Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 219, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 September 1915 — The French Venice [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The French Venice

The Etang de Berre is a huge inland sea in ' the South of France, 24 miles west of Marseilles. It ia only separated from the Mediterranean by about four miles of low-lying land, pierced by a sluggish stream. Where this stream leavgs the lake, in its southwesterly corner, stands Les Martigues, practically four small towns, one on either shore of the stream and two on islands in the channel. Altogether it is a town of 6,200 inhabitants, who seem mostly to be fishermen. Fishing on the lake, in the most picturesque lateen-rigged boats, and the making of fishing nets are the chief industries. The town of Martigues is spoken of as the “French Venice,” writes W. J. Clutterbuck in Country Life, for the old color-washed houses are built at the very edge of the waterways, and most of the traffic is by boat. There the resemblance naturally ends, however, for there are no magnificent churches or stately palaces to be reflected in the waters below them. Two fine churches there are, of which the people may well be proud, but’it is to the irregular old houses, the crazy boats, the great triangular sails and the piles of brown and red fishing nets that the little towns owe their popularity with painters of many countries. It requires no small amount of enthusiasm and determination to reach Les Martigueß, as the journey from Marseilles is slow and tedious, and carries one through an arid and unpromising country of low, treeless, limestone hills. When the shores of the great lake, the Etang de .Berre, .are reached and the little train puffs cautiously along its margin, one feels, Indeed, far from the busy world in a strange, wild region, where only water, sky, wind and birds can Interest one, with just a faint indication of "distant shores, which cannot be reached without much tribulation. At

one hour a limpid, opal sea, idle clouds reflected and distant sails scarcely filling with the light air; at the next how tragically changed can all the scene become —such ftngry waves, such lowering skies and our poor fishing fleet running at its swiftest pace for home and safety. Dangerous to Navigate. Being so near the Gulf of Lyons, and very large and shallow, the Etang is dangerous to navigate, and many a day, promising in its aspect to the stranger, you will see the Martigues fishermen idling, smoking, chatting, quarreling, but not venturing forth on those deceptive waters, whence many a brave boat’s crew has not returned. Very honest, friendly people are these dwellers on the edge of the waters, as unlike as possible from their “progressive” cousins at Marseilles. Though the male population often Idles through the days, perhaps from prudence, perhaps from preference —who can tell? for they are southerners entirely—we must not forget that they are constantly afloat all night, fishing till early morn. When the boats, laden with a good catch, touch the quayside comes the turn of the energetic women and girls of the town. Then begins the counting, weighing, selling, packing, the shouting, the bargaining and all the bustle of a successful day. The women always seem busy, as endless repairs to nets have to be quickly made, and new ones are always wanted, and all this work is carried on, whenever possible, in the open air on the nar- .. row shores of the lake. Flamingoes Were Hidden. We heard that the Etang de Berre is the only place in Europe where flamingoes breed, and dearly would we have liked to see some of them, but perhaps owing to the “mistral,” which blew mercilessly during our stay of a fortnight at Martigues, we never saw one, and no doubt they had wisely hidden themselves in the reeds for shelter. Wind is the bete noir of Martigues (lying between the devil of the Gulf of Lyons and the shallow inland sea), wind which almost lifts one over the parapets of the bridges, which quite removes one s hat and temper, but gives some humorous h<nnan silhou

ettes. We grieved tor the white tulle veils, the white wreaths of the shivering little white girls, who were performing, during this trying spring weather, their fortnight's visiting tour, seeming obligatory to good Martigues Catholics after the premiere communion. The little brothers. In correct black suits, with white gloves, were comparatively protected from the elements, and the happy grown-ups were wrapped in coats and cloaks; only the dear little white girls suffered pour etre belle, and in order to show their innocent finery to every grandma, aunt, cousin and friend in the neighborhood.

SCENE IN MARTIGUES