The little town of Le Russey should, if
possible, be halted at for an hour or two only, the hotels are dirty and
uncomfortable; we fared worse there than I ever remember to have fared
in France--which is saying a good deal!
Next morning we were off at eight o'clock; our road, now level for the
most part, leading us through very different scenery from that of the
day before, monotonous open country, mostly pasturage, with lines of
pine and fir against the horizon--in many places were rocky wastes,
hardly affording scant herbage for the cattle. Much of this scenery
reminded me of the Fell district or North Wales, but by degrees we
entered upon a far more interesting region. We were now close to
Switzerland, and the landscape already wore a Swiss look. There is
nothing prettier in a quiet way than this Swiss borderland, reached
after a long stretch of dreary country; here we have grace without
severity, beauty without gloom, pastoral hills and dales alive with the
tinkling of cattle-bells, and pleasingly diversified with villages
scattered here and there; a church spire rising above the broad-roofed,
white-washed chalets on every side, undulating green pastures, in some
places shut in by pine-clad ridges, in others by smiling green hills.
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