The train to Monastir is very slow: it takes the best part of a day to go about a hundred miles. The conductor, somewhat of a wag, informed us that, as the natives are accustomed to paying for transportation by the hour, they would probably drive if the railways charged more than the carriage-man’s rate per hour. But this is not the only reason the journey consumes such a length of time. Wherever there are two ways between towns the track invariably takes the longer. This, we were told, is due to the fact that while the Sultan seeks to limit the number and the terminal lengths of railways in his dominions, the Sublime Porte sees fit to subsidise these undertakings of foreign companies according to the mileage covered. Our train pulled slowly out of Salonica at 8 A.M., and dragged slowly into Monastir at 5.45 P.M., half an hour late in spite of the liberal time-table. The trip, however, was most interesting. There is a line of old Roman watch-towers along the coast, dilapidated things resembling Roman ruins in England. They are now inhabited by Turkish frontier guards, to whom Greek smugglers must pay tribute in order to bring in goods duty free. Behind these towers, across the bay, stands Olympus. The historic mountain, already forty miles away, is still to remain in view until we cross the Vardar Valley and burrow into the hills. We had got to know Olympus well, and looked upon him as a sort of sentinel of civilisation here on the border ’twixt East and West. The old fellow had carried us back to schooldays, and jogged our memories of the ancient Greeks. Of course, we appreciated his company on this journey inland, and admired the majestic manner in which our old friend travels. He goes along with the train just as the moon does; passing over minor objects, towns, forests, and insignificant things, and keeping steady pace with you, until a close range of unworthy hills suddenly cuts him off from view. Distance lends enchantment, but proximity makes importance.