If it was less pleasant than it might have been to us, the weather had a good deal to do with it, and the other causes may develop themselves in narration.  There were ten of us, and we started in a grand yellow brake with four horses and a surly coachman.  The morning was excessively warm, and some of the party were of such rotund proportions, that the thin ones were nearly lost sight of, if they chanced to sit between them, while the warmth approached to that of a cucumber frame with the sun on it.  We attracted a good deal of attention as we crawled down the Rue Serviez and passed the entrance to the Pare Beaumont, down the hill to Bizanos; but as soon as the chateau that takes its name from the village was reached, we met with little admiration, except from the good people jogging along in tumble-down carts and shandries.  The peasants seemed on the whole a good-natured lot, taking a joke with a smile often approaching a broad grin, and occasionally, but only very occasionally, attempting one in return.  The following is an instance of one of these rare occasions:—­We were walking beside the Herrere stream in the direction of the Fontaine de Marnieres; several women were busy washing clothes at the water’s edge, and above, spread out in all their glory, were three huge umbrellas—­ umbrellas of the size of those used on the Metropolitan ’buses, but of bright blue cloth on which the presence of clay was painfully evident.  We asked the price without smiling, and the women, wondering, looked up.  We said they must be very valuable, and we would give as much as six sous for any one of them.  At this moment another woman, who had been listening to the conversation from a little garden behind, came up and said:  “Those umbrellas belong to me, and they are worth a lot of money; but I will sell you one cheap if you promise to send it to the Exhibition!”

But to resume.  After crossing the railway line beyond Bizanos, and leaving the pleasant little waterfall on the right, the sun began to pour down on us very fiercely, and all we could do, wedged in as we were, was to appear happy and survey the country.

It was curious to note the method of training the vines up the various trees by the roadside.  The simplicity and efficacy of the method seemed plain enough, but with memories of the difficulty experienced in guarding our own fruit even with glass-tipped walls to defend it, we were forced to the conviction that in the Pyrenees fruit stealers are unknown.  Perhaps, however, the “grapes are always sour,” or sufficiently high up to give the would-be thief time to think of the penalty, which probably would be “higher” still.

The road continues nearly in a direct line through Assat (5 miles), but when that village was left behind, the mountains seemed to be considerably nearer, and even the snow summits—­a bad sign of rain —­appeared within a fairly easy walk.

The painful odour of garlic frequently assailed our nostrils passing through the hamlets, and though it is not quite as bad as the Japanese root daikon, yet to have to talk to a man who has been eating it, is a positive punishment.  We would fain bring about a reform among the people, getting them to substitute some other healthily-scented vegetable in place of the objectionable one.  To this end we composed a verse to a very old but popular tune, styling it