Soon little plantations appeared, covered over with diminutive vines trailed up stout, white sticks; at a little distance they looked like clusters of dried red-brown leaves tied up by the stem, and drooping at the top. Seen in the gloom, from a little distance in the train, these lines of _petits vignoles_ looked like a detachment of foot soldiers marching in file, with rifle on shoulder. We had, of course, come just too late for the vintage; the day of the vines was over for this year. Now and again we caught sight of long strips of some vivid green plant, unknown to me, but resembling nothing so much as a certain delicious chicory and cream omelet on which we had regaled ourselves at Paris! Magpies, here and there, fluttered over the white stretch of sandy road, giving the effect of black letter type on a dazzling white page of paper. An old woman in a blue skirt presented, as she bent over the stubble, a sort of counter-paned back, patched with all sorts of different coloured pieces of cloth: a little further on, a man, in white apron and bib, was strolling along a furrow scattering handfuls of what looked like white flour from a basket slung over his left arm. Up a winding country road wound groups of blue-smocked villagers; the women frilled-capped, the men baggily-trousered. Under the roofs of some of the cottages were hanging bunches of some herb or other to dry. At the corner of the road a picturesque blue cart was lying on its side, making a useful bit of local colour, though _passé_ as regards utilitarian purposes. On the higher ground were windmills, dotted about in profusion: some of them had taken up a position on the top of some pointed cottage roof. Over some of the cultivated strips of land were placed, at intervals, sticks with what suggested a touzled head of hair, but which was in reality composed of loose strands of straw. Along the sides of these strips lie _citronnes_ (which, on mature acquaintanceship with the district, I find are a sort of vegetable used largely in soup) strewn loosely and carelessly about on the ground to ripen. The trees not far from St. Pierre des Corps seem a great deal infested by various kinds of fungi: that kind, whose scientific name I forget, which grows bunchily, in shape like a bird's nest, and which give a sort of uncombed appearance to the branches. We had intended, originally, to stop at Tours for the night but, finding that our doing so would involve two changes, we altered our minds, and determined to go straight on to Bordeaux. Then ensued the enormous difficulty of rescuing our luggage; for, as everyone who has travelled much abroad knows, the "red tape" which is always tied, with great outward ceremony and pomp of circumstance, round one's goods and chattels when travelling by train, is exceedingly difficult to undo, and especially so at short notice.