tells me that I am not alone. A raven
perched upon a jutting piece of rock, that curiously resembles some
monstrous animal, is watching me, and he looks a very crafty old bird
who could speak either French or English if he liked. Presently he flaps
heavily off to the opposite side of the gorge, and fetches his wife. They
fly over me almost within gunshot, going round and round, expressing
an opinion or sentiment with an occasional croak, but apparently quite
willing to make their dinner-hour suit my convenience. Do they
suppose that I have really taken the trouble to climb up here to die out
of the world's way and the sight of my fellow-creatures, like that very
unearthly poet whose story Shelley has written? Do they think that they
are going to make a hearty meal upon me this evening or to-morrow
morning? I remain quite still, pleased at the thought of cheating the
greedy, croaking scavengers of Nature, and hoping that they will grow
bold enough to settle at length somewhere near me. But they are too
suspicious; perhaps with their superior sight they note the blinking of
my eyes as I look upwards at the dazzling sky, or instinct may tell them
that I am not lying down after the manner of a dying animal. Their
patience is more than a match for mine, and so I come down from my
ledge and make my way back to my cottage before the pink blush of
evening has faded from the rocks.