Little Rivers [50]
feels at home--the motion of the rod, the feathery swish
of the line, the sight of the rising fish--it all brings back a
hundred woodland memories, and thoughts of good fishing comrades,
some far away across the sea, and, perhaps, even now sitting around
the forest camp-fire in Maine or Canada, and some with whom we
shall keep company no more until we cross the greater ocean into
that happy country whither they have preceded us.
V.
Instead of going straight down the valley by the high road, a drive
of an hour, to the railway in the Pusterthal, I walked up over the
mountains to the east, across the Platzwiesen, and so down through
the Pragserthal. In one arm of the deep fir-clad vale are the
Baths of Alt-Prags, famous for having cured the Countess of Gorz of
a violent rheumatism in the fifteenth century. It is an antiquated
establishment, and the guests, who were walking about in the fields
or drinking their coffee in the balcony, had a fifteenth century
look about them--venerable but slightly ruinous. But perhaps that
was merely a rheumatic result.
All the waggons in the place were engaged. It is strange what an
aggravating effect this state of affairs has upon a pedestrian who
is bent upon riding. I did not recover my delight in the scenery
until I had walked about five miles farther, and sat down on the
grass, beside a beautiful spring, to eat my lunch.
What is there in a little physical rest that has such magic to
restore the sense of pleasure? A few moments ago nothing pleased
you--the bloom was gone from the peach; but now it has come back
again--you wonder and admire. Thus cheerful and contented I
trudged up the right arm of the valley to the Baths of Neu-Prags,
less venerable, but apparently more popular than Alt-Prags, and on
beyond them, through the woods, to the superb Pragser-Wildsee, a
lake whose still waters, now blue as sapphire under the clear sky,
and now green as emerald under gray clouds, sleep encircled by
mighty precipices. Could anything be a greater contrast with
Venice? There the canals alive with gondolas, and the open harbour
bright with many-coloured sails; here, the hidden lake, silent and
lifeless, save when
"A leaping fish
Sends through the tarn a lonely cheer."
Tired, and a little foot-sore, after nine hours' walking, I came
into the big railway hotel at Toblach that night. There I met my
friends again, and parted from them and the Dolomites the next day,
with regret. For they were "stepping westward;" but in order to
get to the Gross-Venediger I must make a detour to the east,
through the Pusterthal, and come up through the valley of the Isel
to the great chain of mountains called the Hohe Tauern.
At the junction of the Isel and the Drau lies the quaint little
city of Lienz, with its two castles--the square, double-towered one
in the town, now transformed into the offices of the municipality,
and the huge mediaeval one on a hill outside, now used as a damp
restaurant and dismal beer-cellar. I lingered at Lienz for a
couple of days, in the ancient hostelry of the Post. The hallways
were vaulted like a cloister, the walls were three feet thick, the
kitchen was in the middle of the house on the second floor, so that
I looked into it every time I came from my room, and ordered dinner
direct from the cook. But, so far from being displeased with these
peculiarities, I rather liked the flavour of them; and then, in
addition, the landlady's daughter, who was managing the house, was
a person of most engaging manners, and there was trout and grayling
fishing in a stream near by, and the neighbouring church of Dolsach
contained the beautiful picture of the Holy Family, which Franz
Defregger painted for his native village.
The peasant women of Lienz have one very striking feature in their
dress--a black felt hat with a broad, stiff
of the line, the sight of the rising fish--it all brings back a
hundred woodland memories, and thoughts of good fishing comrades,
some far away across the sea, and, perhaps, even now sitting around
the forest camp-fire in Maine or Canada, and some with whom we
shall keep company no more until we cross the greater ocean into
that happy country whither they have preceded us.
V.
Instead of going straight down the valley by the high road, a drive
of an hour, to the railway in the Pusterthal, I walked up over the
mountains to the east, across the Platzwiesen, and so down through
the Pragserthal. In one arm of the deep fir-clad vale are the
Baths of Alt-Prags, famous for having cured the Countess of Gorz of
a violent rheumatism in the fifteenth century. It is an antiquated
establishment, and the guests, who were walking about in the fields
or drinking their coffee in the balcony, had a fifteenth century
look about them--venerable but slightly ruinous. But perhaps that
was merely a rheumatic result.
All the waggons in the place were engaged. It is strange what an
aggravating effect this state of affairs has upon a pedestrian who
is bent upon riding. I did not recover my delight in the scenery
until I had walked about five miles farther, and sat down on the
grass, beside a beautiful spring, to eat my lunch.
What is there in a little physical rest that has such magic to
restore the sense of pleasure? A few moments ago nothing pleased
you--the bloom was gone from the peach; but now it has come back
again--you wonder and admire. Thus cheerful and contented I
trudged up the right arm of the valley to the Baths of Neu-Prags,
less venerable, but apparently more popular than Alt-Prags, and on
beyond them, through the woods, to the superb Pragser-Wildsee, a
lake whose still waters, now blue as sapphire under the clear sky,
and now green as emerald under gray clouds, sleep encircled by
mighty precipices. Could anything be a greater contrast with
Venice? There the canals alive with gondolas, and the open harbour
bright with many-coloured sails; here, the hidden lake, silent and
lifeless, save when
"A leaping fish
Sends through the tarn a lonely cheer."
Tired, and a little foot-sore, after nine hours' walking, I came
into the big railway hotel at Toblach that night. There I met my
friends again, and parted from them and the Dolomites the next day,
with regret. For they were "stepping westward;" but in order to
get to the Gross-Venediger I must make a detour to the east,
through the Pusterthal, and come up through the valley of the Isel
to the great chain of mountains called the Hohe Tauern.
At the junction of the Isel and the Drau lies the quaint little
city of Lienz, with its two castles--the square, double-towered one
in the town, now transformed into the offices of the municipality,
and the huge mediaeval one on a hill outside, now used as a damp
restaurant and dismal beer-cellar. I lingered at Lienz for a
couple of days, in the ancient hostelry of the Post. The hallways
were vaulted like a cloister, the walls were three feet thick, the
kitchen was in the middle of the house on the second floor, so that
I looked into it every time I came from my room, and ordered dinner
direct from the cook. But, so far from being displeased with these
peculiarities, I rather liked the flavour of them; and then, in
addition, the landlady's daughter, who was managing the house, was
a person of most engaging manners, and there was trout and grayling
fishing in a stream near by, and the neighbouring church of Dolsach
contained the beautiful picture of the Holy Family, which Franz
Defregger painted for his native village.
The peasant women of Lienz have one very striking feature in their
dress--a black felt hat with a broad, stiff