The life at our quiet camp at Trooditissa was a complete calm: there
could not be a more secluded spot, as no human habitation was near,
except the invisible village of Phyni two miles deep beneath, at the
mountain's base. The good old monk Neophitos knitted, and taught his
boys always in the same daily spot: the swallows built their nests under
the eaves of the monastery roof and beneath the arch which covered in
the spring, and sat in domestic flocks upon the over-hanging boughs
within a few feet of our breakfast-table, when their young could fly.
Nightingales sang before sunset, and birds of many varieties occupied
the great walnut-tree above our camp, and made the early morning
cheerful with a chorus of different songs. There was no change from day
to day, except in the progress of the gardens; the plums grew large: the
mulberries ripened in the last week of July, and the shepherd's pretty
children and the monastery boys were covered with red stains, as though
from a battlefield, as they descended from the attractive boughs. It was
a very peaceful existence, and I shall often look back with pleasure to
our hermitage by the walls of the old monastery, which afforded a moral
haven from all the storms and troubles that embitter life. On Sundays we
sent a messenger for the post to the military camp at Troodos, about
five and a half miles distant, and the arrival of letters and newspapers
restored us for a couple of days to the outer world:
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