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Matilda Betham-Edwards - Holidays in Eastern France
reluctance we were now obliged to give up this round. From Morteau to St. Hippolyte is a day's journey,
only to be made by starting at eight in the morning, and there are not even decent wayside inns. So we
patiently waited till the storm was over, and as by that time it was past midday, there was nothing to do
but drive leisurely back to Maiche. More fortunate travellers than ourselves, in the matter of weather,
however, are particularly recommended the other route. Maiche is a good specimen of the large,
flourishing villages, or bourgs, found in these parts, and a greater contrast with those of Brittany
cannot be conceived. There you find no upper or middle-class element, no progress, little communication
with the outer world; some of the towns even, St. Pol de Leon, for instance, being literally asleep. Here
all is life, bustle, and animation, and, though we are now amid a Catholic community, order and
comparative cleanliness prevail. Some of the cottage gardens are quite charming, and handsome modern
homes in large numbers denote the existence of rich bourgeois families, as is also the case in the
villages near Montbeliard. The commune of Maiche has large revenues, especially in forest lands, and we
can thus account for the really magnificent cure, or presbytere, the residence of the cure,
also the imposing Hotel-de-Ville, and new costly decoration of the church. There is evidently money for
everything, and the cure of Maiche must be a happy person, contrasting his position favorably with that
of his fellow-cures in the Protestant villages around Montbeliard. The down-hill drive from our airy
eminence amid the pine-forests was even more striking than our ascent two days before; and we naturally
got over the ground in less than half the time. It is a pity such delightful scenery as this should not be
made more accessible to travellers by a first rate inn. There are several hotels at Maiche, also at St.
Hippolyte and Pont de Roide, but they are adapted rather to the wants of the commis-voyageur
than the tourist. Yet there is a friendliness, a bonhomie, and disinterestedness about the hotel-keepers,
which would soon disappear were Franche Comte turned into a little Switzerland. At the table-d'hote
dinner, the master of the house always presides and looks after the guests, waiters there are none;
sometimes the plates are changed by the landlady, who also superintends the kitchen, sometimes by the
landlord, sometimes by a guest, and shortcomings are always made up for by general geniality. Everyone
knows everyone, and the dinner is a meeting of old friends.
All this will soon be changed with the new line of railway to lead from Besancon by way of St.
Hippolyte and Morteau into Switzerland, and future travellers will be able to see this beautiful country
with very little fatigue. As yet Franche Comte is an unknown region, and the sight of an English tourist is
of rare occurrence. When we leave Pont de Roide, we once more enter the region of Protestantism, every
village possessing a Protestant as well as a Catholic Church. The drive to Blamont is charming - a bit of
Devonshire, with green lanes, dells, and glades, curling streams and smooth pastures. Blamont itself is
romantically situated, crossing a verdant mountain side, its twin spires (Protestant and Catholic) rising
conspicuously above the scattered villages; beyond these, the low mountain range of Blamont.
We have been all this time, be it remembered, geographically speaking in the Jura, though
departmentally in the Doubs, the succession of rocks and mountains passed through forming part of the
Jura range which vanishes in the green slopes of Blamont.
The next village, Glaye, is hardly less picturesque, and indeed all this neighbourhood would afford
charming excursions for the pedestrian. The rest of our drive lay through an open, fairly-cultivated plain
with little manufacturing colonies, thickly scattered among the rural population. In many cases the tall
black chimneys spoil the pastoralness of the scene.
It was with extreme regret I took farewell of the friendly little Protestant town of Montbeliard, soon after
this journey. I had entered it a few weeks before, a stranger, I quitted it amid the good wishes,
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