Here there are to be seen many uneven waste spaces; it is a region of sand where stunted trees and dwarfish evergreen oaks shelter themselves behind the dunes.

A curious kind of wild flower, a pink and fragrant carnation, blooms there profusely all summer long.

Two or three villages, composed of humble little cottages, whitewashed like the bungalows of Algeria, break the loneliness of this region.

These homes have planted about them such flowers as can best resist the sea-winds.

Dark skinned fishermen and their families, a hardy honest people, still very primitive at the time of which I write, live here; even sea-bathers had not found their way to these shores.
In an old forgotten copy-book where my sister had written down (in a stilted manner) the impressions of that summer I find this description of our lodgings.
"We dwell in the centre of the village, in the square, at the Mayor's house.
"This house has two ells, which are spacious beyond measure.
"Its dazzling whitewashed surfaces sparkle in the sun, its window shutters are fastened with large iron hooks and painted a dark green as is the custom here.