In order that we should find camp comfortably fixed up on the first day, we had despatched our belongings some time ahead. We were anxious to wait for the heat of the day to pass before actually starting off on our wheels. Just outside Kabarole the rain came down in torrents. We struggled to cycle on through it, but it was tough business. The mud, added to the hilly condition of the path, prevented us from making much headway. My wheel was a solid tyre, generally known as a “bone-shaker”; it would _not_ stick on the down hills, and insisted on skidding along the narrow, slanting paths cut round them. Once I did a most uncomfortable somersault, and having for a second time got thrown into thick mud, relinquished the bicycle for the remainder of that day’s journey. When we reached camp, we were in a condition better imagined than described. Evidently the rain had rather damped the energies of our porters, for we found the tent only just commencing to be tackled, and mud, mud, mud, everywhere. It was certainly rather confusing; 5 p.m., and in a tiny space surrounded by banana trees were the jabbering porters; boxes were lying about in the mud, and a small crowd of inquisitive natives stood round gaping with astonishment. One of them kindly offered to turn out of his tiny hut to allow us to change our soaking clothes, and our stay there turned out to be somewhat longer than we bargained for, for one of our porters came to us with a cheerful grin saying that he had left the ground sheet of the tent behind. Stacks of soaking grass had been laid down over the wet mud inside the tent, and our low camp beds were almost sitting in it. So we had them removed into the hut, and there we passed the night. Oh, these native huts! There are no apertures for light excepting the low entrance; this one was partially divided into two apartments by means of a reed screen, and in one of these we slept; in the other, our girls cooked and knocked about. There was just squeezing space for our two beds. Above mine was a ledge, where some fowls were roosting and strutting about, shaking down the soot and cobwebs that hung round the inside of the hut. We scarcely dared attempt to close our eyes, as rats were scampering about very excitedly all night. We cleared off as soon as we could in the morning, hoping to settle on a more congenial spot next time. The road left much to be desired: it was a constant succession of hills and deep ridges, with a few swamps to add variety to one’s mode of travelling. Feeling scarcely like wading through these, I mounted the shoulder of a stolid porter, who stumbled through the mud and water above his knees. It is a tragic experience to balance yourself up so high, and only a woolly pate to tenaciously hold on to, especially when your carrier gets stuck in the mud, and extricating it, with an unexpected jerk, nearly sends his burden and himself head-first. [Illustration: THE ALBERT EDWARD LAKE.]