On The Way Passing Ao
Samattar's Village, The Worthy Fellow Made Us Halt Whilst He Went To Fetch
A Large Bowl Of Sour Milk.
About noon the fresh western breeze obscured
the fierce sun with clouds, and we watered our mules in a mountain stream
which crossed our path thrice within as many hundred yards.
After six
miles' ride reaching the valley's head, we began the descent of a rugged
pass by a rough and rocky path. The scenery around us was remarkable. The
hill sides were well wooded, and black with pine: their summits were bared
of earth by the heavy monsoon which spreads the valleys with rich soil; in
many places the beds of waterfalls shone like sheets of metal upon the
black rock; villages surrounded by fields and fences studded the country,
and the distance was a mass of purple peak and blue table in long
vanishing succession. Ascending the valley's opposite wall, we found the
remains of primaeval forests,--little glades which had escaped the axe,--
they resounded with the cries of pintados and cynocephali. [22] Had the
yellow crops of Holcus been wheat, I might have fancied myself once more
riding in the pleasant neighbourhood of Tuscan Sienna.
At 4 P.M., after accomplishing fifteen miles on rough ground, we sighted
Sagharrah, a snug high-fenced village of eight or nine huts nestling
against a hill side with trees above, and below a fertile grain-valley.
Presently Mad Said pointed out to us the Gerad Adan, who, attended by a
little party, was returning homewards:
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