Читать книгу Worrals on the War-path - W E Johns - Страница 6

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The mise-en-scène of this story, the area of Central France named the Cévennes, is so little known, even to the tourist, that a brief description may be helpful, particularly as the physical features of the districts are so remarkable that the sceptical reader might be pardoned for supposing that the locality exists only in the imagination of the author.

To quote from the guide-book and say that the Cévennes are a huge mass of limestone mountains, forming, as it were, the backbone of France, conveys no idea of the wild grandeur of the actual picture. It would seem that in some remote age the whole of the centre of France was pushed up by tremendous external pressure, as a flat piece of dough might rise if the sides were forced inwards. In this way there was formed a wide ridge, about eighty miles long and from three to six thousand feet high. Owing to the steepness of the foothills the whole district has remained primitive, desolate, and even to-day it is crossed by few roads.

In the early ages the centre of the Cévennes was one vast plateau, but in the course of time rivers rising in the peaks have eaten their way through the porous volcanic rock, cutting chasms with perpendicular walls, so that the original plateau is now divided into a number of smaller ones. These barren plateaux, called causses,^[1] are rarely visited, except perhaps by an occasional shepherd or a tourist sufficiently daring to brave the dizzy footpaths. The causses vary in height from 3000 to 4000 feet. The largest is the Causse Méjean—more than a hundred square miles of country as lonely as any to be found in Europe.

[1] The word causse is derived from the local word cau, from the French chaux, meaning lime, the rocks being limestone.

The chasms which divide these plateaux are terrifying indeed. One of the most spectacular is the Gorge of the Tarn, which is from 1300 to 1700 feet deep. The walls are sheer, but covered with verdure where there is a foothold for plants. The river flows through the bottom, and those who dare brave the rapids may pass through this terrific corridor in a small boat. In addition to the gorges, water has cut its way into the rock so that the plateau has become honeycombed with caves, subterranean rivers and lakes.

In some places the plateaux present a flat or undulating surface; in others, erosion by wind and rain has carved the rock into fantastic shapes—monstrous animals, ruined cities, and the like. So utterly lonely is this territory that it was the last stronghold of wolves in France. In the Forest of Mercoire may be seen the lair of an enormous wolf, called the Bête du Gérandau, which not so many years ago terrorised the neighbourhood.

To enhance the wildness of the scene there are ruins of prehistoric dwellings, castles, hermit sanctuaries, ancient chapels and abandoned villages. With the exception of the little town of Florac the few inhabited villages that remain are wretchedly primitive, some accessible only on foot. But the people, hardened by centuries of struggle against the barrenness of the soil, and the rigours of the climate, have long been noted for their fierce independence. They live chiefly on potatoes, rye bread, and milk from the sheep that somehow manage to eke out a precarious existence on the sparse herbage.