The Thermometer At 8 A.M. Showed 37 Degrees, And The Wind Was Keen.

The road lay through a most desolate country of chalk hills completely barren, diversified occasionally by the ice-like crystals of gypsum cropping out in huge masses.

In one of the most dreary spots that can be imagined the eye was relieved by a little flat-topped hut on the right hand, which exhibited a sign, "The Dewdrop Inn." The name was hardly appropriate, as the earth appeared as though neither dew nor rain had blessed the surface; but I believe that whisky was represented by the "Dewdrop," and that the word was intended to imply an invitation, "Do-drop-in." Of course we dropped in, being about an hour in advance of our vans, and I found the landlord most obliging, and a bottle of Bass's pale ale most refreshing in this horrible-looking desert of chalk and thistles that had become a quasi-British colony. This unfortunate man and one or two partners were among those deluded victims who had sacrificed themselves to the impulse of our first occupation, upon the principle that "the early bird gets the worm." Instead of getting on, the partners went off, and left the representative of the "Dewdrop" in a physical state of weakness from attacks of fever, and the good industrious man with little hope of a golden future.

Passing on after a conversation with our landlord, which did not cheer me so much as the pale ale, we continued through the same desolate country for about two miles, and then turned off on the left hand towards Dali. We passed through a narrow valley of several hundred acres planted in vineyards, and we counted four olive-trees, the first green objects or signs of trees that we had seen since Larnaca! We then continued through white barren hills for another two miles, and descended a steep hill, halting for the night upon hard flat gypsum rock opposite a village named "Lauranchina," above the dry bed of a torrent, twelve miles from Larnaca.

On the following morning, after a slight shower, we started for Dali. The narrow valleys were more or less cultivated with vines, and about three miles from the halting-place we entered the fertile plain of Dali. This is about six miles long, by one in width, highly cultivated, with the river flowing through the midst. As far as we could see in a direct line groves of olives, vineyards, and ploughed land, diversified by villages, exhibited the power of water in converting sterility into wealth.

I always make a rule that the halting-place shall be at a considerable distance from a village or town for sanitary reasons, as the environs are generally unclean. All travellers are well aware that their servants and general entourage delight in towns or villages, as they discover friends, or make acquaintances, and relieve the tedium of the journey; therefore an antagonistic influence invariably exists upon the question of a camping-ground. It is accordingly most difficult to believe the statements of your interpreter: he may have old friends in a town to which you believe him to be a stranger; he may have the remains of an old love, and a wish to meet again; or he may have a still more powerful attraction in the remembrance of an agreeable cafe where he can refresh himself with liquor, revel in cigarettes, and play at dominoes. It is therefore necessary to be upon your guard when approaching a town, which should be looked upon as the enemy's camp.

My amiable bullock-driver, the big Georgi, had always assured me that "game abounded in the immediate neighbourhood of Dali;" of course I knew that the happy hunting-ground contained some special interest for himself. Upon arrival on the outskirts I ordered the vans to pass on the outside of the town, and I would seek a camping-place up-stream. Instead of this I was assured that we should pass through the town, and find a lovely grove of olive-trees by the river-side, the perfection of a halting-place. For the first time I now discovered that Georgi's wife and family lived in Dali, and that he was not such a fool as he looked.

In a few minutes we were descending a lane so narrow that the gipsy van only cleared the walls of the houses on either side by three or four inches. This lane had been paved centuries ago with stones of all sizes, from a moderate grindstone to that of a football. When people had wished to build a new house, they had taken up a few stones to make a foundation; the street was a series of pitfalls filled with mud and filth, including miniature ponds of manure-coloured water. The surface appeared impassable; the projecting water-spouts from the low roofs stuck out like the gnarled boughs of trees. Here was a pretty mess!--all because Georgi's wife was in town. It was impossible for anything larger than a perambulator to turn, and as the springs yielded to the uneven ground, the van bumped against the walls of the houses and threatened destruction. "Halt!" was the only word, and as the drag-shoe was on the wheel, we stopped. At this moment of difficulty a priest and some old women appeared with earthen vessels smoking with burning olive leaves; they immediately passed the smoke beneath the nostrils of the oxen, then around the van, and lastly ourselves. At the same time some good young women threw orange-flower water over my wife and myself from pretty glass vases with narrow necks as a sign of welcome. The incense of the priests was supposed to avert the "evil-eye" from the gipsy van and our party. I felt much obliged for the good intention, but I did not mind the "evil eye" so much as the water-spouts. In my experience of travelling I never met with such kind and courteous people as the inhabitants of Cyprus.

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