We reach the pretty village of Beurre after a
succession of landscapes, "l'un plus joli que l'autre," as our French
neighbours say, and then come suddenly upon a tiny valley shut in by
lofty rocks, aptly called the World's End of these parts, since here the
most adventuresome pedestrian must retrace his steps--no possibility of
scaling these mountain-walls, from which a cascade falls so musically;
no outlet from these impregnable walls into the pastoral country on the
other side. We must go back by the way we have come, first having
penetrated to the heart of the valley by a winding path, and watched the
silvery waters tumble down from the grey rocks that seem to touch the
blue sky overhead.
The great charm of these landscapes is the abundance of water to be
found everywhere, and no less delightful is the sight of springs,
fountains, and pumps in every village. Besancon is noted for its
handsome fountains, some of which are real works of art, but the tiniest
hamlets in the neighbourhood, and, indeed, throughout the whole
department of the Doubs, are as well supplied as the city itself. We
know what an aristocratic luxury good water is in many an English
village, and how too often the poor have no pure drinking water within
reach at all; here they have close at hand enough and to spare of the
purest and best, and not only their share of that, but of the good
things of the earth as well, a bit of vegetable and fruit-garden, a
vineyard, and, generally speaking, a little house of their own.
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