Monday broke very fine, and as the market people had notified that the Col d’Aspin was now open, we made up a party of ten, just filling two landaus, for this fifteen-mile drive.  We did not start till eleven, and by that time the clouds had commenced to show themselves, but hoping for better things, we went ahead.  Following the Campan road, we soon left Gerde and the Palomieres above it, in the distance, and in a few moments the village of Aste as well.  A little further on we met a barouche, lolling back in which sat a priest.  His hands were clasped o’er his breast, his spectacled eyes were fixed upwards, and judging by the expression of his mouth and the movement of his lips, he was endeavouring to put some pleasant, self-contented thoughts into words.  We took the liberty of guessing what he was saying, and set it down as

“THE ABBE’S SONG.”

  Oh!  I am an Abbe, an Abbe am I,
  And I’m fond of my dinner and wine. 
  Some say I’m a sinner, but that I deny,
  And I never am heard to repine. 
  ’Tis said what a pity I can’t have a wife,
  But I’m saved from the chance of all naggings and strife,
  While in my barouche I can ride where I will,
  Feeling life not half bad, though the world may be ill.

  I always wear glasses, but that’s to look sage,
  And not ’cause my eyesight is dim,
  For when sweet maids I view of a loveable age,
  I contrive to look over the rim. 
  And when I’m alone with the glass at my lips,
  I am ready to swear, as I pause ’twixt the sips,
  That as long as the world does not hamper my will,
  I think I can manage to live in it still.

A short distance before reaching Baudean a road strikes to the right up the Vallon de Serris, and a short distance beyond, another, in the same direction, strikes up the Vallee de Lesponne, en route for the Lac Bleu (6457 ft.) and the Montaigu (7681 ft.).  When Baudean and its quaint old church were left in our rear, and we were nearing Campan, we witnessed a fierce struggle between a young bull-calf and a native.  The calf objected very strongly to the landaus, and wished to betake itself to the adjacent country to avoid them.  To this the native very naturally objected in turn, and a struggle was the result, in which the calf was worsted and reduced to order.

Campan is a curious old town, with a quaint marketplace, whose roof rests on well-worn stone pillars.  Turning a corner, we came on a somewhat mixed collection of men, women, oxen, and logs of wood.  The French flag was fixed against a tree, and painted on a board underneath it were the familiar words, “debit de tabac,” with an arrow or two pointing round the corner, but no tobacco shop was in sight.

The peasants thronged the windows as we drove down the street, but the greater number were weird and decrepit females, with faces like the bark of an ancient oak-tree.

The old church, which stands near the market-place is well worth a visit.  Passing under an archway on the right side of the road, we entered a court-yard, in which stands a marble statue erected in honour of the late cure, and on the right of this is the entrance into the church.