Pardon--it was marked Aix, but was in
fact meant for Bonneville.
The diligence reached the end of the by-road leading to Villaz in about
half an hour, and all the fever of Geneva and Annecy seemed to fly away
before the freshness of this green little lane, with clematis in full
flower pervading the hedges, and huge clusters of young nuts peeping
out, and promising later delights to fortunate passers-by. But, alas!
the little lane soon came to an end, and as I faced the fields of corn
up the mountain-side, the hot thunderous air came rolling down in
palpable billows, and oppressive clouds took possession of the
surrounding hills. Three-quarters of an hour brought me to Villaz, a
close collection of houses on the hill-side, with arched stone gateways
leading into the farmyards,--a fortified style of agricultural building
which seems to prevail in that district. After an amount of experience
in out-of-the-way places which makes me very cautious in saying that one
in particular is dirtier than a dozen others, I venture to say that the
_auberge_ of Villaz is the most squalid I have come across; and I would
not feed there again, except in very robust health, even for a new
glaciere.
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