One half of the bridge over the Bidassoa belongs to France, and the other half to Spain, so that you may have, at the same time, a foot in each kingdom, which is a great achievement. On one side you perceive the gendarme, grave, respectable, and serious; the gendarme red as a peony at having been restored to his social position by Edward Ourliac, in Curmer's "Français Peints par Eux-Memes;"[1] while, on the other, is beheld the Spanish soldier, clad in green, and enjoying on the sward the voluptuous pleasure of repose with happy nonchalance. At the extremity of the bridge, you enter at once into Spanish life, with all its local colouring. Irun does not possess a single feature in common with a French town. The roofs of the houses jut out beyond the walls, while the tiles, alternately round and hollow, give the houses a most strange and Moorish battlemented appearance. The ironwork of the balconies, which project over the street, is of the most elaborate description, very surprising in an out-of-the-way village like Irun, and indicating a great degree of opulence now passed away. The women spend their lives upon these balconies, which are shaded with an awning with coloured stripes, and which are like so many aërian chambers attached to the body of the edifice. The two sides remain open, and allow a passage to fresh breezes and burning glances; but you must not look, however, for those dull and _culotté_[2] tints (I beg pardon for the expression), those shades of bistre and old pipes that a painter might hope to see; everything is whitewashed, according to the Arabian fashion, but the contrast of this chalky tone against the deep brown of the beams, roofs, and balconies, is not without a fine effect.