We passed through the gateway into the garden of the “Golden Ox,” and seated ourselves at one of the little tables, shaded from the warm rays of the sun by the twining branches of the vines. The garden was stocked with the most fragrant flowers; in the centre a fountain splashed, and in its basin goldfish swam lazily. On the smooth emerald lawn stood statues of cherubs, and one of an old satyr; to the right was a bower overgrown with clematis. The inn itself dated back many centuries, and its hospitable whitewashed walls must have sheltered many travellers. High above us the mountains melted away into the haze, below stretched verdant pasture-lands. I sat and idly sipped my wine, listening to the droning of the bees as they flew from flower to flower.