When day broke we were still in the _Landes_, but the pines were mingled with cork-trees, which I had hitherto pictured to my mind only under the form of corks, but which are really enormous trees, partaking simultaneously of the nature of the oak and of the carob-tree in the eccentricity of their shape and the deformity and ruggedness of their branches. A number of blackish pools of a leaden colour, stretched on each side of the road; gusts of saltish air greeted our nostrils, and a sort of vague rumbling noise resounded on the horizon. A bluish outline next stood out upon the pale background of the heavens. It was the chain of the Pyrenees. A few instants afterwards an almost invisible line of azure, the sign of the ocean, told us that we had arrived. It was not long ere Bayonne rose up before us, in the form of a mass of tiles crushed by an awkward and squat-looking spire; but I will not abuse Bayonne, since any town viewed under the disadvantage of rainy weather is always wretched. The port was not very full. A few decked boats floated in a negligent and admirably idle manner alongside the quays. The trees which form the public promenade are very fine, and somewhat soften the austerity of the numerous right lines produced by the fortifications and parapets. As to the church, it is plastered over with yellow, varied with a dirty fawn; it possesses nothing remarkable save a kind of baldaquin of red damask, and a few paintings of Lépicié and others, in the style of Vanloo. The town of Bayonne is almost Spanish in its language and customs; the hotel where we put up was called the _Fonda San Estaban_. As it was known that we were about making a long trip in the Peninsula, we were pursued with all sorts of recommendations. "Buy some red belts to sustain your body; arm yourselves with blunderbusses, combs, and bottles of water to kill the insects; take some biscuits and other provisions; the Spaniards breakfast on a spoonful of chocolate, dine on a piece of garlic washed down with a little water, and sup on a paper cigar; you ought also to take a mattress and a saucepan to serve as your bed and make your soup." The French and Spanish Dialogues, too, for the use of travellers, were not very encouraging. Under the head of "A Traveller at an Inn," we read the following frightful conversation--"I should like to take something." "Take a chair," replies the landlord. "With pleasure; but I should prefer something more nutritious." "What have you brought?" replies the master of the _posada_. "Nothing," says the traveller, sadly. "Then how can you suppose I can give you anything to eat? The butcher lives yonder, the baker a little further on. Go and get some meat and bread, and my wife, who is something of a cook, will prepare your provisions." The traveller, in a fury, begins creating a most frightful disturbance, and the host calmly puts into his bill--"Disturbance, 6 reals."