At this juncture one of my French _confrères_, Jules Rateau, of the _Echo de Paris_, a very jovial fellow, with whom I had become very friendly, and to whom I had confided my troubles, invited me to go for a trip with him in his car, his own companion having had to go to Milan for a few days. I gladly accepted, and we arranged to attempt to get as far as the positions on the Stelvio Pass. This meant again staying away a night, as we learned it was far too arduous a journey to be done in a single day. Our intention was to make Bormio our first stage, sleep there and push on to the Stelvio the following day. It would be impossible to conceive a more wonderful motor trip. For scenery it is probably unsurpassed in the world. I have never seen anything to equal it. Our route part of the way went along that most romantic of lakes Idro. The road, which is magnificent, follows all the sinuosities of the shore on the very edge of the water, winding in and out, and in many places passing through tunnels in the cliff-like rocks. You somehow had the feeling that one ought not to be on a warlike expedition in such glorious surroundings, for the grandeur of it all overwhelmed you. Further on we passed through the valley of Valtellino, famous for its grape vines, and for several miles we were driving past the curious terrace-like vineyards in the mountain side, looking so peaceful in the glorious sunshine. Then, as we gradually ascended, the scenery changed, and we were in amongst gaunt, forbidding mountains, towering above the road on either side. All trace of cultivation disappeared by degrees; nature here no longer smiled, grim pine forests made black patches against the rugged slopes; there were traces of early snow on the high peaks, and the air was becoming chilly. The contrast with the tender beauty of the lower part of the valley was impressive in the extreme. We were now approaching the area of military operations, and occasionally we heard in the far distance the dull boom of guns. The ascent became steeper, and at length the road left the valley and began to climb up through the mountains by a series of corkscrew turns that are so familiar in mountainous districts, but here the acclivity was so steep that the turns were correspondingly numerous, and it was a veritable nightmare of a road. Our car, a Daimler of an old model, with a big, heavy tonneau, soon began to feel the test and commenced to grunt and hesitate in a manner that was not at all pleasant, considering that we were on the edge of a precipice and there was no parapet.