Shortly After
Leaving The Suburb, An Indian, Who Joined Our Party Upon The Road,
Pointed Out On The Left Of
The way what he declared was the place of
the celebrated Khandak, or Moat, the Torres Vedras of Arabian
History.
[FN#2] Presently the Nakhil, or palm plantations, began.
Nothing lovelier to the eye, weary with hot red glare, than the rich
green waving crops and the cool shade, the "food of vision," as the
Arabs call it, and "pure water to the parched throat." For hours I
could have sat and looked at it. The air was soft and balmy; a perfumed
breeze, strange luxury in Al-Hijaz, wandered amongst the date fronds;
there were fresh flowers and bright foliage; in fact, at Midsummer,
every beautiful feature of Spring. Nothing more delightful to the ear
than the warbling of the small birds, that sweet familiar sound; the
splashing of tiny cascades from the wells into the wooden troughs,
[p.400]and the musical song of the water-wheels. Travellers-young
travellers-in the East talk of the "dismal grating," the "mournful
monotony," and the "melancholy creaking of these dismal machines." To
the veteran wanderer their sound is delightful from association,
reminding him of fields and water-courses, and hospitable villages, and
plentiful crops. The expatriated Nubian, for instance, listens to the
water-wheel with as deep emotion as the Ranz des Vaches ever excited in
the hearts of Switzer mercenary at Naples, or "Lochaber no more," among
a regiment of Highlanders in the West Indies.
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