The absence of fuel necessitates the great trouble of carrying a
supply of charcoal, and it destroys the pleasure of the cheerful
night-fires that usually enliven the bivouac in wild countries. The
plants and herbs that grow in Cyprus are all prickly; thus groping in
the dark for the first inflammable material to produce the
fire-foundation is unpleasant. There is a highly aromatic but very
prickly species of wild thyme: this is always sought for, and at all
times responds to the match.
The first night is always novel, in spite of old experiences. We pricked
our hands in raking up thorny plants, but a useful implement, which
combined the broad hoe on one side with a light pick on the other,
lessened our labour, and we produced a blaze; this was bright but
transient, as the fuel was unsubstantial. The dinner was quickly warmed,
as it consisted of tins of preserved meats; and, climbing up the ladder,
the gipsy van presented such a picture of luxury that if the world were
girded by a good road instead of a useless equator I should like to be
perpetually circum-vanning it.
On the following morning the thermometer marked 40 degrees. The natives
were early at work, ploughing land that was to remain fallow until the
following season. The oxen were sleek and in good condition, and not
inferior in weight to the well-known red animals of North Devon.
Although the native plough is of the unchanged and primitive pattern
that is illustrated on the walls of Egyptian temples, it is well adapted
for the work required in the rough and stony ground of Cyprus.
