We soon reach the top of the valley, a deep,
narrow, rock-enclosed valley or gorge, and, leaving our carriage,
prepare to descend on foot. At first sight, the zig-zag path along what
appears to be the perpendicular side of these steep, lofty rocks,
appears perilous, not to say impracticable, but it is neither one nor
the other. This mountain stair-case, called the Echelles de Baume, may
be descended in all security by sure-footed people not given to
giddiness; our driver, leaving his quiet horse for a time, shoulders one
child, my companion shoulders another, I followed with the basket, and
in twenty minutes we are safely landed at the base of the cliffs we had
just quitted, not yet quite knowing how we had got there! These rocky
walls, shutting in the valley, or _combe_, as it is called, so closely
that seldom any ray of sunshine can penetrate, are very lofty, and
encircle it from end to end with majestic effect. It is, indeed, a
winding little islet of green, threaded by a silvery stream, and
rendered naturally impregnable by fortress-like rocks. We rest on the
turf for a while, whilst the children munch their cakes and admire the
noise of the mill opposite to us, and the dazzling waters of the source,
pouring little cascades from the dark mountain-side into the valley.
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