Ch. 9 - To Rome by Pisa and Siena

There is nothing in Italy, more beautiful to me, than the coast-
road between Genoa and Spezzia. On one side: sometimes far below,
sometimes nearly on a level with the road, and often skirted by
broken rocks of many shapes: there is the free blue sea, with here
and there a picturesque felucca gliding slowly on; on the other
side are lofty hills, ravines besprinkled with white cottages,
patches of dark olive woods, country churches with their light open
towers, and country houses gaily painted. On every bank and knoll
by the wayside, the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant
profusion; and the gardens of the bright villages along the road,
are seen, all blushing in the summer-time with clusters of the
Belladonna, and are fragrant in the autumn and winter with golden
oranges and lemons.

Some of the villages are inhabited, almost exclusively, by
fishermen; and it is pleasant to see their great boats hauled up on
the beach, making little patches of shade, where they lie asleep,
or where the women and children sit romping and looking out to sea,
while they mend their nets upon the shore. There is one town,
Camoglia, with its little harbour on the sea, hundreds of feet
below the road; where families of mariners live, who, time out of
mind, have owned coasting-vessels in that place, and have traded to
Spain and elsewhere. Seen from the road above, it is like a tiny
model on the margin of the dimpled water, shining in the sun.
Descended into, by the winding mule-tracks, it is a perfect
miniature of a primitive seafaring town; the saltest, roughest,
most piratical little place that ever was seen. Great rusty iron
rings and mooring-chains, capstans, and fragments of old masts and
spars, choke up the way; hardy rough-weather boats, and seamen's
clothing, flutter in the little harbour or are drawn out on the
sunny stones to dry; on the parapet of the rude pier, a few
amphibious-looking fellows lie asleep, with their legs dangling
over the wall, as though earth or water were all one to them, and
if they slipped in, they would float away, dozing comfortably among
the fishes; the church is bright with trophies of the sea, and
votive offerings, in commemoration of escape from storm and
shipwreck. The dwellings not immediately abutting on the harbour
are approached by blind low archways, and by crooked steps, as if
in darkness and in difficulty of access they should be like holds
of ships, or inconvenient cabins under water; and everywhere, there
is a smell of fish, and sea-weed, and old rope.

The coast-road whence Camoglia is descried so far below, is famous,
in the warm season, especially in some parts near Genoa, for fire-
flies. Walking there on a dark night, I have seen it made one