Reproduction of the original: A Spring Walk in Provence by Archibald Marshall

From the foothills of the Alps to the luxurious Mediterranean coast, nowhere could offer more variety of landscape than Provence. This book includes 30 walks described in detail with suggestions for over 100 more.

S. Baring-Gould's book, 'A Book of the Riviera,' offers readers a captivating exploration of the picturesque coastal region of the French Riviera. Known for its vivid descriptions and meticulous attention to detail, the book takes readers on a literary journey through the stunning landscapes, charming villages, and rich history of this iconic destination. Baring-Gould's prose is elegant and engaging, appealing to those with a love for travel literature and a desire to immerse themselves in the beauty of the Riviera. Set against the backdrop of the late 19th century, the book captures a moment in time when the region was a magnet for artists, writers, and intellectuals seeking inspiration and relaxation. A prominent Victorian-era author and clergyman, S. Baring-Gould's deep connection to the landscapes and cultures of Europe shines through in 'A Book of the Riviera.' His keen observational skills and passion for storytelling make him the perfect guide for readers looking to uncover the hidden gems of this enchanting region. Baring-Gould's intimate knowledge of the Riviera's history and landmarks adds depth and authenticity to the book, making it a valuable resource for both armchair travelers and seasoned explorers. With its lyrical prose and insightful commentary, 'A Book of the Riviera' is a must-read for anyone interested in the beauty, history, and culture of this iconic region. Baring-Gould's vivid descriptions and engaging storytelling will transport you to the sun-drenched shores of the French Riviera, where the past and present merge in a kaleidoscope of colors and textures.

‘I remember being much amused last year, when landing at Calais,’ wrote Mrs Frances Trollope in her 1835 book, Paris and the Parisians, ‘at the answer made by an old traveller to a novice ... making his first voyage. “What a dreadful smell!” said the uninitiated stranger ... “it is the smell of the continent, sir!” replied the man of experience. And so it was.’ Historians James Munson and Richard Mullen examine just what it was about the smell of the continent that so attracted British travellers in the hundred years from the fall of Napoleon to the outbreak of the First World War. It was the first time in history that the British, en masse, set out to discover Europe. Drawing on contemporary accounts, diaries and letters, Munson and Mullen offer a compelling portrait of the Victorians abroad, many of them convinced that their country was not only vastly superior but also the envy of the world. From the glowing review coverage: 'Pure charm' A.N. Wilson, Reader's Digest 'An entertaining and sometimes surprising, thought-provoking history' Sunday Times

Includes index.

Colonel Eldridge was enjoying an afternoon doze, or a series of dozes, in the Sabbath peace of his garden. His enjoyment was positive, for he had a prejudice against sleeping in the day-time, and sat upright in his basket chair with no support to his head; so that when sleep began to overtake him he nodded heavily and woke up again. If he had provided himself with a cushion from one of the chairs or lounges by his side, he would have slumbered blissfully, but would have been lost to the charm of his surroundings. These included a great expanse of lawn, mown and rolled and tended to a sheeny perfection of soft rich colour; the deep shade of nobly branching trees in their dark dress of mid-July; bright flower-beds; the terraced front of a squarely built stone house of a comfortably established age. These were for the eye to rest upon after one of those heavy nods, and to carry their message of spacious seclusion and domestic well-being. For the other senses there were messages that conveyed the same meaning—the hot brooding peace of the July afternoon, tempered by the soft stirring of flower-scented breezes, the drone of bees and of insects less usefully employed, the occasional sweet pipe of birds still mindful of earlier courtships, the grateful and secure absence of less mundane sounds. The house was empty, except for servants, who obtruded themselves neither on sight nor hearing. The tennis net on the levelled space by the rose garden hung in idle curves. Colonel Eldridge had the whole wide verdurous garden to himself, and the house, too, if he cared to enter it. Though he liked to have his family around him as a general rule, he found it pleasant to keep his own company thus for an hour or so. He was just approaching the time when one of those droops which punctuated his light slumbers would wake him up to a more lively sense of well-being, and he would take up the book that lay on his knee, when his half-closed eyes took in a figure emerging from the trees among which the lawn lost itself at the lower end of the garden. He aroused himself and waved a welcoming hand, which meant among other things: "Here you have a wide-awake man reading a book on Sunday afternoon, but you need not be afraid of disturbing him." The grateful lassitude, however, which enveloped his frame prevented his rising to greet his brother, who came towards him with an answering wave of the hand, and took a seat by his side. There was not much difference in the age of the two brothers, which was somewhere in the fifties. In appearance, also, they were something alike, of the same height and build, and with the same air of wearing their years well. Colonel Eldridge had the military caste impressed upon him, with closely cropped hair underneath his straw hat, small grey moustache, and a little net-work of wrinkles about his keen blue eyes. His clothes were neat and unobtrusive, as of a man who gets the best tailoring and leaves it at that. Sir William Eldridge also, quite obviously, got the best tailoring. He wore a suit of soft brown, with boots polished to an enviable pitch; the narrow sleeves of his jacket, ornamented with four buttons, showed the doubled-over cuffs of his blue flannel shirt, fastened with enamelled links; a gay bandana tie heightened the agreeable contrast of blue and brown; his soft felt hat was of light grey, with a black band. With a new pair of chamois leather gloves he would have been beautifully dressed for any occasion that did not demand a silk hat and whatever should go with it. But he wore or carried no gloves for a walk of half a mile across the fields, by the river, from Hayslope Grange, where he lived, to Hayslope Hall, his brother's house.