SD2718. Sarianna Browning to Joseph Milsand
Published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 31, 307–308 (in part).
Cambo,
près Bayonne,
Basses Pyrénées–
le 15. Aôut– [1864] [1]
My dear Mr Milsand,
It seems a long time since we parted,—yet you know me too well to think that I should forget to write to you the first opportunity that occured. I sent you a Saturday Review yesterday,—you will see the remarks made on Robert. Now for a full and particular account of our adventures. We had a pleasant journey the day we started, though a very hot one, and reached Chatel[l]erault at night, where we slept,—the next morning (Wednesday) we started early and arrived at Bordeaux in the middle of the day. It rained during the morning, but cleared up when we reached our destination– I persuaded Robert to push on at once for Arcachon and get settled, so we only saw very little of the city (we intend to stay there on our return) except that it was beautifully situated on a noble river. We were deposited at Arcachon at about six o’clock, and after dining at the table d’hôte, Robt & I set off to examine our locality. The physique of the place delighted us, but not the morale—we at once saw we had made a mistake in coming. It is situated on the verge of a magnificent pine forest which runs down to the sea: but it is a crowded watering-place, just like a fair and bazaar,—hundreds of smart new châlets, all looking as if they had been built, not yesterday but to-morrow; crowds of very gay ladies and gentlemen, in outrageously fine costumes, riding and driving about,—just what we detest,—I saw Robert’s heart sank: but we determined to do the best we could. The sea was not very good. No regular bathing establishment, and a poor beach: the great attraction to every body seemed tearing about on horseback. The next day we went, Robt & I, in quest of a house—we walked for hours in the hot sun—not a place could we find—every hole crammed, and the prices outrageous. The next day we went to Teste de Buch, a quiet little place, with wretched bathing, but there was not a single house to be let, all private houses—then I drove over to Moul[l]eau—nothing. At last, in despair, Robt agreed to take a house which he had seen the day before, (and disliked) at seven hundred francs—but was told he was too late, it was just let. Nothing remained but to push on to Bayonne. We arrived on Friday night, at half past ten, at Bayonne. We were afraid we should be obliged to sleep in the street, for we drove to one large hôtel after another, and were told they were all full. At last, we found accommodation in a very nice one—and the following day resumed our search. The aspect of matters seemed so disheartening, that Robt went to the English consul for advice. He told him there is no sea-bathing at Bayonne—at St Jean de Luz, not one room to be had, the place being overrun with Spaniards; at Biar[r]itz there were still some houses empty, but nothing whatever under thirty francs a day. At (I think) Cap Breton room might be found, but the place was frightfully ugly, and a mile from the sea. St Sebastien remained, but that was rather far off. So he recommended that we should pitch our tent at Cambo, twelve miles from Bayonne; not sea, certainly, but exquisitely situated in the Pyrenees—and we drove over to examine it. The beauty of the place is perfect—anything so lovely I never saw except in a dream—and we were glad to secure a plain, quiet house, with homely accommodation but just the thing to suit us, at two hundred francs a month. So here we are in the Pyrenees! We came in last night, and the first thing I do is to write to you. Now for the brighter side of the picture. We have seen much of the world since we left, and I have enjoyed it more than I can express. The South began at Bordeaux with the pines and the cicala. Bayonne is delightful—half Spanish—picturesque and beautiful– Yesterday we went to St Jean de Luz—we fell in love with it. I and Pen took a bath in its glorious blue sea,—as blue, our travellers said, as the Mediterranean—the mountains were in the distance. Our plan is, when our month is up, to go there for a fortnight’s bathing, as the town will then be less full. Afterwards, we went to Biar[r]itz, which I confess I took a great dislike to: the sea was certainly very fine, but the place itself detestable—like a bad bit of Paris—the environs were the only ugly place we have seen in the south—flat, arid, scorchingly hot. I am so glad we could not find any thing there. Of course, people’s tastes differ, and if you seek gaity and bustle, Biar[r]itz will suit you,—but as we want just the reverse, it did not please us. I hope that we shall enjoy ourselves here extremely. I cannot tell you how we admire the scenery– We have grand plans of excursions in the mountains, and I and Pen are quite determined not to return home, till we have set our feet on Spanish ground. How heartily I wish you were with us! I intend to take a quantity of sketches, in my wretched incapacity, just to try to make you comprehend what it is all like. Now write to me a full account of yourself. I hope you are at the sea-side. What news have you from home? It was only yesterday I could tell our concierge where to forward our letters. Guess if we don’t long for a newspaper! If you are in Paris, do me a favor. Call on our concierge and tell him he had better add Basses Pyrénées to our address, and see that he comprehends. I wish everything forwarded. Ask him if there have been any calls &c. Papa improves by travelling; he feels the fatigue less than any of us. Our united love to you. Write soon.
Ever our affte
S. Browning.
Publication: None traced.
Manuscript: Armstrong Browning Library, Joseph Milsand Archive.
1. Year provided by the return address; the Brownings stayed at Cambo-les-Bains from 14 August to 13 September 1864.
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