Unlike Pau, its amusements are not of a very varied character.  In winter, lawn-tennis and balls are the chief, and concerts occur generally weekly or bi-weekly.  As spring asserts herself, bathing commences and picnics become the fashion; and in the early summer—­as long as the English remain—­tennis and bathing go almost hand-in-hand.

The tennis-ground—­which is only a short distance from the English church of St. Andrew’s—­is well laid out and commodious, possessing an excellent reading room for members’ use, as well.  Of bathing establishments there are three; the large building in the Moorish style on the Plage, the less pretentious but more picturesque one in the Port Vieux, and the least pretentious and least protected one, under the “falaises” [Footnote:  Blue chalk cliffs.] beyond.

The first and last are only used in the height of summer; that in the Port Vieux—­from its sheltered position—­opens its box-doors as soon as winter really gives place to spring.  The scene, when the tide is high on a morning in June, is often an exceedingly pretty one, for to the pristine picturesqueness of the surroundings is added those touches of human nature enjoying itself, which, if it doesn’t “make us kin,” goes a long way towards it.

The “Port Vieux” is triangular in shape, with the apex inland, along the sides of which the boxes are erected, reaching to the water’s edge at high tide.  In the middle lies an expanse of deep sand, and the blue waters roll in between the rocks and gently break on a shingly beach, where the tiniest shells and pebbles mingle to make the one drop of bitterness in the bather’s cup.

When the sandy expanse is crowded with merry children, the roads and seats above filled with spectators, and the water with members of both sexes in varied costumes and “headgears”—­not forgetting the boatman in the tiny skiff who is here, there, and everywhere in case he is needed—­the scene is a very pleasant one to look upon.  Of course there are always some narrow-minded individuals to find fault, some “maiden” aunts “with spinster written on their brows,” who will put up their gold-rimmed glasses with that peculiar sniff that invariably prefaces some extra sweet remarks, such as, “Dear me, how wicked!  Men and women bathing together in that barefaced manner; and ...  I do believe there’s that forward Miss Dimplechin actually taking hold of Captain Smith’s hand, and he a married man too!  Thank goodness, I never did such a thing—­never!” [Footnote:  Did she ever have the chance?]

Above the Port Vieux, on the left, stands Cape Atalaya, with the ruins of an ancient tower, and a flagstaff on its summit.  A road leads round its base, passing between a circular mound overlooking the “old harbour,” and the yard where the concrete blocks are fashioned for the strengthening of the pier.