HOURS IN OTHER GARDENS 



even with over fifty people roaming through its leafy 

 mazes, one has the feeling of being alone, left to wander 

 where one's fancy leads. 



Very slowly I follow the path indicated, toward 

 those mossy steps, for there is so much to see at every 

 turn; at the top I pause entranced, for this is indeed an 

 ideal pergola in a perfect state of tangled flowering 

 vines. Primroses and violets cover the ground on the 

 sunny side, vying with strange cacti for our admiration ; 

 and as the pergola curves, following the convolutions 

 of the hillside, at the farther end framed in the long 

 yellow sprays of the buddleia, appears the sea, blue 

 as only the Mediterranean can be. At the foot of 

 creamy cliffs far below us lies Bordighera, and beyond, 

 the medieval strongholds of Castello d'Appio and 

 Ponte Canarda. 



While we sit in rapturous contemplation of this 

 lovely scene, our senses steeped in beauty of every kind, 

 suddenly a nightingale bursts into song! The entran- 

 cing melody moves us to tears. Then follows silence. 

 Will he sing again? The soft lap of the waves on the 



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