Through the Land of the SerbDurham, M. E. (Mary Edith)
History
Through the Land of the Serb
Durham, M. E. (Mary Edith)
Montenegro -- Description and travel; Serbia -- Description and travel
After an hour or so of enjoyment, the road got worse, and then rapidly
worse still, and fuller and fuller of water. The Bojana was in flood,
and the waters were out. My beast splashed through water almost up to
his belly, and Dutsi took circuits through peoples maize fields. Then it
got so bad that we left the track and laboured fetlock--deep through
ploughed land, and saw ox-carts bogged to the axle in the sea of mud
that was all that was left of the road. And after a little of this, the
track was lost altogether, and we wandered round through tracts of mud
and streams, forced a passage through an osier bed only to come to a
swirling sheet of water, tried back, and finally made for a hovel and
hallooed for help. The owner came out, took us over his own grounds, and
started us again on something like a path, which soon disappeared.
Dutsi, however, now knew the direction, and the pony was extraordinarily
clever at climbing greasy banks, boring his way through the willows on
top, and scrambling over the ditch the other side without even once
"pecking." We came to some low hills, and got on to dry ground at last.
Then Dutsi discovered to his distress that my umbrella, which he had
tied to the back of the saddle, was gone. This was a sad loss, but it
was evidently gone beyond recall. Dutsi in despair laid the blame
entirely on those devils the Turks, who made such devils of roads, and
were such devils to the good Christians that they were unable to improve
the country. "Oh, the devils!" said Dutsi; "they have lost your devil of
an umbrella." This relieved his feelings, and when I pointed out the
inky clouds that were rapidly rising and said we had better hurry, he
remarked piously, that though it looked like rain he believed that, in
consideration of the loss of my umbrella, God would not permit it, for
He does not like the Turks. Thus comforted, we proceeded, over low
ground again, splashing over fields that, properly drained, should be
magnificent water meadows, but were liquid slush in which great yellow
spearwort flourished. At last we came to the river's edge and the
ferryman's hut.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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