Watery passages, which I shall long remember, were not without a
certain danger. The stream was still swollen with the recent rains, and
its bed, invisible under the discoloured element, sufficiently deep to
inspire respect and studded, furthermore, with slippery boulders of
every size, concealing insidious gulfs. Having only a short
walking-stick to support me through this raging flood, I could not but
picture to myself the surprise of the village maidens of Crepolati,
lower down, on returning to their laundry work by the river-side next
morning and discovering the battered anatomy of an Englishman - a rare
fish, in these waters - stranded upon their familiar beach. Murdered, of
course. What a galaxy of brigand legends would have clustered round my
memory!
Evening was closing in, and I had traversed the stream so often and
stumbled so long amid this chaos of roaring waters and weirdly-tinted
rocks, that I began to wonder whether the existence of Longobucco was
not a myth. But suddenly, at a bend of the river, the whole town, still
distant, was revealed, upraised on high and framed in the yawning mouth
of the valley. After the solitary ramble of that afternoon, my eyes
familiarized to nothing save the wild things of nature, this unexpected
glimpse of complicated, civilized structures had all the improbability
of a mirage. Longo-bucco, at that moment, arose before me like those
dream-cities in the Arabian tale, conjured by enchantment out of the
desert waste.
The vision, though it swiftly vanished again, cheered me on till after a
good deal more scrambling and wading, with boots torn to rags, lame,
famished and drenched to the skin, I reached the bridge of the Rossano
highway and limped upwards, in the twilight, to the far-famed "Hotel
Vittoria."
Soon enough, be sure, I was enquiring as to supper. But the manageress
met my suggestions about eatables with a look of blank astonishment.
Was there nothing in the house, then? No cheese, or meat, or maccheroni,
or eggs - no wine to drink?
"Nothing!" she replied. "Why should you eat things at this hour? You
must find them yourself, if you really want them. I might perhaps
procure you some bread."
Avis aux voyageurs, as the French say.
Undaunted, I went forth and threw myself upon the mercy of a citizen of
promising exterior, who listened attentively to my case. Though far too
polite to contradict, I could see that nothing in the world would induce
him to credit the tale of my walking from San Demetrio that day - it was
tacitly relegated to the regions of fable. With considerable tact, so as
not to wound my feelings, he avoided expressing any opinion on so
frivolous a topic; nor did the reason of his reluctance to discuss my
exploit dawn upon me till I realized, later on, that like many of the
inhabitants he had never heard of the track over Acri, and consequently
disbelieved its existence.
