The American architect
The ARCHITECTURAL REVIEW
VOL. CXXVWEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1924NUMBER 2440
The BASQUE COUNTRY
Notes and sketches by SAMUEL CHAMBERLAIN
UNDENIABLY, the idea of sending back to America a manuscript of bubbling ob
servations upon the Basque country is not
a new one. The foreign correspondents of our
more haughty journals of “le monde ou l’on samuse have dealt with it often and well. But in vain does one scan their paragraphs for even the faintest mention of the architectural charm of the place. To gap this dismal void these few lines are written, with a solemn promise to make no mention of who composed Lord Whattaberry’s foursome or what Mrs. Sheckle wore at the opening of the Casino.
A most individual corner of the world these black-eyed Basque people have made for themselves. They retain their own language, costumes, games, dances. The fact that they are scattered
over the frontier of two countries does not divide them. The Basque tongue, unique in Western Europe, defies one who searches to disclose in it a bit of Latin ancestry. There is a bewildering juxtaposition of letters, featuring k’s, x’s, z’s and every other awkward letter in the alphabet. Heard by the garden variety of auditor, the words are as unfathomable as Sanscrit. To the eye, a spoonful of alphabet noodles is equally intelligible. Spoken, it has a crackle like a bonfire of pine needles.
A fez in Turkey is no more universal than the tight fitting, dark blue beret which is worn by every male inhabitant of the Basque country from two to eighty. The lace caps worn by the women have a greater variety. Some resemble glorified cornucopias, some are simple lace hand
The ARCHITECTURAL REVIEW
VOL. CXXVWEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1924NUMBER 2440
The BASQUE COUNTRY
Notes and sketches by SAMUEL CHAMBERLAIN
UNDENIABLY, the idea of sending back to America a manuscript of bubbling ob
servations upon the Basque country is not
a new one. The foreign correspondents of our
more haughty journals of “le monde ou l’on samuse have dealt with it often and well. But in vain does one scan their paragraphs for even the faintest mention of the architectural charm of the place. To gap this dismal void these few lines are written, with a solemn promise to make no mention of who composed Lord Whattaberry’s foursome or what Mrs. Sheckle wore at the opening of the Casino.
A most individual corner of the world these black-eyed Basque people have made for themselves. They retain their own language, costumes, games, dances. The fact that they are scattered
over the frontier of two countries does not divide them. The Basque tongue, unique in Western Europe, defies one who searches to disclose in it a bit of Latin ancestry. There is a bewildering juxtaposition of letters, featuring k’s, x’s, z’s and every other awkward letter in the alphabet. Heard by the garden variety of auditor, the words are as unfathomable as Sanscrit. To the eye, a spoonful of alphabet noodles is equally intelligible. Spoken, it has a crackle like a bonfire of pine needles.
A fez in Turkey is no more universal than the tight fitting, dark blue beret which is worn by every male inhabitant of the Basque country from two to eighty. The lace caps worn by the women have a greater variety. Some resemble glorified cornucopias, some are simple lace hand