The scenery all the way to Payole was more charming than when we drove there [Footnote:  See pages 40-44.] previously, and on our arrival at the Hotel de la Poste there was a considerable difference visible there.  The courtyard was filled with carriages, and a busy throng buzzed about the doors, while the windows were occupied by a variety of forms.  Having with great difficulty secured utensils, we unearthed the lunch, and proceeded with our meal at a side-table.  The participators in the fete, who were all men, occupied the centre table, and others were at the side.  The noise they made was not appetising, and though they mixed wines considerably, their jokes did not improve; yet the scene was a very typical one of “Frenchmen out for a holiday.”  After our repast, we adjourned to see the fete, and a wonderful treat it was!  Tame rabbits and fowls, fastened to a stake driven into the hillside, some 90 to 100 yards from the road, were the targets, at which a perpetual round of shots soon commenced.  Double-barrelled guns loaded with ball were the usual weapons; one or two single-barrelled pieces and a rifle or two being occasionally seen.

The marksmen seemed peculiarly poor ones, from the country lad, or the genuine ’Arry, with huge check clothes, to the moustached “masher,” with tight trousers and rounded jacket.  About one “poulet” in fifty shots succumbed, and a white rabbit’s dismissal was received with loud acclamations.

At 2.30, exactly two hours after our arrival, we were off again, and soon entered the pine forest.  It looked very bonny in the bright sunlight, while the view from the Col d’Aspin was singularly felicitous.  Not a cloud anywhere.  The mighty Posets, the Pic d’Arbizon, and the other snow-crowned heights, softened by distance and beautified by the tints in the foreground, stood out against the azure sky in all their splendour.

The Aure valley, as we descended, and the tiny hamlet of Aspin, looked very peaceful and lovely; in fact, the whole of the extensive scene—­considered one of the finest to be enjoyed by driving in the Pyrenees—­seemed to spread out its charms before us.

Winding down the splendid road, Arreau was soon in view, and at 4.30 we drove under the portico of the Hotel de France, somewhat dusty, but wholly pleased.  With some time to spare before dinner, we set out to explore this wonderfully quaint, and—­though dirty—­strikingly picturesque old town.  A road leads from the courtyard of the hotel straight to the very ancient-looking market-place and the river, at which point the latter is crossed by a very old wooden bridge.  Traversing this, and passing several curious houses with verandahs reaching over the street, we found ourselves at the ancient Chapelle de St. Exupere, built during the 9th and 10th centuries, but now restored.  The windows are of fine stained glass, and the view from the belfry tower, over the peculiar old town—­with its curious turrets and roofs, whose best days have long passed—­is worth the somewhat arduous mount to get to it.  The peasant girl who stands inside the door, and in a sing-song voice that never varies mixes up saints, fathers, towns, corn, potatoes, bells, and “quelque chose pour le gardien,” in her rigmarole, was the least attractive adjunct of the venerable pile!