Here One Looks Down Upon The Yellow Gorge Of The
Crati, And Sees It Widen Northward Into A Vast Green Plain, In Which
The Track Of The River Is Soon Lost.
On the other side of the Crati
valley, in full view of this garden, begins the mountain region of
Many-folded Sila - a noble sight at any time of the day, but most
of all when the mists of morning cling about its summits, or when
the sunset clothes its broad flanks with purple. Turn westward, and
you behold the long range which hides the Mediterranean so high and
wild from this distance, that I could scarce believe I had driven
over it.
Sila - locally the Black Mountain, because dark with climbing
forests - held my gaze through a long afternoon. From the grassy
table-land of its heights, pasturage for numberless flocks and herds
when the long snows have melted, one might look over the shore of
the Ionian Sea where Greek craftsmen built ships of timber cut upon
the mountain's side. Not so long ago it was a haunt of brigands; now
there is no risk for the rare traveller who penetrates that
wilderness; but he must needs depend upon the hospitality of
labourers and shepherds. I dream of sunny glades, never touched,
perhaps, by the foot of man since the Greek herdsman wandered there
with his sheep or goats. Somewhere on Sila rises the Neaithos (now
Neto) mentioned by Theocritus; one would like to sit by its source
in the woodland solitude, and let fancy have her way.
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