and a vast animation to the village; it brings in old Alsatian costumes from the neighboring hamlets, and the streets become bright with flapping white bonnets, plaid skirts and sashes tied in enormous bows. One experiences a fleeting regret that the Alsatians, save those in the remote regions, have not clung to their costumes as the proud Bretons have done.
Picturesqueness reaches its most amusing peak
Their tiny windows are framed in richly carved wood.
Every square in Riquewihr holds a bizarre vista; every blind alley is a picture. The town gate in this delectable village, the “Dolder,” as it is called, is the absolute quintessence of quaintness. One cannot believe that this towering mass of stone and timber was seriously meant to be a town gate. It looks like the work of a band of stage car
THE TOWN GATE, AMMERSCHWIHR
at Riquewihr, the last of the three villages. It really calls for a cascade of the most superlative terms in Noah’s catalog. A long, fantastic street leads up steeply through the town. Mossy fountains, embellished with much wrought iron, and primitive stone walls, still in use, mark the street crossings. So-called “loggias” jut forth from the upper floors of the tipsy old houses, providing sunny lookouts over the street. The ladies’ magazines would certainly call them “nooks.” They have a sort of homespun Gothic character, belaced with tracery.
penters on a spree. The town fathers and craftsmen must have gotten together in the tavern, one distant day in the sixteenth century, and, over many a skittle of suds, decided to give themselves and the village a rousing good time. And now it stands, a tall, whimsical tower, capped with a nonsensical belfry, grinning like a scarecrow. Its lean front is gaudily checkered with timbers, like a long, toosporty golfer in loud tweeds. Tiny windows are woven in the timberwork, and one expects the grimacing faces of gnomes to peer out from them.
Picturesqueness reaches its most amusing peak
Their tiny windows are framed in richly carved wood.
Every square in Riquewihr holds a bizarre vista; every blind alley is a picture. The town gate in this delectable village, the “Dolder,” as it is called, is the absolute quintessence of quaintness. One cannot believe that this towering mass of stone and timber was seriously meant to be a town gate. It looks like the work of a band of stage car
THE TOWN GATE, AMMERSCHWIHR
at Riquewihr, the last of the three villages. It really calls for a cascade of the most superlative terms in Noah’s catalog. A long, fantastic street leads up steeply through the town. Mossy fountains, embellished with much wrought iron, and primitive stone walls, still in use, mark the street crossings. So-called “loggias” jut forth from the upper floors of the tipsy old houses, providing sunny lookouts over the street. The ladies’ magazines would certainly call them “nooks.” They have a sort of homespun Gothic character, belaced with tracery.
penters on a spree. The town fathers and craftsmen must have gotten together in the tavern, one distant day in the sixteenth century, and, over many a skittle of suds, decided to give themselves and the village a rousing good time. And now it stands, a tall, whimsical tower, capped with a nonsensical belfry, grinning like a scarecrow. Its lean front is gaudily checkered with timbers, like a long, toosporty golfer in loud tweeds. Tiny windows are woven in the timberwork, and one expects the grimacing faces of gnomes to peer out from them.