and gloat over the tweeds and homespuns, the exotic golf hose and sweaters there exposed. See these, the tiny fishing port with its much exploited handful of fishermen, the flashing white cylinder of the simple old lighthouse and the selfsame
Atlantic Ocean against the jagged blue backdrop of the Pyrenees — and your artistic obligations are at an end. Assuming, of course, that no invigoration is to be found in the spectacle of marvellously made up demoiselles and senoritas, smoothly bedecked in Paris robes a day old and studded with several ounces of glistening stones, gazing languidly from their Hispano-Suizas and feeding chocolates to their Russian wolfhounds — but this is not a society sheet.
St. Jean-de-Luz, populated chiefly by English tourists and native fishermen, has more to recommend it. As a fishing village it is ideal, the combination of a naturally protected harbor, an elaborate series of breakwaters and jutting stone wharves giving it an extraordinary security. The most picturesque touch in the town is found in the fishermen, who for some unknown reason, wear overalls and jumpers not in the conventional, locomotive engineer blue, but in a gorgeous brownish red, the tone of which changes with each frequent washing. A cluster of fishermen loafing on the pier resembles nothing more than
a huge, brilliant blotch of Autumn foliage. Some of the finest of the Basque houses are here; the streets are spotlessly clean; the hotels seemed palatial after not having been in a town with edible soup, a bathtub or civilized plumbing for two months. Louis XIV was married in the quaint, balconied Basque church here, and had the door, through which he emerged a much married king, sealed up and properly labelled. It is therefore evident that recent generations of pleasure seekers have not been the first to discover the charms of this untroubled village. The wonder is that it has not suffered the fate of a “ville de luxe” and become overrun with villas, ultramodern shops, and utterly useless guides.
Many curious and anticipatory thrills take possession at the frontier at Hendaye, despite the discomfort of being herded bewildered through a shuttle of corridors and corrals, past money changers, ticket punchers, passport inspectors, baggage snoopers and trunk gougers. One has an ineradicable idea that, as soon as the border is crossed, a complete change will take place everywhere. Rather a childish idea, no doubt, but the transformation in this extreme corner of Spain was even more decided than expected. Dumped unceremoniously into the streets of the uninspiring border town of Iran, one feels a thousand miles from France. Architecturally the buildings were but little different from those across the border, more frosted perhaps, and more bestrewn with flah flah. But multi-colored clothing hung over every iron balcony, strings of red peppers and onions garnished most of the doorways, and bright plaid blankets ambled by, concealing and smothering some chilly Spaniards beneath their heavy folds. Decidedly a new touch of color.
Fuenterrabia, a bouncing trolley ride away, is
perhaps the quaintest walled town in the Basque
ST. JEAN-DE-LUZ
AN ADAPTATION OF THE BASQUE HOUSE
Atlantic Ocean against the jagged blue backdrop of the Pyrenees — and your artistic obligations are at an end. Assuming, of course, that no invigoration is to be found in the spectacle of marvellously made up demoiselles and senoritas, smoothly bedecked in Paris robes a day old and studded with several ounces of glistening stones, gazing languidly from their Hispano-Suizas and feeding chocolates to their Russian wolfhounds — but this is not a society sheet.
St. Jean-de-Luz, populated chiefly by English tourists and native fishermen, has more to recommend it. As a fishing village it is ideal, the combination of a naturally protected harbor, an elaborate series of breakwaters and jutting stone wharves giving it an extraordinary security. The most picturesque touch in the town is found in the fishermen, who for some unknown reason, wear overalls and jumpers not in the conventional, locomotive engineer blue, but in a gorgeous brownish red, the tone of which changes with each frequent washing. A cluster of fishermen loafing on the pier resembles nothing more than
a huge, brilliant blotch of Autumn foliage. Some of the finest of the Basque houses are here; the streets are spotlessly clean; the hotels seemed palatial after not having been in a town with edible soup, a bathtub or civilized plumbing for two months. Louis XIV was married in the quaint, balconied Basque church here, and had the door, through which he emerged a much married king, sealed up and properly labelled. It is therefore evident that recent generations of pleasure seekers have not been the first to discover the charms of this untroubled village. The wonder is that it has not suffered the fate of a “ville de luxe” and become overrun with villas, ultramodern shops, and utterly useless guides.
Many curious and anticipatory thrills take possession at the frontier at Hendaye, despite the discomfort of being herded bewildered through a shuttle of corridors and corrals, past money changers, ticket punchers, passport inspectors, baggage snoopers and trunk gougers. One has an ineradicable idea that, as soon as the border is crossed, a complete change will take place everywhere. Rather a childish idea, no doubt, but the transformation in this extreme corner of Spain was even more decided than expected. Dumped unceremoniously into the streets of the uninspiring border town of Iran, one feels a thousand miles from France. Architecturally the buildings were but little different from those across the border, more frosted perhaps, and more bestrewn with flah flah. But multi-colored clothing hung over every iron balcony, strings of red peppers and onions garnished most of the doorways, and bright plaid blankets ambled by, concealing and smothering some chilly Spaniards beneath their heavy folds. Decidedly a new touch of color.
Fuenterrabia, a bouncing trolley ride away, is
perhaps the quaintest walled town in the Basque
ST. JEAN-DE-LUZ
AN ADAPTATION OF THE BASQUE HOUSE