Untitled - Beeldbibliotheek

nia

Ex LibrisC. K. OGDENTHE LIBRARYOFTHE UNIVERSITYOF CALIFORNIALOS ANGELES

CARAVAN DAYS

CARAVAN DAYS

AFTER LABOUR, REFRESHMENT

CARAVANDAYSBYBERTRAM SMITHAUTHOR OF "THE WHOLE ART OF CARAVANNING"ETC.Xont>onJAMES NISBET & CO. LIMITED22 BERNERS STREET, W.

First Published in 1914

CHAPTERCONTENTSFACEI. WHAT CARAVANNING Is . . . iII. THE CAMPAIGNING SIDE ... 9III. THE DOMESTIC SIDE . .18IV. THE HUMAN SIDE . .28V. THE CARAVAN " SIEGLINDA " .39VI. CREW AND EQUIPMENT ... 48VII. THE TROUBLES OF THE CARAVANNER 52VIII. To JOHN o' GROAT'S : I . .-57IX. To JOHN o' GROAT'S : II .-67X. To JOHN o' GROAT'S : III .76XI. OTHER JOURNEYS. . .86XII. How THE DAY is SPENT ... 92XIII. INCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTS .97XIV. MINCED SCOTLAND . . . .noXV. SAM AND SIMON . .118XVI. SPECIMEN DAYS .... 127XVII. ALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERS . .140XVIII. MEMORABLE CAMPS . . ..151XIX. OUR MARCH TO THE WEST ..159XX. ROAD-GAMES AND SHORT CUTS . 168XXI. THE ENEMY 181

. TheVICHAPTERCONTENTSPACKXXII. MEALS AND SUPPLIES . . .188XXIII. ENCOUNTERS 195XXIV. CLOTHES 207XXV. COUNTIES AND CORNERS . ..214XXVI. CAMPERS' LUCK .... 220XXVII. RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN . .225XXVIII. MEMBERS OF THE UNDERWORLD .242XXIX. THE JOURNEY'S END . . .246XXX. CARAVAN DAYS .... 255ILLUSTRATIONSAFTER LABOUR, REFRESHMENT .A WEEK-END CAMPTHE ARRIVAL AT GAIRLOCHLEAVING LOCH MAREE. . Frc>Htisf>irctto face page 04162226PLAN OF CARAVAN " SIEGLINDA "MAP OF AUTHOR'S ROUTE40end

Shall we make a journey?There's a highway that 1 knowIn a country where the heather meets the sky,Where the hillsides are ablaze with the bracken s autumn glow.Shall we make a journey You and I?There's a littlewhispering burn there t running peaty from the hill,And the shepherd's rich in poultry and in kye:So you may have poached eggs and batter pudding if you will.Shall we make a journey You and I?You will make the beds, Dear, and I shall make the tea ;And we'll hang our wee bit washing out to dry ;And we'll black our boots for Sunday, though there's no one thereto see.Shall we make a journey You and I?And though we may turn homeward when this littlejoumty'* dene,There's a gey long road before MS, Dear,forbye.So take my hand, my Comrade, and we two shall be as one.Shall we make a journey You and I?

CARAVAN DAYSCHAPTER IWHAT CARAVANNING ISIT is sixteen years since myfirst caravan TRIUMVIRwas built and made her first journey in the countyof Cheshire. But although those April days inDelamere Forest made it clear to me that ina caravan I had found the very instrument andprovision that I needed, the tour was no verysudden departure for myself or the members ofmy crew. For I had made many journeys beforethat, that were free of railways, luggage andhotels.I had travelled often across country witha knapsack, though that was a most imperfectequipment which failed to deal with lodging forthe night. And the same is true of sportivego-as-you-please tours in which one had to makeone's way from point to point by every means ofprogression that occurred. But other expedi-

2 CARAVAN DAYStions were more complete.I used to travel witha tent and pony-cart. I used to go down riverswith a fleet of small punts and make an entrancinglittleencampment at night upon the bank, everyman sleeping in a bale of straw in his own boat,with a tent to cover the whole. And the factthat I have never yet actually driven acrossScotland in the sleigh that I built with that endin view must be put down solely to the climate,which has refused me opportunity.I am not sure that I ought not to go evenfurther back to find the origin of my present zealfor caravanning, in the love of a very small boyfor secret habitations of all sorts. For I was notcontent with caves and man-holes, with the darkcorner above the rafters in the hay-loft or thelittle clearingthat I made in the heart of thethicket. Perhaps I took the first decisive steptoward the attainment of the caravan SIEGLINDAon the well-remembered day when Iset to workto build a house in a tree. It was neatly fittedin,high among the swaying branches, where nogrown-up could hope to follow : there I spentgolden hours, shut in by sunlit greenery : andit was a heavy blow to me when at last the oldholm-oak was felled to make wayfor a newtennis lawn. Even in SIEGLINDA I doubt if I

WHAT CARAVANNING IS 3have ever quite recapturedall that was lost onthat most fateful day.By degrees my love for caravanning hascrowded out all other forms of enterprise andleft no room for them.enough of TRIUMVIR. IAt first I could not havewas in a Liverpool officeat that time, but I fled to her precipitatelywhenever it was possible, and I kept her alwaysin commission, well stocked with clothing andprovisions,so that I could reach her at theshortest notice. I made a number of curiouslittle zigzag journeys in those days,a bit at atime, leaving the van just where she happenedto be when I had to return and often not rejoiningher for many weeks.And at last I took the bullby the horns and camped her permanently by acountry railway station, where I settled downand lived in her and travelled back and forwardevery day.There has hardly been a summer since then inwhich I have not been out in a caravan, either inTRIUMVIR or in one of her successors. I havetoured in Wales, in the South of England andin Dumfries and Galloway. Sometimes I haveset up a stationary camp for a week or two, andonce, when SIEGLINDA had been added to thenumber, I realized my old ambition of laying

4 CARAVAN DAYSout a village of caravans and tents, which houseda considerable population for a fortnight in ameadow by a stream. But until the summer of1912 I had in reality been wasting my time.In those early days caravanning was partly anadventure, but chiefly a means of escape. WhatI wanted was to get away, to harness my horseand drive off, to enter a new world where all myold habits were broken and all my old occupationswere suspended. The important matterwas not so much what I found before me as whatI left behind. I cared very little where I wentor indeed whether I travelled or remained incamp.I wandered about at will, toying withalternatives at everycross-road. I had nodestination and no reason for travelling North orSouth, if anything invited me to East or West.I would have no letters or newspapers or maps.I stopped my watch and lost the time of day.All that I wanted was to look for adventure andfollow it when found, wherever itmight lead.Thus I went lounging about the country, knowingno spur but the spur of the moment. And I fedmy sense of freedom by overturning all establishedtimes and seasons, going to bed at 2 p.m. ortravelling all night and camping at the dawn,taking afternoon tea at midnight or breakfast-

WHAT CARAVANNING IS 5ing in the afternoon. And I got what I wanted,for those were good days, rich in glowingmemories.But caravanning means something quite differentto me now. SIEGLINDA has not spent herdays in loitering and dawdling in pleasant places.Igo out now to make a journey. I must havean aim before me. I must feel all the way thatI am eating up the miles, sweeping across themap, drawing nearer to my goal. I am a closestudent of contour books, gradients and surfaces.Every night I mark down the course of the day'smarch upon the map and add the day's performanceto the tally of the miles. I do not meanto say that I travel rigidly according to a settledroute, refusing to turn aside. But I am rulednone the less by the main line of advance. I mustget forward with the campaign.Now that I come to sum itupI find that I havechanged my opinion on almost every point ofpractice. The caravan SIEGLINDA represents thenew order of things. She was built for ourwedding journey some years ago. We travelledabout two hundred miles through Galloway, in aceaseless downpour.It was then that my Partnerand I learned to handle our craft, to work intoeach other's hands and to fit ourselves for the long

6 CARAVAN DAYScampaign of which I have to tell.It was not tillMay, 1912, that the way was clear before us forthe dash to John o' Groat's.Ihave never been able quite to lose my firstsense of wonder in regard to caravanning and theway of life that makes it possible both to traveland to stay at home. It is enough to look overSIEGLINDA, lying now dismantled in her shed,and to think of where she has been in these lasttwo summers, of her hundred camping-grounds,of the long trail of hill and dale that she has leftbehind. For the fulness and romance of caravanninglie in the fact that you do not simply goto see a place and come away. You bring yourhouse and home and live there as a settled citizen.All the way you have made your journeyinto theunknown among familiar things. Every nightyou have the same house with a new garden, newviews from the windows, a new aspect to the sun,new neighbours and surroundings. Yet vourrooms and all about you are the same. You areliterally at home in the strangest places.Caravanningis sometimes attacked for itscomplexity and elaboration, compared withcamping-out. But it is of a different orderto livealtogether. By all means if you are goingin a tent and I am myself a keen lover of canvas

WHAT CARAVANNING IS 7cut down your necessities and simplify to thelast degree. But the special charm of a caravanis in complexity and completeness, the whole funof itis to bring with you a dwelling fitted out inevery detail, even to shoe-horns and paperknives.For this little home and all that itcontains isopen to competethat merely carry goods or passengers.with other vehiclesThink ofwhere she has been and where she still may go.I may perform the offices of my daily life in anyplace where wheels will carry me. I may drawup and make my tea and drink it in the heart ofPiccadillyor the Strand. In the thick of thedensest traffic or far on the lonely moor, into anycorner of these islands where there runs a reasonableroad I may take myself-contained community,my private habitation,and no matterwhere I may be I shall be able to lay my handupon the frying-pan, to take down the book whichI left overnight in the rack above my head, to gointo the bedroom and strop my razor or changemy shoes.I am often asked what I do when I am caravanning,if I fish or play golf or collect beetles, orwhat. But I have never looked upon a caravanas supplementing other pursuits. It is far toobig and beautiful a thing in itself to act as an

8 CARAVAN DAYSauxiliary.these things.I can only reply that no, I do none ofI am too busy caravanning.It appeals to me on three different sides. Thereis the Campaigning side the journey, the countryand the road. There is the Domestic side theinternal economyand matters of the household.And there is the Human side, with its wide varietyof encounters. For there isnothing when thetour isover and one's gains are added up thatcounts for half as much as the people one has metupon the way.I propose to discuss the matter in my nextthree chapters from these three points of view.

CHAPTER IITHE CAMPAIGNING SIDETHERE are some who find fault with caravanningand I believe I was myself among them in daysof long ago because its scopeis restricted to theroad. With a knapsack and a portable tent orwith a donkey and a sleeping-bag you may leavethe beaten track for unfrequented by-paths andpenetrate into far recesses of the country. Witha caravan your choice is closely circumscribed.But to argue in this manner is onlyto showthat you have misunderstood. The attempt toavoid the road by travelling across country isentirely foreignto the caravanner's intention.For he belongs to the road. Even if it werepossible for him to scamper up hillsides or wendhis way down narrow glens the result would onlybe to leave a gap in his record at the point wherehe had deserted it. He is quite free on campingdays to wander where he will, and he is not soclosely bound to the caravan that he cannot breakaway for a mile or two to explore. But the9

ioCARAVAN DAYSplace of the caravan is always on the beatentrack : it demands no preferential treatment : itfalls into its stride amongother travellers ofevery degree upon the common highway.Of course it does. The road iseverything tothe caravanner. It isincomparablythe mostinteresting, the most thrilling thing in the landscapeit is the key to the : country, the onegreat common possession: it is history, andgeography and a running commentary on theaffairs of the district : it is the entrance and theexit and the stage.Ifthe caravanner cannot love the road for itsown sake and cannot feel itspower to lead himon he need not hope to make much of it. Forthe road is his element ;he can never think of itas so much solid, stationary macadam. It is tohim a living, fluid thing, rolling on into theunknown, ready to carry him round a hundredbends and corners, over a hundred hills, bybridges and cuttings and embankments, by levelstretches and sweeping undulations, changing itswhole nature repeatedly, daily confronting himwith new problems, daily bringing him newrewards, till at last it shall deliver him up at thejourney's end.All his fortunes are bound up with it, and the

THE CAMPAIGNING SIDEnmain questions with which he must concernhimself are those of gradients and surfaces.Forin a long campaign through difficult country itisimperative to look ahead, to know very clearlywhat you are in for, and the art of making outroutes is largely in studying how best to takethe bad hills the right way on and to avoid steeproads where the surface is soft or stony. Withregard to gradients it may be taken as a generalrule that anything above i in 20 is easilytravelled :by the time we get down to i in 15we must be prepared for heavy collar-work :i in 12 isdangerously steep. I have seldomclimbed anything much worse than that.At the very root of the matter, then,is thisstrong compuls-'on to follow the road, to get onwith the task in hand and the need of that newdaily panorama that will unfold itself, discovering,as you go forward, what isbeyond theforest, what is behind the hill, what new thingeach bend of the road has kept in store for you.In the old idle days I used to look for campinggrounds in remote and hidden places.I was veryfastidious about my nightly settlement, and itwas not till I had decided upon it that I gave athought to stabling. But that was literally toputthe cart before the horse.With an arduous

12 CARAVAN DAYSmarch to carry through the prime considerationis to find good quarters for the horses. There istime enough to look for a " seat " for the vanafter. Thus I am generally to be found in campnot far from a farm.Imay have lost somethingin my free choice of neighbourhood.I havegained much in freer intercourse with my neighbours.And I have learned the solid worth ofstackyards.There is one factor in estimating the conditionsof the march that I prefer to leave out altogether,and that is the weather.For I am always on theside of the climate and know very well thatalmost all weather isgood for caravanning, andthat indeed we need allsorts and conditions ofweather to complete the full tale of experienceand adventure on the road. There are fourmonths in the year in which I have never beenout in a caravan, and I stillhope to remedy thatomission. But there is one day above all othersthat invites me forth the First of May. Despiteitsmany broken promisesI still look to itas theday above all others to yoke up and drive away,and it was on the First of May that we set outfor John o' Groat's. There is no good day forcoming back. All that can be said is that somedays are better than others. If you can keep out

THE CAMPAIGNING SIDE 13till the weather breaks finally in the autumn andyou drive home in wind and rain you may findit the easier to settle down. That was why Iarranged the journey of last summer so that itended in October. For I had been profoundlydiscontented on my return from John o'Groat's.The grip that caravanning takes upon you asthe days run on and you become more and moreestablished in this way of life, is most easilyestimated by the keenness of your reluctance toreturn. My Partner and I always try to look onthe bright side of it. We make up and exchangecharming visions of all the compensations thatawait us." Think of hot tubs," my Partner will say...." And electric light," I chime in." Andregular posts and newspapers."..." And breakfast will be waiting when weget down in the morning."..." And we won't ever have to wash up."..." And we can use as much hot water aswe like without having to carry it."..." And we can play the pianola."..." We can play tennis for that matter."..." And after a while the sheen will comeoff my hands," I say.recognize me as a cook.""People will no longer

14 CARAVAN DAYSWe do not of course persuade one another, butwe do come to think after a time that there mustbe something to be gotout of it.All that comfortable line of argument is vanity.Perhaps some of these new sensations help for ashort time to stave off the inevitable conclusion.But it isn't any good. We are discontented andill at ease. For every morning when " yokingtime " comes round it isbrought home to us thatthere is no journey before us to-day, nor tomorrow,nor on any future day, that we must becontent with the same old view from our windows,that this is our only camping ground.And there are all manner of practical inconveniences.We have been living with all our dailynecessities within reach : now they are scatteredand dispersed. It seems that one must be alwaystramping along passages, moving from one roomto another, climbing stairs. The furniture isrid of it.clumsy and there is no way of gettingWe can no longer shut down tables and chairs.Pianos and writing-desks and vast sofas cumberthe ground. There are so many clocks to windup on Monday morning:so manyso much too much of everything.doors to lock atnightAnd we can no longer control and manipulateour surroundings:they are out of hand. We

THE CAMPAIGNING SIDE 15lose that comfortable sense of intimacy with allour minor chattels which had been worth so muchto us.For my part I have a maddening desireto burst into the kitchen and see what isgoing on,to lend a hand with the boots or help to beat thecarpets.But the root cause of our discontent is ofcourse that we are not moving on, that we havelost our daily panorama. We are suffering simplyfrom " horizon hunger."" The pauses are also music often the best ofthe music," my singingmaster used to tell me.And the same may be said of the camping dayson a long caravan tour.they are not the best of the music. IfI am not at all sure thatthey areindulged in too frequently they will lose theirsavour, for they are only worth the having whenthey come with a record of solid achievementbehind them. But after a full week on the roadit is delightful to rise half an hour later than usualwith no sense of urgency or dispatch,to sit onafter breakfast for a while and smoke a pipe,while one calculates how manyhave gathered up since last theyof the letters thatwere answeredit will be possible to neglect.Not that a camping day in SIEGLINDA hasabout itany flavour of idleness. The day's work

16 CARAVAN DAYSdoes indeed get slowly under way, but itrises intime to a fever of activity. It is Herbert's greatopportunity, with mop and broom and chamoisleather. (I shall introduce Herbert to you shortly :he is driver and handy man.)Inside and out thecaravan must be purged of all the stains of traveland the dust of the road. The first rite is thewashing of the floor, in preparation for which allmovables must be ejected in chaos and put backlater on in their due order.Then stoves, pots andpans, boots and shoes, curtain-rods, candlesticksand brasses must be made to shine. For my partIout the boxesam rotfnd at the back, cleaningand considering the state of the stores, re-arrangingand repacking. It is not until the evening whenHerbert has transferred his energies to the harnessthat peace descends upon the camp.Much depends upon the country and the roads,but generally a hundred miles a week isgoodgoing. Allowing for the many delays which arebound to occur, in watering the horses, shopping,enquiring about camping -ground, perhaps mendingharness or holding up a baker's cart, one doesnot reckon upon travelling more than three milesan hour : and six or seven hours on the roadevery day is rather more than enough.I do notgenerally travel more than five days a week,

THE CAMPAIGNING SIDE 17stopping for Sunday and one other day, with alonger pause about once a month for overhauling.At her very best SIEGLINDA travels at four milesan hour. That is on a sharply undulating roadwhere she is takingthe short rises at a trot.When I have to time her from point to point I amquite safe in estimating her paceat three and ahalf. And three and a half miles an hour isexactly the speed at which to travel if you wouldsee all that is to be seen, talk to everyone whohas anything to tellyou and absorb and digestevery stretch of the road, so as to make out bitby bit that perfect mental mapof the wholecountry which shall be yours when the journeyis complete.

CHAPTER IIITHE DOMESTIC SIDEIHAVE already spoken of the comfortable senseof intimacy with his minor chattels that belongsto the caravanner. It is the good workman'slove for the feel of the tools that have been wornby long use to his hand. It is very good,opening ofat thea tour, to be back again among thedear, familiar things, the small contrivances, thespecialinstruments and utensils that have lainidle through the winter, and to meet again theold problems where you left them, as to whetherthe fruit-bag should be hungbeside the windowor beneath the candlesticks, as to which fryingpanshould be reserved for omelettes, as to whichhook must be kept for the wheel-key.I am thenin the position of a collector who has been restoredafter a long absence to his possessions.I cannotpoint to an ivory drinking-cup which I picked upin India or a calabash pipe from Johannesburgor an Italian statuette, as some may do. But Ihave the small, squat,blue kettle that came out18

THE DOMESTIC SIDE 19of a village shop in Cheshire, the Sevenoaks teapot,the tumbler with the scratched inscriptionupon it, which, if everyone had his rights, belongsto a small public-house in Cumberland. I havewhat I believe to be the only really efficient pairof housemaid's gloves, which I found in an ironmonger'sshop in Beauly and my best corkscrew;hails from Aberdeen. Memories cluster about eachtea-infuser and cruet-stand. My belongings havebeen lovingly accumulated in all parts of the land.And it isalways good to be back among them.There are allsorts of preliminary stepsto betaken in these first few days.The cook is helplesstill he has begun to build up his dripping-bowl :the rough-paper bag must lay in stock : sodawatermust be made : a small glass jar must beinaugurated as an ash-tray,for when you havebeen at the game as long as I have youknock off cigarette ash into cupswill notor saucers :there are oil-tanks to fill, new wicks to stretch,cloths and cleaners to apportion. All theseintroductory operationslaying of foundation stones.are full ofpromise, likeEspecially I should like to tell you of my housemaid'sgloves. They are a remarkable pair,peculiar I should say to the Beauly neighbourhood,for I have never seen their like elsewhere,

20and there is of course enormous range in thequality of housemaid's gloves. I think if I werea millionaire I should always use chamois leatherand order them in dozens of pairs. There isnothing to compare with them in comfort andappearance, and it is a delightful sensation towash them, soapily. They also fit so close thatyou have the satisfaction of being nearer to yourjob in them than in the other sorts. But they arefeeble to protect you in the lifting of hot plates,and they simply will not stand the wear that Iputon them. Ihave tried many of the toughersorts. Some remain clammy after washing :some are too clumsy some grow hard and :crack,and many shrink. My Beauly pair alone havenone of these failings. They have already seenlong service and are all the better for it. Theyare strong and tough and soft and generouslylarge, of a fine buff colour, and their special meritis in the fact that like Norwegian ski-bootsthey are built with the seams outside.I am myself the cook. Throughoutof my experience of caravanningthe wholeI have heldabsolute sway in the kitchen. For years Imaintained the right to throw out of the doorwayany unauthorized pot or pan that appeared uponthe hob, and that I now admit a certain measure

THE DOMESTIC SIDE 21of co-operationis due to the decided talents thatmy Partner has displayed in the matter of theSweets a department that I had perhapsneglected.I shall never be a good plain cook.I sometimeswonder if,even in these days of rising wages, Ishould be worth twenty pounds a year to anyone.For there are great gaps in my experience.My fixed determination to have nothing to dowith cookery books and to spurn the advice of theexcellent Mrs. Beeton has restricted my knowledgeof the common fare of e very-day life.itButmay, I think, with truth be said that with allmy shortcomings there is about my cookingsomething of that dash and originality whichcharacterizes the amateur in every branch ofsport. I pride myself on making much of humblethings, for it is when the forager has failed andsupplies are low that the caravan cook must riseto his best efforts.I should think little of him ifhe could not make fish-cakes without fish.Aboveall, I like to deal with the potato and the egg.Theyare both a constantstand-by, but widelydifferent in character one of a grand consistency,apt to be carved or chipped or shredded,mashed or moulded : the other with a wide rangeof body and fluidity, from the merest froth to an

22 CARAVAN DAYSalmost leathery slab. One is dour and slow tocook, the other active and responsive. Whilethe potato must be goaded and pushed forward,the egg must be retarded and held back.Perhaps the hour or two before supper, on anight when I have a big campaign on hand, isthe time that I recall most gratefully in the cycleof the caravanner's day.The period of preparation,cutting up, mixing, peeling, buttering,blending is well over and everything is under way,each member with its proper handicap, so that allwill reach the post together. Delicious hiddenprocesses are going forward in the oven, simmeringpots crowd the top of the stove. Only the pancakesremain for a final spurt on the Primusstove when the table is alreadyset. There isplenty of quiet occupation in stirring, flavouring,peering into the oven, lifting a lid now and then,moving a pot from one station to another. Thefront of the van isopen and I have ample timeto contemplate the traffic of the stackyard in thetwilight,to watch Herbert putting up his tent,or exchange a few words with a passing ploughman.And before the final rite of dishing up Ispend hilarious minutes, with gloved hands andfrying-pan, tossing pancakes, slithering them toand fro, rolling and punching and building them

23into a pyramid. And if, as is most likely, I havean experiment in the oven, there will be plenty ofexcitement when we come to dishing up.Caravanning contains no more delightful featurethan itspower of elevating and ennobling sordiddomestic jobs. I have often told myselfthat itcannot really be any fun to peel potatoes,or itwould have been discovered long ago. And yetas I sit on the door-mat by the side of the streamwith a pointed knife and a bucket I am quiteunconscious of any lack of interest in my work.On the contrary, as long as potatoes continue toshow the magnificent variety in substance andcontour that Ihave always found in them, thisis an engrossing pursuit. The filling of oil-tanksand trimming of wicks, a dutythat falls tomylot early in the day, might possibly repel theunaccustomed.But I rather like to feel the wickscrunch as I rub it down, and it calls for a goodeye and some sense of balance to succeed andget a clear white flame, quite free from peaks andundulations.The important matter of shoppingalso ceasesto be a necessary evil and becomes a delightfulexploit. I like nothingbetter than to come totown, draw up at the post office and, dividing thelist among the members of the crew, assume my

24 CARAVAN DAYSmarket basket. The ironmongerisalways ahappy hunting-ground for fresh discovery, butgenerally my most important item is the visit tothe butcher. I am not now very easily taken inon the question of meat. You will not find mecarrying away a sirlointhat does not stand upor steak that is cut too thin. With the grocer Ilook forward to some pleasant discussion while heis slicing the bacon, and there are sundry oldwomen in dairies who are worth a visit. WhenI have looked round and exclaimed with enthusiasmwhat a delightful shop this is, I generallyfind we are on terms and she must see the interiorof SIEGLINDA before Idrive away.in theBy degrees I have lost all shame about shopping.It isnothing to me now to pull uphigh street of a popular resort and open my backlarder for all the world to see, while I kneel downand fill my egg-box: or to set off across the roadwith an oil-can in one hand and a case of emptybottles in the other. A caravan has a way ofexplaining these things, even as it explains one'scostume and appearance. It is a safe passportto the goodwill of the neighbourhood.But despite my love for myutensils there aretimes when they exasperate me beyond measure.For with all my ingenuity and with all my years

THE DOMESTIC SIDE 25of practice I cannot keep them still. There isno more baffling problem in a caravan than theprevention of the twin visitations of jibbing andchittering. The wind cannot be entirely to blame :I often feel that it is no more than a pretext.Forthe thingisbrought about by some sort of evilconspiracy among my goods and chattels. Otherwisehow is it that an oil-can on a hook will remainsilent for half the tour and then suddenly lift upits voice in the dead of night in response to thegentle knocking of the frying-pan against thekitchen wall ?Of all the adversities that we have to face thisis the only one that reduces me to despair. Forthings only jib and chitter in the night, and theynever start till the light is out. I am thinking ofa night at Melvich, on the way to John o' Groat's,when we were in an exposed position and the windwas high. I waited and listened long beforeputting out the candle and I found about me thesilence of the tomb. But a quarter of an hourlater, just when I was on the verge of sleep, thefun began. I heard a subdued and rhythmiccreaking just below my head. That was theroller swinging. Had I been new to the game Isuppose I should have got up at once and silencedit, but I knew better. I faced the fact that I was

26 CARAVAN DAYSin for one of those periods of hectic and variedactivity, known in a caravan as a night's rest.And so I waited for a bit that I might kill twobirds or more with one stone. Soon I heard theplaintive moan of a restless bucket, and after thatone of the cups on its hook in the corner cupboardbegan to tap very gently and at irregular intervals.Then I got up and fixed these three.The next effort was a sort of scraping, scoringnoise, a rubbing, a grinding, a swaying back andforth. This I could not place at all. I did noteven know if it was inside the van or out, andevery time I got up to look for it, it heard mecoming and stopped. My Partner made somehelpful suggestions as that it was something onthe roof which might be reached with the ladderif it was near the :edge but it was a long timebefore I ran it to earth. It was the whip swingingagainst the side of the van where some idiot hadhung it. I flungit as far as I could across themoor and got back to bed. Then the door beganto chatter and had to be wedged. . . .As the night wore on I grew more and moredetermined. When I fixed a thing I did not haveto fix it twice. I was soon crawling about witha hammer and nails, a few wedgesand a ball ofstring. There are all sorts of ways of jamming

27things. Perhaps the . things that simply flap. .are the worst. I caught my razor-strop at thatgame. I do not think that it will do it again, butit is true that it was not improved as a stropby the four-inch screw that I put through it.And at last I succeeded, long after dawn, andwent to bed with a fine sense of stringency andtautness all about me. But when Herbert greetedme in the morning and wanted to know if I hadhad a good night I told him that I was thinkingof a plan of having a little chamber made in thegarden at home, hewn out of the living rock, witha lid a place where I could crawl in and spendthe first night after my return.

CHAPTER IVTHE HUMAN SIDEAND of course the road is the place to meetpeople, and caravanning stands almost alone inits faculty for fortunate encounters. Those whoare of a morose or solitary habit would do well totry some other way of life, for the caravannerfalls in with all sorts and conditions of men andhe has everything in his favour to put him on goodterms with them. He does not, as some may do,fling his dust in their faces and rush on, nor doeshe pride himself on avoiding other wayfarers by"keepingoff the beaten track." And if hetravels with an open mind, fullof curiosity andready for adventure, he will let slip no opportunityfor making new acquaintances.I can look back upon a vast and variouscompany of them, made up of caravanners likemyself, of tinkers, stone-breakers, road surveyors,policemen, farmers, schoolmasters, ministers,shopkeepers of every degree, artists, sportsmen,gamekeepers, school children, tramps, magnificent28

THE HUMAN SIDE 29people in motor-cars, grubby people in donkeycarts,railway porters and hotel proprietors, andthere are veryfew of them who have not donesomething to help me on my way.It is a mosthappy relation, this of the caravanner to thepeople of the country where he travels. Itcreates an atmosphere of hospitality. For thecaravanner isimmensely dependent upon theinhabitants. He islooking for favours, notdemanding rights. Every camping-ground is aconcession. He is the guest of a whole neighbourhood.And I do not know how it is but there isthat about him that touches the hearts especiallyof kindly and comfortable old ladies.to feel that there issomethingThey seemforlorn in hisposition, travelling as he does without a properroof over his head. And they want to ministerto him.This hospitable spirit works both ways. Fora caravan itself is the most approachable ofdwellings. It has no high hedges or trellises orfrowning gateways to keep out the passer-by, andeveryone, without exception,what it is like inside. So that we have manycallers. One of the queerest of them alldroppedin one evening when I was camped in the cornerof a stackyard at Bonar Bridge. My Partneris curious to see

30 CARAVAN DAYSwas lying down for half an hour before supper,and I was at work at the stove when I wassuddenly aware of someone sitting on the stepand peering into the van, with his head just on alevel with my feet." Are yer fond o' toorin' ? " he asked, withoutany further introduction. I told him that I was :and he sighed. He had had a caravan himselfat one time, he explained, and had lived in itfortwo years. But he had tired of it. He was ashabby little, dried-up, disconsolate-looking man,an Englishman.I asked him about himself,and he told me that he was an itinerant photographerand was walking through the villages,taking " growps." His heart seemed to be full ofpity for me." It's allvery fine and large fer a time fer aweek or two. But you'll tire of it, same as I did."" Oh, I don't think so," said I." Yes yer will. Stands to reason. Ye'll tireof it in time. Ye'll feel a a a sort of atameness."He shifted his position and rested his elbowon the floor. "I 'ed to give it up, yer see, so Iknow."" But why did you give it up ? " I asked." Didn't itpay ? "

THE HUMAN SIDE 31" Paid like smoke. But it worn't any good."There was a pause, and then he added, confidentially,in an undertone, " Couldn't stand themonopoly."" Oh, that was it ? "" Yes : week after week. Yer wouldn'tbelieve 'ow itmonopolous were.ter think of a way out."I've often triedI assured him that I had never suffered in thatrespect, that, on the contrary, I found itveryentertaining. But he stillregarded me with aneye of deep compassion. He clearly wanted tohelp me if he could. At last it came to him." "I'll tell yer wot I sh'd do," he said, if I wosyou. If I wos youI sh'd either (it'd be quitesimple, yer know )I sh'd either run a little bitof a circus or 'old religious meetin's. It don'tmatter w'ich.That's wot I sh'd do."I had to turn away to put the hot plates on thetop of the copper, and when I looked round againhe had gone, which was a pity, as I should haveliked to have had some further conversation withhim, and I think my Partner would have beenpleased to meet him.It is not in the nature of things that all ourencounters should be entirely friendly, but theonly time that I found myself seriously at

32 CARAVAN DAYSvariance with my neighbours was on the greatoccasion of Sam's night out. I shall have muchto tell you of the horses, and you will learn thatthis incident was quite in keeping with Sam'scharacter, while Simon's behaviour was exemplarythroughout. We were camped at a little villagein Inverness-shire, and the horses were put upin the hotel stable along with a small, lean, whitepony belonging to the Postman. There was ofcourse no eye-witness of the dark doings of thatnight, but as far as we could judge from theevidence that remained in the morning, thiswas what happened. First Sam broke loose :then he went over and liberated Simon who,however, took no part in the affair.After that,with some ingenuity, he opened the door thatled to an adjoining shed. There he disposed ofthe greater part of a bag of oats and topped offwith a square meal of potatoes (which were not atallgood for him).Then he turned his attentionto the Postman's pony, in a spirit, I am convinced,of pure playfulness ; but Sam is a gooddeal more heavy-handed than he knows. Thepony was marked somewhat conspicuously onthe scruff of the neck, which rather looked as ifSam had picked him up and shaken him, as adog might shake a rat. ThereafterSam got both

THE HUMAN SIDE 33feet jammed in the rack, so that he was quiteunable to move, and waited patiently for thedawn.Early the following day which we spent incamp the Postman appeared, demanding heavydamages.I did not like to commit myself to adefinite figure, but suggested that as a basis ofcalculation we should try to arrive at the valueof the pony when enjoying normal health.There we disagreed, for he putit at Ten Poundswhile I putweek or less the pony would be ready for the road.But meantime he must run the mails. He mustit at Three. He admitted that in ahire from the Hotel Proprietor.him Fifty Shillings.That would costIt is needless to follow all the negotiations.The village was soon split into two camps.TheHotel Proprietor sided with the Postman, but theBlacksmith, with a small following, came overto us. And the matter was by no means simplifiedby the arrival of the Postman's Father, who putin a plea (which appeared to be groundless) thatthe pony belonged to him.The great scene occurred when the horses werebrought out of the stable the following morning.The whole village was there, and the yard wasin a ferment. Herbert, whose part had beenD

34 CARAVAN DAYSrehearsed overnight, handed the Postman thesum of One Pound. It was not a question ofany damages or compensation, he pointed out.But the poor man had had his pony hurt, and thiswas a little present for him." I think," put in the Blacksmith ponderously,that Mr. Smith is one in a thousand"toat all."pay anythingThen followed a torrent of argument fromthe Hotel Proprietor (who had already been paidfor his oats and potatoes) with many threats ofan action at law. It was the Blacksmith'sopinion, however, that if it was a question oflaw there was a good case against a landlordwho provided rotten halters in his stables, sothat horses got loose and poisoned themselveswith potatoes. To this startling declaration headded impressively," To my mind he's one ina thousand in a thousand to pay anythingat all."At that point the Postman dropped out.Hewas but a weakling at the best, and he wentoff to the stables, pretty well content withthe spoils. But this was not the end of it,so the Hotel Proprietor assured us. This wasby no means the end of it. It was only thebeginning. He was boldly confronted by the

THE HUMAN SIDE 35Blacksmith for the principals on both sideshad now retired from the arena. The crowd wasveering round, and there were even some whosuggested that the Postman had gone to harnessthe pony. At last Herbert advanced with ahorse in either hand, and the crowd made way forhim to pass. At that dramatic moment theBlacksmith broke the tense silence, as ifsummingup."The plain truth is," he said," he's one in athousand."And so we drove away, and Ineed not dwellupon our encounter with the Postman's Mother,who met us on the road, protesting that the ponyin reality was her private property.Even in the most pleasant wayside conversationson a caravan tour one cannot, I suppose,always expect to meet with original views, andthere is a certain bogy of reiteration which pursuesme. If I relate to you what happened when I wentshopping in Aberfeldy you are to understandthat this isonly a fair sample of what alwayshappens equally elsewhere, except that this wasthe only time that I rebelled.I had started with the butcher, who had beenkeeping his eye upon the expedition through hiswindow ever since it arrived.

36 CARAVAN DAYS" It must be a nice way to see the country," heremarked cheerfully." Oh, yes," I agreed." It's an ideal holiday.I want a square little sirloin about six pounds."" I dare say you like that better than motoring,"he went on, " "because" Because," said I (for I know the answer tothat one by heart)," you are not in too great ahurry and have plenty of time to look about you.Very well, six and a half, ifyou like. Better putin some suet."I had to go to the baker next." It must be an ideal holiday," said the youngwoman, as soon as she had established myconnection with the caravan." " Oh, yes, yes," said I. That is so.By allmeans."" And such a nice way to see the country.""Quite," said I. "I want a half -loaf, and Imust have one that doesn't bulgeor itwon't fitmy tin." I got off with that, but I passed aflorid old gentleman with a stick, as soon as Igot out of the shop, who was maintaining, inconversation with Herbert, that in his opinionit was a long way better than a motor, asifyoucame to think of ityou were able, not being intoo great a hurry, to look about you and see

THE HUMAN SIDE 37the country. I hastened on, with avertedhead.When the grocer concluded that it was an idealway to see the country I felt that he was mixingthings up rather. However, I put in the littlebit about the motor and not being in a hurry.And I thought that that had finished him. I wasdisappointed when he reverted, jumped back andbegan again in the middle of the bar." I think it must be a perfect holiday," he said,as he handed me the parcel" er er ideal.""Quite," said I mournfully. He was apleasant fellow, this grocer. I felt that, nowthat we had exhausted the preliminaries, it was apity not to have more conversation with him.But Ihad to move on to the chemist and beginall over again. They had nearly worn me outamong them, and I felt at first that I couldhardly face it. But I pulled myself together andwent in." "Do you see that caravan out there ? I askedsternly." Yes ? Are you sure ? Well, it belongsto me. I travel in it. I want to make it clearto you that it is an ideal holiday." He tried tobreak in, but I talked him down. " I think youwill agree with me that it is a nice way to see thecountry. I prefer it to motoring, and do you

38 CARAVAN DAYSknow why ? Because I am not in too great ahurry, and thus have plentyof time to lookabout me. And now " I took a long breath" I wish you would let me inspect your stock oftooth-brushes."

AND now ICHAPTER VTHE CARAVAN " SIEGLINDA "shall have to describe the CaravanSIEGLINDA. It is not without a certain emotionthat I present her to you, for you will understandthat she is worth something more to me than thesum of her component parts, after all we havebeen through together. She issimply my idea ofthe Perfect Caravan, and I do not believe thatthere isany point in which I can improve uponher. I have only arrived at her by a long andcomprehensive process. She is the last of aseries of caravans, each of which has been tested,altered, adapted and superseded in its turn,and she has now gone through the final and mostnecessary stage of long experience. For I havelived and toured in her for many months,travelling by all sorts and conditions of roads,camping in all manner of places, encounteringall varieties of weather and making smallimprovements and modifications all the way.Perhaps I have done my work too well.39When

40 CARAVAN DAYSnext I take the road I am afraid that a coat ofvarnish is all that will be called for, and I shallmiss something in those pleasant feverish weeksof " fitting out," which used to be so full ofsearching tests and fresh inventions.She is nearly eighteen feet long, six feet sixbroad, three feet six high, to the floor, and tenfeet to the roof. She is built of three-ply oakpanelling, three-sixteenths of an inch thick, witha frame of oak, and a roof of red Oregon Pine,covered with white canvas. She has one screwbrake, worked from the front, and since myjourney to John o' Groat's I have fitted anotherbehind (operating on the back of the back wheels,so that they are gripped on either side)for usein emergency. This has taken the place of theslipper. The under-carriage projects about twofeet in front of the body of the van, forming alittle platform. She has a full lock, sound axlesand springs and strong carriage wheels, aboutthree feet in diameter, with steel tyres of twoand a half inches breadth. The wheels are setwell below the body.We shall now have to have a ground plan of theinterior. I have shown it with the tables foldeddown and the chairs up, so that we may haveroom to move about, and I should explain that it

THE CARAVAN "SIEGLINDA" 41contains no mysteries or complications. Withthe exception of the tables and chairs and thewashstand, there isnothing that folds or tilts,or collapses or disappears. I cannot of courseget everything into my plan, without confusion,but I have shown the general arrangement.The Kitchen is a small compartment, entirelyopen, in fine weather, to the front. There is arecess in the partition wall, which holds theRippingille stove, with its six-inch wicks ateither end and large oven in the middle. On thetop of this rests a square copper box, holdingfive gallons of water, which can be heated to theboiling point in about a coupleof hours. Thatis an excellent innovation, as the demand forboiling water used to keep my hobs closelycrowded with kettles all the evening. Below thestove is a drawer full of treasured cookingutensils, an egg-whisk, grater, apple-corer, alarge pair of scissors and many more.Here alsois a dripping-bowl and sundry flavourings. Upone side of the stove run a series of little leatherpouches (made out of the fingers of an old pairof gloves) which hold my private knife, fork andspoon, and salt and pepper dusters. Above thestove the recess is filled with rods and hooks fordrying clothes and shoes. There is a folding

42 CARAVAN DAYStable at my left hand and over to the right, ifstretch a long arm, I can reach the cold-watertank (which also holds five gallons) and chargemy beaker at the tap. In this way all the haulingabout of cans and buckets inside the van, whichis apt to make life a burden, has been eliminated.Above the cold tank is a corner cupboardIfull ofcrockery, and below it the housemaid's pantry,screened by a curtain. Finally, far above myhead, as I sit on my camp-stool at the stove, areone or two hooks for my housemaid's gloves,kitchen towels and the members of the underworld(of whom I shall have more to tell).ThePrimus stove is set on the floor when in action.It is chiefly called upon for quick frying. Andslnng on the wall by leather straps is my seasonedbrace of wooden spoons known to me as Sweetand Savoury.Ibelieve that all highauthorities on caravanninghave condemned the Rippingille stove, andevery other oil stove with wicks, as obsolete.Some uphold the " duck " oven and cookers ofthat type: others are in favour of coal. For mypart I have tried them all and returned withgratitude to the Rippingille. The coal stovewhich used to occupy the kitchen of SIEGLINDAwas not abandoned without a pang.I doubt if

THE CARAVAN "SIEGLINDA" 43she has ever looked so well as she used to do ona stormy night, with the smoke whisking awaybefore the wind, from her little white-bonnetedchimney. And in bad weather there was muchcomfort in the glowing coals, not to speak of thetoast they made, that was not to be lightlyforgotten.But that tiny kitchen range had toomany drawbacks, and it was given up after theJohn o' Groat's journey. It necessitated notonly carrying a chimney, but a ladder to takethe chimney off and on. It was heavy in itself,and called for heavy, dirty fuel :and it was noteasy in remote places to get coal. Further, theoven could not be kept up without insistentattention, and a hot oven is the backbone ofsuccessful cookery. With my old ally, theRippingille, the oven is hot in ten minutes, andmaintains an even heat thereafter. And it isvery hot, for it soon runs my oven thermometerto its limit of 400 degrees. The Rippingille alsocan be perfectly regulated, turned down andsafely left. By leaving one lamp very low atnight I can count on a supply of hot water, inmy copper box, in the morning. And that is agood long step into the routine of a new day.The Primus stove, the faithful servant of allwho must get their own meals in a hurry,is a

44 CARAVAN DAYSvaluable second string. But I should like toexpress my hearty contemptserious cooking with spirit lamps.for all efforts atI would aboutas soon try to carve with a penknife or digpotatoes with a spoon.Let us now look into the Middleroom. Itswalls are of dark green painted canvas, and thewoodwork is white. It is almost square, butone of the corners, as you will see, is missing,owing to the bite taken out by the kitchen recess.There are three folding chairs and tables on eitherside. The windows on both sides slide up anddown.But the strong point of the middleroomis the complete and ingenious occupation of itswall-space. It would not be easy to lay yourhand upon any part of the wall that is notrendering special service. Above my Partner'shead is a small corner cupboard (salt, pepper, tea,coffee, etc.), and below that an ink-bottle andpen, slung in leather loops. Near the roof, in theOld Campaigner's corner, is a light railway rack,corresponding to a similar one above my ownhead. On the side walls are a bag for fruit, ahook for candlesticks, a satchel for unansweredletters. The wall at the back of the recesscarries a knife-and-fork box lined with greenbaize, carvers, corkscrews, tin-openers in leather

THE CARAVAN "SIEGLINDA" 45loops, and at the floor a canvas rough-paper bag.Above there are many leather loops, for map,diary, contour-book, letters for post, newspapers.Finally, in each corner hangs a pot for flowers"on a hook, an institution which greatly sets" off the room without adding to the number ofloose properties. For the small, exasperatingtraffic in minor chattels, with no fixed place ofabode, must always be cut down. Everythingdayyou are likely to need in the course of theshould be at hand, and even visible, but it shouldbe well out of your way and firmly fixed.Thatiswhy we have so far developed the wall-worksof the middleroom.I am afraid that there is not much more to bedone to this room.The Head Mechanic sits andponders on it sometimes in the quietof theevening, trying to devise improvements ; butthere is little scope for him left.The Bedroom is about eight feet by six and ahalf, and I do not think that more solid comfortwith so little confusion could be packed into thespace. For I count the bedroom to be the creamof SIEGLINDA. A double bed, four feet in breadth,made of wooden slats like those often used onboard ship, occupies the far end. A broad shelf,capable of being used as a bed, crosses the foot

46 CARAVAN DAYSof it, some twenty inches higher. This carriesall the extra bedding belongingto the tents.Between the end of this shelf and tne partitionis a tall, narrow chest of drawers, above that abookcase, while below the shelf (between thechest of drawers and the bed)is a wardrobe,covered by a curtain.The only window is on the opposite side. Ithas a sliding shutter that obscures the lower halfof it.In the large angle of wall-space above thebed there are many thingsa corner cupboard,a railway rack, a swinging candle-lamp, a coupleof long bags of strong linen, divided into compartments,which carry all the boots and shoes.These are generally out of place on the floor,and have a horrid faculty for getting kicked awayinto inaccessible corners and beneath low-lyingobstacles.Below the window isa table, and beside thata folding wash-stand, whose disused water-tankhas been divided up to carry bottles.Under thebed is a linen-chest in the form of a huge drawer,which contains an immense amount of stuff.There isspace behind that where all such thingsare stowed as are not likely to be wanted in everydaylife. There is also room at the end of thechest for camp beds.

THE CARAVAN "SIEGLINDA" 47On the roof above the shelf is a hat-rack ofcords.The clock isstrapped to the wall above the washstand.There is a tight little corner beside the windowfor fishing-rods and The Umbrella.Pipes go on the top of the bookcase ;therolling-pin and board on the top of the linenchest;the writing-board on the wall above theshelf ;and all wandering odds and ends are flunginto the railway rack.There are elegant curtains.At night a perpetual draughtis secured bychaining back the door and opening the windowsof the middleroom as well as that of the bedroom.But that programme may be modified by thedirection of the rain.A carpet cannot possibly be kept going in acaravan, where all the muddy traffic is confinedto a few square feet. The floor of SIEGLINDA iscovered with cork matting, and she carries acharming little woolly rug, which makes its soleappearance at dinner parties.

CHAPTERVICREW AND EQUIPMENTMY PARTNER and I divide the duties of our householdso that there is no overlapping and we neverget into each other's way. I am Cook, Scullionand Head Mechanic : she is Chambermaid, Seamstressand Official Photographer.I am on myown ground in the kitchen, while she rules witha rod of iron in the bedroom. In the middleroomwe maybe said to meeton equal terms.I am not quite able to explain why the making ofmustard rests with her, while the charging of thesoda-water syphon is in my hands, but such finedistinctions are well understood between us, andwe are perhaps both a little jealous of our ownspecial jobs and resent encroachments.When we have visitors with us they sleep in aand we can manage pretty comfortably totent,accommodate four at table in the middleroom, myPartner sitting on a camp-stool. In an emergencythe middleroom can be converted into a bedroomfor two,48

CREW AND EQUIPMENT 49We carry two tents,one for Herbert and onefor visitors. These are Alpine tents of a floorspace of about seven feet square, and are builtwith the floor-cloth sewn on and the poles sewninto the corners, so that they can be instantlyrolled up, all in a piece, and slung in the crutch.The crutch isthe back of the van, hingeda barred structure, like a gate, atat the bottom andswung out as far as is necessary on chains. Itcarries a sack of oats besides the tents, horsecloths,nose-bags and so on.Under the van at the back is a larder and boxfor pots and pans, and the whole of the restthe space beneath the floor is taken up by a net,which holds camp furniture and odds and ends.We take three camp beds, two small tables, somechairs and camp-stools. Buckets and oil-canshang on hooks, along with a bag for vegetables.On my last journeyI took also a new andspecial invention in the form of a camp-stable,to be used when we wanted to stop in lonelyplaces where there was neither stabling nor grassfor the horses. It is a sturdylittle structure,about seven feet high, in shape like the letter H,and supported by pegged ropes. The horses aretied to the cross-bar face to face, cloths are puton them, boxes of oats slung to the bar and a netEof

50 CARAVAN DAYSfull of hay suspended overhead.As it turned outthis stable was never used, as we always foundgood accommodation, so that its efficiency hasnot yet been tested. It remains an open questionwhether Sam would have contrived to wreck itin the watches of the night or not.We also carry a spade, a scythe, a bag of tools,rope, a few spare straps, polish for harness, brass,boots and stove ; dubbin, nails, and extra brakeleathers.I shall have so much to sayof the horses in thecourse of my story that here no more is necessarythan a bare introduction. Sam has been on thefarm for several years, though he was new to thecaravan. He stands a full seventeen hands highand is of a rich dark grey, with a most appealingcountenance. He is a horse of great power andof a most lively disposition.There isnothing hefears so much as being bored. Simon, who wasonly bought a week before we started, as a matchfor Sam, isof a lighter greyand a more slenderbuild. He is a willing, dogged soul with a constitutionalobjection to rain in his face, whichfusses and irritates him beyond measure. Wehave more than once discussed the question offitting him out with an umbrella.Herbert looks after the horses, brings water and

CREW AND EQUIPMENT 51supplies, and the rest of his time is given overfor the most part to polishing, rubbing, shining,furbishing to keeping the caravan itself, theharness, boots and shoes, candlesticks, lamps,knives, forks and spoons and half a hundred otherthings bright and clean.

CHAPTER VIITHE TROUBLES OF THE CARAVANNERAND now before we start together upon our dashto John o' Groat's and thereafter we shall discussmy other journeys of the last two summers itoccurs to me that there may be something moreto be said upon the general question. It ispossible that the reader may look to me for adviceupon some points which do not happen to bedealt with in the narrative, especiallyif he isquite without experience of caravanning. AndI have so often met with beginners who have gotinto trouble on their first tour that Imay be ableto help him with a few suggestions.The first and most difficult questionand Where to hire a Caravan. It is almostis Howessential to obtain one in the neighbourhoodwhere the tour is to take place, as it is awkwardand expensive to send them about the countryby rail. And the supply so far is very inadequate.I have given you my idea of what a caravan shouldbe, and I can only advise you to apply52to the

TROUBLES OF THE CARAVANNER 53Secretary of the Caravan Club (83 AvenueChambers, 42 Bloomsbury Square, W.C.), who hasa list of caravans for hire in various parts of thecountry, and there to try to find what you want.As to horses, the most likely field is to be foundin the small country towns. A horse that comesfrom the city is rather out of his element oncountry roads and consuming country fare.Every town of two thousand inhabitants or morehas a carting contractor among its tradesmen,with horses accustomed to just the sort of journeysthat you are to make. Prices vary greatly indifferent parts of the country, but I have alwaysheld about 22s. 6d. a week a fair charge for horseand harness (of a strong dogcart type)if both areequal to the work. As a general rule your horseshould be stabled at night, but there is no reasonwhy he should not lie out in good weather,provided he gets plenty to eat. But if grass is tobe substituted for hay in this manner it should beplentiful and good.It is not enough to turn yourhorse into a bare pasture field, full of weeds, afterhis day's journey.If he is stabled he should haveas much long hay as he can eat, and in either casetwo feeds a day morning and evening sayabout a stone to a stone and a half of oats in all.If you stop when your horse is overheated you

54 CARAVAN DAYSwill not omit to throw a cloth of some sort overhim, and it is better to water him just beforestarting again than to allow him to stand a whileafter drinking.I find on an average, in continuous travelling,that horses need to be shod about once a month,and wheels and lock should be oiled at about thesame interval.Never tie the horse to the van at night, or youwill get no sleep. Never tie the reins to the bodyof the van when the horse is in. If you have to tiethem, tie them to the undercarriage in front.Otherwise, if the horse turns, as the lock swingsround the reins may tighten suddenly and nearlystrangle him.In selecting camping-ground, gates are a firstconsideration. Remember that your principalinterest is not \vhat the front of the van is doing,but what isgoing to happen at the far end of it.The breadth of the road out of which you areturning is quite as important as the breadth ofthe gate itself.Many novices in the art get thecaravan horribly scarred and mauled by chargingincautiously through gates, without any nicecalculation. It isonly necessary to go slow, and,ifyou see trouble before you, to back out andstart again. In camping avoid soft ground and,

TROUBLES OF THE CARAVANNER 55ifyou find your wheels are going to sink, look outfor four short boards or'planks (which are generallyto be picked up not far away) and draw on tothem. Otherwise you are in for trouble in themorning. Be careful to camp with your back tothe wind. If you have rain driving into the vanat the front itcomplicates matters.Give lamp-posts a wide berth.To show thenecessity of that injunction I may say that Iknow of four several lamp-posts that wereknocked down by caravans one of them bymyself. It isvery easily done, as if the wheelis close up to the kerb the topof the vanprojects some inches over it.Avoid a field with cattle in it.They arevexatious neighbours.I have never myself got into trouble throughcamping by the road-side, but it is well to avoidit, except of course on the openmoor. Thereare local by-laws regulating the number of feetof clearance on each side of the road which mustnot be encroached upon. And ifyouare everforced to remain overnight too near the road forabsolute safety, do not fail to leave out a lamp.There are also by-laws in some counties, enjoininga rear light, if the vehicle is more than eighteenfeet in length.

56 CARAVAN DAYSare toFinally you may want to know ifyoutake a bicycle. It is sometimes useful for forag-:ing and it is a terrible nuisance at other times.I shall never take one again. There seems to beno room for it in the scheme of things. I carriedone to the far corner of Sutherland, on the wayto John o' Groat's, by which time it was in no fitcondition to use, thoughI had never had it downoff the crutch. And there I gratefully sent ithome. It is easy, in an emergency, to borrow abicycle at almost any cottage.

CHAPTER VIIITO JOHN:o' GROAT'SiWE did not set out for John o' Groat's with thesingle aim of reaching our goal by the easiestroute. We travelled, as will be seen by the map,in a series of great zigzags up the heart of Scotland,exploring the country far and wide as wewent. For we had gaily concluded, when firstthe project was discussed, that we would go upby the West and come back by the East : andour erratic course was due to our determined andpathetic endeavours to reach the West Coast.This West Coast, North of Glasgow, provedfor us. Ialtogether too tough a problem hope itmay be possible to do it some day with a ponycartand a tent, but it is almost beyond the scopeof a caravan. At every point as we approacheditdangers and difficulties increased about us.Not only are the roads generally bad, with manybarbarous gradients, but the whole of that side ofScotland is so torn into rags and tatters by armsof the sea that the traveller is often confronted57

58 CARAVAN DAYSby ferries, most of which are incapable of carryinga caravan of the size of SIEGLINDA. Thus we werecontinually boring into the West, only to bepulled sharply back again. We stuck to it to thelast, and it was in the extreme North-West cornerof Scotland that we made our final attempt. Butit was not till the following summer that wesucceeded.The great moment of our departure lost somethingof its effect through gloomy weather thatdid not make for enthusiasm. But it was with aheavy cargo of good wishes that we turned up thelane among the dripping beech trees,picked upa milk bottle and a last coil of rope at the corner,and drove away to the North. We had a thousandfeet to climb before lunch, and all the way up theOld Edinburgh Road from Moffat we rolled alongin the centre of a small moving circle of streamingtrack and glistening sodden moor, shut in bymist and rain.That was a long, slow, steady pull, but whenwe stopped to water the horses at the summit wefelt that we had made a bold start upon ourenterprise. Already we had reached a higheraltitude, with one single exception, than any thatwe were to attain on our whole journey. Alreadywe had crossed our first watershed from the

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: I 59Southern to the Eastern slope of Scotland.I liketo divide the whole of Scotland into the fourslopes to East, West, North and South, accordingto the flow of the rivers, when I speak of ourroute to John o' Groat's.Seven times were we tocross main watersheds from one slope to anotherbefore we reached our goal, and these crossingswere the chief landmarks of our journey. Forthis was a real campaigning march, such as I havenever undertaken before or since. Our chiefpreoccupation was in gradients and altitudes,and it is in such terms that I remember it. Theother journeys that I have to describe were of adifferent order. I look back upon them rather ason a great map of the country that has come tolife ;I am not much concerned with the rise andfall of the land. But on the road to John o'Groat's I always think of SIEGLINDA as toiling upor down.We camped the first night at Tweedsmuir, andthen left the Edinburgh Road and travelledthrough Biggar to Thankerton. For the caravanner'sfirstproblem in making for the North ofScotland is to cross the bad belt of country lyingbetween the Forth and Clyde, which is rich inmines and factories and other useful things thatare by no means in his line. Thereare three ways

60 CARAVAN DAYSto cross this belt.You may ferrythe Forth atQueensferry or the Clyde at Erskine, or youmay take the Great North Road between thetwo. On this occasion we crossed by ErskineFerry.On the following night we camped on the veryedge of the mining district, near Larkhall, andafter that we had our first encounter with electriccars. We have no very pleasant recollections ofthe two days that followed through Hamiltonand Paisley for we travelled most of the wayunder riotous and exasperating circumstancesand at an abnormal speed, with Simon in a stateof terror and revolt at the whistling of the overheadwires. All things considered we werefortunate to come through that ordeal withouta scratch on the van. Cars stillpursued us on theNorth side of the river, and it was not till wereached Loch Lomond that our anxieties were atan end.We had wonderful days upon Loch Lomond,of sun and shower and flying cloud, and theseason was that of the grandcrescendo of thefoliage when every day brings forth fresh harmoniesof green. Near Tarbet we came upon oneof the greatest camps of our journey. There wasa long, broad-backed rock, tufted with herbage

TO JOHNO' GROAT'S: I 61on the top and running out into the loch. It wasjust of a size to accommodate the van, withample margins on every side, and it was partlyscreened from the road by trees. Gingerly webacked her on to it till she rested on a level keel,and there she remained with water all about her,while the fine outline of Ben Lomond filled thebedroom window.We were only two milesfrom the county ofArgyll that night, but that is another story anddoes not concern us now.We spent the Sunday at Ardlui, at the Highlandend of Loch Lomond. The other end of the lochis of a gentle Lowland type of beauty :one feelsthat it would not be out of place among theEnglish Lakes. But its character changessuddenly toward the Northern end : the hillsidesspring more abruptly from its banks : theroad issqueezed close between rock and water,and at the top there is a strong impression ofwidening distances and expanding space. Birchwoods appear, flung far up the mountain-sides,and rolling tracts of moor.At Crianlarich we were forced to turn to theEast, the road by Oban and Fort William beingheld up, as far as we were concerned, by the ferryat Ballachulish. And thus our course lay along

62 CARAVAN DAYSa naked hillside to Killin, where we spent Mondaynight, and thereafter, by the fine forest road thatfollows the whole length ofLoch Tay, throughKenmore to Aberfeldy. These were days ofjoyous travel in perfect weather and with no greatdifficulties to meet. But when, at Ballinluig, weturned again to the North-West and, after passingthrough Pitlochry (where we spent a night) andBlair Atholl, advanced up the Grampian Pass toDalnaspidal, we had pretty heavy goingall theway. This is the one main road up the heart ofScotland to the North. It makes its way throughthe only gap in the great barrier of the Grampians,and it is a long and stiff ascent, with an indifferentsurface, rising, through bleak country, with sharplittle undulations for thirteen miles to the summit.And we were impeded by a strong head wind,which added much to the weight of the van. Wespent the night near Dalnaspidal, and an easyhalf-day on the Friday took us to comfortablequarters at Dalwhinnie.We were now of course travelling upon theEastern Slope, but at Dalwhinnie we made asensational plunge over to the West.I have neverbeen able to discover the gradient of the hill thatleads out of Dalwhinnie to the Spey Valley(which perhaps is just as well, as Imight have

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: I 63funked it if I had known the truth), but it leapsheadlong up the mountain-side in the moststartling manner, and as the surface was bothrough and gravelly it took us just all our time toreach the top, which we did at a single burst.We remained up there for three or four adventurousmiles, and as we approached the steep descenton the farther side a magnificent view opened outbefore us. That is the whole beauty of thesecross-country marches from one valley to another.They are often very severe, but they are generallywell worth it. One has the finest sensation ofbeing perched on the top of things during the fewmiles across the ridge, in bleak, uninhabitedcountry. And there is no way to enter upon anew neighbourhood that you are to explore to becompared with this of coming down from theWe leftheights above into the very heart of it.the Spey upon our right and joined company witha little stream, quaintly called the Pattack Water,which was going our wayto the West. Itbrought us soon to Loch Laggan, where we closeda long week of 105 miles in an exquisite littlecamp among the birches.And now we travelled due West, along acuriously level road which runs across Invernessshirefor thirty miles without ever rising or falling

64 CARAVAN DAYSto any extent from its mean altitude of eighthundred feet, to Spean Bridge.Again we swung sharply round to the North-East and headed up the Caledonian Canal, alongthat strange cleft in the mountains from coast tocoast as if Scotland had been split by a singleblow from an axe which they call the " Great"Glen." It is, I am told, a grave geologicalfault," but though geologists may shake theirheads over it, it has no other fault that I couldfind. For those were memorable days. Thescenery was magnificent and the road, almost thewhole way along the canal, difficult and evendangerous. There are any number of watercoursesto ford, though fortunately (after a spellof dry weather) there was little water in them ;there are some awkward, narrow bridges, and atthe head of Loch Oich the road loses itself to allintents and purposes in a great bed of gravel,continually reinforced by floods from the steephillsides above. As there was a fairly sharpgradient at this point it was only with the greatestdifficulty that we could pull across it, the wheelsploughing in a full six inches deep. Just aboveFort Augustus we found a little quarryfull ofgorse, where we drew in for the night.The next day's march along Loch Ness was

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: I 65even more difficultcountry.and lay through even finerThe road for a full ten miles isextremelyhilly, narrow and twisty, with some surprisingcorners, and we were fortunate to meet the motorbus, that plies between Fort Augustus andInverness, in open groundnear Invermoriston.Otherwise we were bound to have arrived atstate of stalemate. For the early part of the daywe were steadily burrowing through woods, butsuddenly in the afternoon after climbing aprecipitous little hill we shook off the trees andcame out, three hundred feet above the waterside,with a grand view of the Great Glen and thelong steel ribbon of Loch Ness, Though I am afarmer myself and belong to a hill country, I amstill at a loss to understand how the fields to rightand leftof us were ever ploughedaor harvested.Especially those on the lower side seemed to slantperilously to a sheer cliff above the loch.I fell towondering if the turnips ever rolled over into thewaters below when they were being shawed.That night we camped at Drumnadrochit.There we leftthe canal and tacked once moreto the West (though this time we never crossedthe watershed), up Glen Urquhart and downStrath Glass. We met with a long and dangeroushill down to Invercannich, where we camped forF

66 CARAVAN DAYSthe night, with a gradient of i in 9. At onepoint I must own that we very nearly purledover into the young birch wood below, which mightwell have set a term to our ambitions. My newback brake was not fitted then, and at the bestof times Ido not care greatly about single-figuregradients.That Saturday was the longest march of thetour. We had hoped to stop just beyond Beauly,but we could find no camp to suit us, and it wasnot till we had passed through Dingwall andreached the coast that we at last drew in to alittle open space between the railway and the seaat the head of the Cromarty Firth. Twentysevenmiles. Fortunately it had been an easylevel road, but the horses had clearly had enoughof it,and Simon for the last half-hour had had allthe air of walking in his sleep.We had reached the Eastern limit of the mapby now, but we were to make one more bold bidfor the West in the week that followed.

CHAPTER IXTO JOHNo' GROAT'S: nWE had now circumvented Inverness. I hadalways thought of Inverness as being somewhereat the top of Scotland, but in the next few weeks, aswe pushed on and the trail lengthened out behindus, we were able to look back on it as dwindlingin the distance to the South. In the meantimewe had some welcome days of easy travel,through the fat and level lands of Easter Ross,a noble country of heavy pastures and splendidroads. On the Monday we touched the coast atmany points and camped a mile or two inland,not far from Tain, and the next day our courselay along the Dornoch Firth to Bonar Bridge.There we entered Sutherland a land bare ofsupplies, with few and meagre roads and, accordingto our brief experience,Arctic climate.with an almostI know very well that it was anexceptional summer, but I shall always think ofSutherland in June as providing a penetrating67

68 CARAVAN DAYSqualityin the Alps.of cold that is quiteunknown in winterAfter a fine march up the valley of theShin, where the road hugs the rushing riverclose and whips about round boulders andover ridges of rock in the most sensationalmanner, we arrived at Lairg, which was tobe our base for a fortnight to come, and afterloading up larders, boxes and lockers, forwe had little idea when we might see a shopagain, camped in a wood by the road-side, a mileout of the town. It was there that we fell in withthe Tinker and his family, who occupied a littleshanty on the opposite side of the road, whenthey were not on tour. The whole of his tribecalled in the evening to see the " gorryvon," andhe himself did his best to dissuade us from ourjourney to the West." There's nothing to see at Scourie," he told me." I wouldn't goto Scourie if I was blind of halfan eye."I do not know if I have succeeded in persuadingyou to look upon Scotland, through my eyes, asdivided into four slopes to North, South, Eastand West. But perhaps a simple diagram willmake the matter clear. Reduced to these plainterms, and seen, let us suppose, from a height on

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: II 69the coast of Norway, the contour of the countrywould be represented thus :r Ta/rfmu;>

70 CARAVAN DAYSAgain she comes in view half-way up the GreatGlen, and this time reaches the very foot of theslope at Dingwall. And now she has crept up tothe top for the last time, on her way to Scourie.When she returns from this excursion she willhead finally for the North.We had no hope or intention of getting roundthe top left-hand corner of Scotland, for theroads as you draw near Cape Wrath are altogetherbarbarous. If we could but reach the coast wewere quite ready to retrace our steps for thirtyor forty miles. On the firstday the road wasremarkably level, though it had no other virtue.It was very narrow and the surface was alltornto pieces, soft and gravelly and covered with loosestones. We found itweary work, for many daysto come, bumping along with little relief from thecontinual jarring and churning of the wheels.The country also that surrounds the chain oflochs, by which the road passes, is bleak andunkind and monotonously bare. Loch Shinsprawls half-way across the county without doinganything to improve the situation. Every mileof itisremarkably like the mile that went beforeand still more like the mile that follows.On the second day, after toiling far over thecrumbling track, we found most fortunate

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: II 71camping-ground at the shooting-box at Lochmore,where we were handsomely treated. It wasthe last day of May, and we had travelled in thecourse of the month from the extreme South ofScotland to the North-West corner, a distanceof 410 miles. I do not travel to make records,but I think, taking the country and the roads intoconsideration, that that one might be rather hardto beat. And now the coast was only six milesdistant.But again we failed.We had only a mile anda half to go when, just short of Laxford Bridge,we were confronted by a last barrier that pulledus up. Had it not been a question of returningbut whenthe same way we might have done it,I went forward to prospect I found the hill uponthe farther side not only steep and narrow, butwith a broad patch ofnaked rock in the worstMypart of it that gave no sort of foothold. . . .Partner returned with SIEGLINDA to Lochmorewhile I walked on to Scourie, a distance ofseven miles, for supplies.That part of the roadis a sort of synopsis of all that is wildest, mosthopeless and unprofitable in the county of Sutherland.It is a black forbidding gorge, a longforgottenland of rock and crag and dark, repellentlochs. If I am ever blind of half an eye

72 CARAVAN DAYSor even if I retain my sight I doubt if I willagain set out for Scourie.But I found a cheerfullittle village at the end.At Lochmore we remained three days, overhaulingand recuperating.It is a sheltered littlespot, in contrast with its wind-swept surroundings.There are woods and hedges, and even sodomestic a creature as a rhododendron flourishesabout the shooting-box. And the mountains arefine, especially the keen, clear-cut peak of BenMore itself. Then we entrusted ourselves againto the slender thread of roadway and returnedto Lairg without mishap. Almost the only othervehicle that we had to reckon with in this part ofSutherland was the nimble littleplies all over the county. Bymotor-bus thatdint of carefulcalculation we were always able to meet it inplaces where it was possible to pass, but we weredecidedly fortunate in never arriving at a deadlock.There is no doubt that we were using morethan our share of the road, and had we chancedto meet another SIEGLINDA at an awkward pointa serious block in the traffic of the district musthave occurred.In Lairg the horses were shod, and we laid insuch a stock of provisions as SIEGLINDA has nevercarried before or since, for, although the Tinker

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: II 73assured me that he had a friend who kept a shopin Tongue where I would find everything that Iwanted " the same as London," I knew very wellthat we were going into an almost uninhabitedcountry, with poor prospect of supplies.We had driven but a few miles to the Northwhen we found ourselves up against an almostimpassable obstacle. The road was being" boxed"that is to say, a fresh foundationwas being put in some two feet deep. There wasnothing but soft moss on either side and therewas, of course, no alternative road. Thus we hadto cross some two or three hundred yards ofjagged, close-packed rocks, not blinded or protectedin any way. No one seemed to haveconsidered the possibility of any traffic appearingin the course of the day, and there was nothingfor it but to charge straight ahead, surging,groaning and swaying in the most horriblemanner. The strain upon the springs was mostpainful to contemplate to have forded a river:would have tried them far less. But a singlebroken soap-dish was the full extent of thedamage.That evening we reached theNorthern slopeand camped by the road near Altnaharra. Themarch of the following day, from Altnaharra to

74 CARAVAN DAYSTongue, was, I think, the dreariest and mostpainful pilgrimage that SIEGLINDA has evermade. The country was almost bereft of anyevidence of life. For miles we travelled withouta sign of deer or sheep or grouse :there were norabbits : there was hardly even heather or commonvegetation. Great uncouth mountains shutus in : rusted wire fences ran here and there.Yet it was not the scenery that distressed us somuch as the climate. The cold was awful. Isuppose that being in the North-East corner ofScotland we were favoured with the first-fruitsof the North-East wind before it had suffered anytempering process. That was the only day in myexperience when I found it possible to walk incomfort in two sweaters, while inside the van satmy Partner, who had already walked five or sixmiles in vain, wearing the greater part of herwhole wardrobe, an ulster and a pair of glovesand " happed about " by a rug yet quite unable:to maintain a state of comfort. I got inside atlast and lit the Primus and added a hot-waterbottle to her accoutrements. The road was badand we had a driving shower to meet. But wewere amply rewarded for our heavy gruelling.Unless you can clearlyrealize the tribulationsof that march you will not appreciate the thrill

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: II 75and keen delight with which we burst suddenlyuponComingthe view that welcomed us at the end.off that most horrid moor it was like awell-prepared surpriseto turn round the lastsullen crag and behold before us the village ofTongue, beautifully sheltered and richly clothedwith wood. The placid little bay was set aboutwith fertile lands, while far away to the lefttowered the four splendid peaks of Ben Loyal, andbeyond it all stretched forth the open sea.We did not go down to the water-side, for I amalways averse to squandering altitude that mustbe made good again, but camped in the upperpart of the village, which they call Brae Tongue,at the junction of two roads.That is not, I suppose, the finest view inScotland, but I think it will always be reckonedso by my Partner and myself and at least I make;no doubt at all that Ben Loyalis the finestmountain. Its height, when I came to look it up,was disappointing, but I have never had muchconfidence in those fellows who calculate theheights of mountains. At any rate its outline isstatciy and imposing.

CHAPTER XTO JOHN o' GROAT'S: inAND now we were fairly in for it. It is a simplematter to get into Tongue, by the road by whichwe had come, but to get out of it either East orWest is a heavy undertaking. We had twodays' work before us, along the coast to Melvich,such as I had never before attempted, and therewere not wanting many advisers, among thosewho inspected the expedition on the Sunday, whoassured us that " we need never start," for wewould soon be back again, having come to griefon Borgie Brae.The whole of the top coast of Sutherland is onelong succession of huge ridges, running towardsthe sea.It was as if we had abandoned the properpolicy of following the valleys and had taken aperverse course, dead against the grain of thecountry. Before we reached Thurso we had tocross seven of these ridges, but they grew progressivelyless severe as we went on, like wavesthat gradually spend their force as they reach the76

shore, tillTO JOHN O' GROAT'S: III 77at last the undulations ceased and theroad ran out across the level lands of Caithness.Our worst hill of all fell on the first day, sixmiles from Tongue. Borgie Brae remains withus a vivid memory of a searching test surmounted,establishing the capabilities of SIEGLINDA and theteam, setting a standard by which to judge ofother hills. It is over a mile long, without amoment of relief ;the surface isabominablysoft and gravelly, so that the wheels bit in repeatedly; and the gradientis i in n. In short,furious stages Sam and Simon plunged andstruggled, scrambled and tugged up the perilousincline, and, that nothing might be wanting, itwas our fate to meet a motor half-way up, so thatwe must pack ourselves close under the bankwith one wheel down in the mud. But we neverlooked like being beaten. On the dreary flats atthe summit we stopped to rest the steaminghorses, looking back with the eye of conquerors onthe gorge beneath. The slipper did us good serviceon the steep descent, and then we had two milesof easy going on the level at the foot of StrathNaver before facing the stiff rise to Bettyhill,where we camped in an open space above the sea.The Hotel Proprietor, who came to call in theevening, while congratulating us upon having

78 CARAVAN DAYSsafely come so far, shook his head ominously overthe road that lay before us on the morrow.Samand Simon, who deserved better treatment, werebedded in sand that evening, for this was still abarren land and we could not even muster hayor bracken. I need perhaps hardly remark thatit was bitterly cold.We had nothing so bad as BorgieBrae to faceon the Tuesday, but on the whole I think it wasthe heavier day of the two. Although we neverreached a higher level above the sea than 500 feetwe had to climb in all more than 1200 feet infourteen miles. Only twice, on the tops of thelast two ridges, had we any respite from the slipperand the roller, and then only for a mile in eachcase.The surface, however, was decidedly betterthan it had been on the day before, and when inthe evening we camped on the moor above Melvichwe knew that our troubles were over at lastand our goal was well within reach. It is to behoped that Sam and Simon had the wit to knowthat too that they had taken a good look at thecountry before them as they turned in at thestable door ;for they were thoroughly exhausted,and I should not like to think that they went tosleep in anticipation of another such day tofollow.

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: III 79We got a fine dish of trout from the hotel atMelvich, which were most grateful, as I had beenreduced to makingbricks without straw atBettyhill. The shop at Tongue, though wellsupplied with stamps and note-paper, exercisebooks, Shetland shawls, kettles, sou'wester hats,bars of soap, candles, pencils, clogs, red flanneland many other delightful things, had provedafter all to be not quite like London. And as eveneggs were difficultto obtain supplies were verylow." For my pairt I like a mad contrast," to quotean old Scotch gardener of my acquaintance, whohad been remonstrated with fordecorating hisparlour in a colour scheme of purple and palegreen. And it would not be easy to conceive amadder contrast than that which met us on thefollowing day. We had a last ridge to cross, butit was but a feeble one, sweeping up with agradient of i in 20. All the sting had gone outof the thing by now. And after that we left themoor behind and passed on into a fertile land,with rich crops and fine cattle, well populatedand flat as a table, as far as the eye could reach.The rough and narrow tracks of the last fortnightgave place to a broad highway of magnificentsurface. Even the weather moderated. It was

8oCARAVAN DAYShard to believe that we were still in Scotland, forthe most striking feature of the landscape wasthe dykes, which in the county of Caithness aremade entirely of paving-stones set on edge, andthe total absence of trees added to the foreignaspect of the scene. Above all the names uponthe sign-boards had a remote and alien flavour.We had been long accustomed to Altnaharras,Drumnadrochits, Overscaigs, and it was moststartling to find ourselves (if the sign-posts wereto be believed and had not been put there merelyto entertain the wayfarer) among Brubsters,Lybsters and Scurrerys. When we came tounderstand something of the accent of Caithnessshireit did perhaps seem fitting that if peopletalked like that they should live in Scurrerys andBrubsters. And many of them are called Budgeor Gunn : and one I met I know it sounds alittle too good to be true who was called GunnBudge. Altogether an enticing land of newdiscovery where we were well treated whereverwe went.That night we camped at a farm a mile fromThurso in a little lane, beneath a ten-foot wall.When Herbert reported"good broad stalls andany amount of straw," we feltthat we could nolonger deny the horses the rest they so sorely

TO JOHNO' GROAT'S: III 81needed, and there we remained till the Fridaymorning.And that day, June I4th, having travelled inall 551 miles, we came to John o' Groat's.Our appearance there was not without somedash and comely swagger. There is a littlegrassy knoll beside the hotel, and at the veryedge of the beach, on which the House of John o'Groat is said to have stood. It was an octagonalhouse with a door in every side, so that John andhis seven brothers each entering by his owndoor at the same moment could all take theirplaces at the round table without raising anyquestion of precedence. By this admirableinvention John isfeuds that rent his family.said to have healed the bitterBut I have a notionthat ifthey felt so strongly about it as all that,the experiment may not have been so successfulas we are led to believe.The brother who enteredby the northern door, especially as this must havebeen the first, or last, door in the British Isles,would be apt to put on airs in his dealings withhim of the south-east. And I have an uncomfortablefeeling that, despite his conciliatoryattitude, John kept the north door for himself.SIEGLINDA made the site of that historic househer own. For the little knoll remains, coveredG

82 CARAVAN DAYSwith short turf, and rising to a height of perhapstwenty feet above the drive. Herbert gatheredup the reins, and calling on the small knot ofspectators, who had collected to welcome us, tostand aside, drove boldly to the top of it. Therein a commanding posture SIEGLINDA came to rest.Flat, open country, quite bare of trees, with apleasant, scattered group of cottages and a postoffice think of the triumphant telegrams thathave been sent from it ! a sturdy little barehotel these :comprise the outlook on the landwardside. But out to sea there is a noble viewof the fine outline of the Orkneys near at hand,and nearer still the intermediate island of Stromaand the Skerries ;while far awayround thecorner of the Orkney cliffs lies the hazy outlineof the Shetlands. It is a charming aspect,enlivened by the bustling traffic of the PentlandFirth, where dangerous currents sweep round thecorner of the mainland. And the beach itself ispleasant sand and shingle, with ridingboats atanchor and a little pier, and much disorderedtackle of the lobster fishing, whose operations wewatched from our windows.We had high good fortune in the weather, forthe clouds had rolled away, the wind had fallenand the evening lights among the islands to the

TO JOHN 0' GROAT'S: III 83North were of an exquisite beauty. The sunwent down bang behind the Orkneys, casting along quivering bar of ruddy gold across the firthand right into the door of Herbert's tent, andthe sky was alight with shimmeringclouds tillwell after ten o'clock. We were of courseuplifted with the thought of having reached ourgoal, and among my grateful memories of thisgreat journey the evening that we spent at Johno' Groat's stands first.There was one who came to tell us of a motorcaravan which had camped there once, thoughnot upon our knoll. But that news did not concernus.For I have never had any dealings with,nor taken any sort of interest in, that unholyhybrid.Ithink that Johno' Groat's must be the mostentertaining place to live. Itis remote and lonelyenough no doubt, twenty miles from the railwayand with nothing more than a little hamlet atthe back of it,but there can be no monotony inthe lives of those who live there. They are not intouch perhaps with Wick or Thurso, but they arealways in touch with Land's End. We are all atheart lovers of records, and these happy folk maybe said to live in a record neighbourhood, at thefarthest distance to the North. And they have

84 CARAVAN DAYSother special privileges. Theynever know atwhat hour of the day some traveller from Land'sEnd may come in sight at the bend of the road.And these are no ordinary travellers. They arerecord-breakers, panting, watch in hand, to theirgoal.Every new form of locomotion must sooneror later make the journey.the first coach drove :up thenThere was a day whencame the firstbicycle : the first motor : the first motor-bicycle.After a while they came in flocks, or arrived in aswift succession, ending a headlong race.Thereare days when allthe space about the hotel iscovered with motor-bicycles, begrimed with eighthundred miles of " trials." I do not know if thefirstaeroplane has yet alighted there, but itcannot now be long delayed.And there are also,as an element of comic relief to these stern endeavours,all manner of cranks and faddists andqueer people who have made the journey fromthe far coast of Cornwall old men, who for awager are proving pedestrian powersthat havedefied the years, vegetarians, who are doing thecourse upon lentils, one who has sworn to push hiswife in a Bath-chair perhaps, another who hasvowed to do it in a Roman toga and sandals.John o' Groat's is the end and goal of all of them,and to run a hotel there must be, I think, among

TO JOHN O' GROAT'S: III 85the most diverting occupations open to mankindgiving fine scope to a landlord, for all hismedley of quaint pilgrims, whatever else theylack, are sore in need of kindly hospitality. . . .And now in the fulness of time came also ahorse-drawn caravan.

CHAPTER XIOTHER JOURNEYSTHAT was the finest campaigning march thatSIEGLINDA has ever undertaken. To the caravannerwho wants the sternest test of his powersand who isprepared for a journey of many weekswith a great goal at the end, this road to John o'Groat's offers perhaps the most striking opportunityin the British Isles. The route by whichwe travelled can of course be very much simplifiedand the distance reduced by almost twohundred miles. By following the Great NorthRoad to Inverness the dangers and difficultiesof the Caledonian Canal can be left out and :bysticking to the coast of Sutherland as far asHelmsdale and then taking the road up StrathHalladale (by which we returned), all the worstof the Sutherland hills may be avoided. Buteven thus, whittled down to its simplest elements,it is a fine campaign. I suppose, in the nature ofthings, if all goes well, I shall some day driveSIEGLINDA to Land's End, and I have plans for86

OTHER JOURNEYS 87an extended tour in Wales, thoughin IrelandI fear Imay hardly find roads to carry me to allthe places where I ought to go. But I do notexpect ever again to repeat that great experienceof swinging in zigzags up the heart of Scotlandto the uttermost corner at the top.That is one type of caravanning: it is ofcourse not the only one ;not necessarily thebest. There may be veryfew of us who areattracted by a stiff journey from point to point,such as this. There remains a wide choice inother directions. It isopen to us to explore awhole neighbourhood, by a tangle of crossjourneys,or to follow a river from source tosea, or to make our camps more permanentand move ponderously at intervals of severaldays from place to place. We may go atmidsummer and live to the full the outdoorthe shelterlife, or we may go in autumn and hugof the caravan. We may plunge into new countryor search out familiar scenes. I am not going tosay that any one of these methods isany betterthan another, except that for my part I am donewith aimless wandering.I must have some formof achievement before me. And I am sure thata caravan journey loses much of itsspice whenit is made through well-known country, without

88 CARAVAN DAYSthe stimulus of fresh discovery.I do not greatlycare to start the day with no unanswered questionsbefore me, and it is rather a tragic reflectionthat I have by now pretty well used up Scotland,regarded as caravanning material. Perhaps Iwould have been wiser to have husbanded andhoarded it more cannily. Yet there are compensationsin retracing one's steps. All anxietyand delay in the matter of camping are doneaway with and it is worth something to be ableto drive straight in and take the horses out at theend of a long day.I have now established analmost unbroken chain ofcamping-grounds fromMoffat to Inverness and made good friends atmost of them.IIn describing my journey to Johnhave dealt only with the campaigningo' Groat'sside ofcaravanning, and it now remains to put beforeyou what I have called the human and domesticsides in greater detail. I do not set out to giveyou a definite chronicle day by day of my otherScotch journeys, but rather to make use of themto throw light from as many different points aspossible upon the real nature of Caravan Daysto try to answer the question from which westarted of What CaravanningIs.But I should briefly indicate what these

OTHER JOURNEYS 89journeys were. I supposeit is the common fateof explorers to feel " a sort of a tameness " if Imay quote the photographer of Bonar Bridgeon the homeward way. And when we turnedSouth upStrath Halladale and met for the firsttime the midday sun pouringfull into the frontof the caravan, we began to ask ourselves if thiswas all, if there were no other worlds to conquer.And it was then that we fell upon the happyidea of traversing every mainland county ofScotland.isImay as well say at once that we failed. Thereone county where the caravan SIEGLINDA hasnever been :us.lostand that is rather a sore point withIf the reader has ever made 99 not out, oran election by a single vote, he will be thebetter able to understand our feelings with regardto the county of Argyll, which is the blot on ourfair record, the missing scalp at our belt, the dropthat failed to fill the cup. There had been anevening on Loch Lomond when we were campedwithin two miles of Argyll, with a level roadbetween us, but then our thoughts werefull of Caithness, and the golden opportunitypassed by. But that is the only county thatremains.Our first move was to establish a Highland

goCARAVAN DAYSBase at Inverness, to which we repeatedly returned.We found a snug and comfortable littlefarm, two or three miles out on the Perth road,where the van rested upon the grassy roadwayof a disused avenue among overarching beeches.There was an excellent pump at hand :first-classthere wasgrazing for the horses in the paddockwhere we stood : there was wealth of dog-roses :and in his cottage not a hundred yards awaydwelt Peter the ploughman, who took the wholeestablishment under his wing.On the way back in that first summer we turnedEast along the coast, gathering up a county a dayat the outset for the new enterprise startedwith great dash and impetus and camping insuccession in Nairn, Elgin, Banff and Aberdeen.At Montrose we turned inland and travelledWest to the Trossachs, adding Kincardine andForfar to our bag. Then we turned South andhome through Stirling.In May and June, 1913, we went right up theheart of Scotland, crossing by the Ferryat theForth Bridge, and made a great march acrossRoss-shire to the West Coast, returning to Inverness,where we left the van for some weeks.Thistour took in Midlothian, Linlithgow, Fife andKinross. In the autumn of that year we set out

OTHER JOURNEYS 91from Inverness and came due South and acrossthe Clyde, afterwards exploring the whole of theBorder Country. This added Clackmannan, Ayr,Wigtown, Kirkcudbright, Roxburgh, Berwick,Haddington and Selkirk.

CHAPTER XIIHOW THE DAY ISSPENTISHOULD like to give you an idea of just how aday is passed in SIEGLINDA, when my Partnerand I are travelling alone and under normalconditionsare anythat is, if we are to admit that therenormal conditions on a caravan tour.I am not at all sure that there are.We get up at 6.30. I know very well that thetrue rampant, enthusiastic caravanner (whom Ihave met with more than once) gets up longbefore that. He is fond of commenting upon theweather conditions that obtained when he wasbreakfasting at 5 a.m. For my part I have neverbeen able to get the machinery under way muchbefore 6.30. The middleroom has been clearedovernight and is now used as a bathroom,furnished by that delightful utensil, the rubberbath. While my Partner is making the beds andHerbert is feeding the horses I am at work on thebreakfast, which isready by 7.30. There is,I should say, an iron punctuality92about these

morning hours.HOW THE DAY IS SPENT 93Breakfast on travelling days isseverely simple, alternating regularly betweenbacon and boiled eggs. Thereafter comes thebusiest hour of the day.and slings itHerbert strikes his tentin the crutch and then goes to hishorses. I trim the wicks and fill the oil-tanks, andmy Partner washes up. We then stow away thedishes and pots and pans, shut down the tablesand chairs, take off the door (which travels insideso as to give an uninterrupted view from thefront), bring out canvas chairs (for the kitchenhas now, you will understand, become a sort ofverandah),run a cord across the front of thestove to prevent the oil-tanks from slipping outdown hill,sweep out, fix wads here and there toprevent things from jingling, stow away the stepsunder the table, sling buckets underneath, lockon the shafts. Finallyup the back boxes and put the copper box, which still contains a pint or twoof hot water, is emptied into the basin in the bedroom,thus providing a most necessary hot washwhen all our jobs are over.There is now a pleasant interval before thehorses appear, when one maysit down and smokea pipe and ponder upon the map and contourbook. These pursuits are interrupted by a"distantin the lane, and Sam and" clop-clop

94 CARAVAN DAYSSimon come into view, the former looking roundand considering the weather and the scene,thelatter still chewing a last wisp of disreputableherbage which he has picked up somewhere,unobserved by Herbert. They are duly harnessedto the twin pairs of shaftsdouble shafts are inmy opinion much safer and more satisfactorythan a pole when it comes to bumping about onuneven ground Herbert hops up into the doorwayand we swing out on to the road about9 a.m.I strongly believe in making a single journeyin each day, never stopping for lunch or for anyother reason that can be avoided, pushing onas rapidly as possible and camping early. Thehorses are never fed on the road, though they arealways watered once, about midday. Themorning is the chief time for walking. I like towalk ten miles before lunch, though I often falla little short of this figure, and my Partner, whoisa methodical pedestrian, divides the day intostages with intervals between, in such a way as tobe always outside on steep hills, and puts in aboutsix or seven miles.After about an hour she willget inside and set to work upon the lunch.Lunches are her masterpiece. From the hardboiledegg with which they open to the small

HOW THE DAY IS SPENT 95chunk of plain chocolate with which they close,and in the blend of lime-juice with which theyare accompanied, they never fail to fit the case.We lunch, as we go along, about half-pasttwelve, and after that one istempted to sit insidefor a few miles.Travelling, with all allowances for stoppages,at about three miles an hour, it will be manifestthat bythree o'clock we shall have come someeighteen miles. Then we beginto look forcamping-ground. But whatever the position ofaffairs, whether we intend to go some milesfarther or not, the Primus is lit at 3.15 and ongoes the kettle. That is a great point. There areoften long delays at camping time, and it is aperiod of the day when a certain sense of wearinessis not unknown. A cup of tea has a powerfulone's outlook and should never beeffect uponpostponed after its appointed time.As soon as we are in camp the shafts are taken off,steps put out, door put on, tables and chairs put up.My Partner sweeps out the day's accumulation ofmotor dust. Herbert fills the hot and cold watertanks and then devotes himself to his horses.And I get round to the back boxes and begin toconsider the question of supper. My Partner isnow discharged from all active duties till the

g6CARAVAN DAYStime comes to set the table, and if I have no veryexacting meal to cook it is likely that I also, assoon as the stove isrunning well, may slip awayto the bedroom to change and rest for half anhour.In any case I shall have time enough whilethe supper is maturing to write up the diaryand mark off the route upon the map.This alsois the hour for pleasant gossip with one's neighbours,for receiving a call perhaps from thefarmer's wife or going with the grieve to lookround the stock.We have supper at 7.30, and after that wethrow the burden of washing-up upon Herbert'sshoulders, get out the candles, draw the curtainsand relapse into secluded domesticity. And wego to bed about half -past nine or ten. The longevenings when one may play about outside aftersupper are not to be despised, but I think I likeSIEGLINDA best on a chill October night, say,when her candles are all lit and the stove burnslow in the kitchen, and if there be a scamperingpatter of rain-drops on the roof, there is no doubtbut it adds an extra spice.Herbert looks in with his stable lantern to askabout the morning's milk and then goes off to histent and we are left alone.

CHAPTER XIIIINCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTSALL the towns that we passed through are classifiedin my diary under four headings.Class Ais a small and distinguished group made up of thevery pick of the basket, of such places as I holdto be laid out with elegance and efficiency and tooccupy by nature a perfect situation.There aredozens of jolly places in Class B. Class C isbyno means so attractive, but it is a small class.Finally Class D is reserved for such places as wefelt we had good reason to resent, where thingsturned against us in one way or another. We hada bad time in Crieff . There we wasted the greaterpart of a hot and dusty afternoon trying to getthe van weighed on a weigh-bridge that was twoinches too short. We were not lucky in ourshopping, and I forgot to post the letters. Crieffisperhaps not to blame for that ;but it isassuredly to blame for possessing a central squareso outrageously tilted up on edgemost dangerous corner in the busiest part of theH 97as to make a

98 CARAVAN DAYStown. That was before the days of my backbrake, and ifanything had gone wrong with theslipper (and they are not very chancy thingsslippers) we should certainly have been througha shop window at eight or ten miles an hour.Then there was Wick, where we met with acongested state of juvenile population, so thatSIEGLINDA moved up the street through surginghuman billows. The shops in Wick weremixed up in a most unpleasant way.I like abutcher to confine himself to the sale of meatand a baker to concentrate uponbreadstuff s.But in Wick it isquite easy to buy toysin a greengrocer's or butter in a boot-shop,while no chemist is in the swim who doesnot offer such things as potatoesand bananasfor sale.We reached Kingussie with empty larders,having laid in no suppliesfor four or five days,to find a Spring Holiday in progress and the shopsall shut. We divided the crew into three separatepillaging parties and set out to see what we couldfind. The Old Campaigner whom I must introduceto you laterhad a very fair bag, and myworked round the hotels andPartner and I werestrikingly successful. Acting as I thought on abrilliant inspiration I had made my wayto the

INCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTS 99station and broken intoBut Ithe refreshment room.found that my Partner, who had had thesame idea, was there before me. So we joinedforces and formulated a longlist of demands.The man in charge gladly puthis stores at ourdisposal, and we bore away tea, sugar, butter, aloaf of bread and many other things. We alsoadded to the interesting collection of china inSIEGLINDA several new and valuable piecesbelonging to the Highland Railway Company,but these were restored later on at a stationfarther up the line.The next dayI discovered an obscure butcher'sshop, so called. Itwas a small wooden erection,modestly lurking by a little stream some way offthe road ;and it was locked up, nor was thereany sign of a proprietor. But by peering in at thewindow I observed, not without some excitementat the discovery, a leg of mutton hanging all alonein the gloom.was not long in introducing myself to a washerwoman,hard atI made a good many enquiries andwork before her tub, who wasforced to admit that the shop belonged to her,that itdid happen to have a legof mutton in itand that she was quite prepared to sell it,if I insisted. I wondered, as I went awaywith my parcel, if I had unwittingly cut

TOOCARAVAN DAYSshort the career of that littleshopor if theproprietrix would set to work to get anotherleg of mutton.It is, I know, most unfair to harbour anyanimosity against Crieff or Kingussie, and evenWick may surely be allowed to enjoy its speciallocal customs. But I have a fair case againstHawick. That irrepressible township had beenmaking experiments in street surfaces and had hitat last upon a sort of amalgam, delightfullyadapted to motor tyres, which had been lavishlylaid down. I don't know what the mixture was,and I hope that by this time the recipe for it hasbeen publicly burned at the Town Cross. On thefirst damp day after the new experiment sixteenhorses fell, as we were to learn afterwards, and oneof them had to be shot. It was a damp morningwhen we arrived, and it was with the utmostdifficulty that we could scratch and stumble upthe main street. We had not gone far when Samfell, breaking the harness. We got him up, andwith a dozen people pushing behind made anothercautious start, but down he went again, after amiserable period of sliding and slithering, withfurther breakages.This time we had some difficultyin getting him on his legs, and it was not tillwe had dried up the street with a piece of sacking

that he and Simon could get grip enough to movethe van at all.But I have more than that to tell you ofHawick. We had approachedit on the previousday by way of the Mosspaul Inn. At a telegraphoffice on our road I got down to send adispatch to the Journalist'sfrequent visitorsof nights.Wife one of ourwho was to join us for a coupleWe knew that she would reach Hawickabout twelve o'clock.She was to walk up the valleytill she found thecaravan, but first she was to call at the post officeto see if there was a telegram. Being Mondaythe Postmistress of the office was much preoccupiedwith the wash when I arrived, and Icannot think that she was as successful in keepingher private duties separate from her officialresponsibilities as she might have been : and yetone must sometimes send a telegram on a Monday.Washing operations spread themselves freely overthe room. However I secured a partially dry telegraphform at last and wrote my message hopingfor the best. It was not perhaps to be wonderedat, for it had a poor take-off among the soap-suds,that it reached Hawick in a slightly garbled statewith the name wrongly spelt.We had a great camp in a flat field close to the

102 CARAVAN DAYSTeviot, richly endowed with mushrooms, and assoon as we were settled my Partner went oft tomeet the Journalist's Wife, who, by the way, isa sister of hers. We were only four miles fromHawick, and it was soon apparent that she wasnot a little overdue. But it was not till aboutfive o'clock that we began to be alarmed. Atsix I set off and walked into the town.enquiry was at the post office.My firstThere I found mytelegram, and although the name was not correctI was assured that it was quite certain that noone had asked for it. From this it seemed to beclear that the traveller had never reached Hawick,so I sent a prepaid message to ask if she had everstarted, got hold of a cab and drove past thecamp to a post office half a mile up the road andinstructions for the answer to bethere gavedelivered to us as soon as it came. Then I wentback to dinner. So far we were not at all troubledabout the matter. She had probably neverstarted, and we were not likely to hear any morethat night. But long after eight o'clock arrivedone with a stable lantern, who had been wander-Hawicking about the fields in the dark looking for us,bearing a telegram . From this we learned that shehad indeed started by the train due atat 12.10.

INCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTS 103" Curiouser and curiouser !"She had set out then -and she had neverreached Hawick. We asked ourselves the solemnquestion, which must have occurred to many inlike straits What would Sherlock Holmes donow ? The first thing to do was to send Herbertto borrow a bicycle. He had no difficulty there,but it took him a very long time to find a lamp,and when he did it was an archaic and almostimpossible one ;and it was about nine o'clockbefore I started on my second journey to Hawick.We had concluded that the central clue in themystery was the Typewriter. The Wanderer, weknew, had a typewriter, and as she was not likelyto carryit with her, it should be at the stationif she had ever arrived. My lamp went out threeor four times, but I made a fairly good pace nonethe less,and immediately ran the typewriter toearth in the left luggage office.ItVery wellshe had reached Hawick after all.now seemed good to me to discover when shereached Hawick.not been on duty then,The only available porter hadand the books did notshow. All right. Where did the station-masterlive ? Not very far away, but he was alreadygoing to bed. I fortuitously attracted hisattention more rapidly than I might otherwise

104 CARAVAN DAYShave done by stepping into a bowl of water, leftfor the dog at the top of a dark flight of stonesteps, and rolling it down noisily to the bottom.That was the sort of way things went on withme throughout this wild evening. The stationmaster,however, soon had on his discarded garmentsand came back with me to the station.Investigation showed that at the time when thetypewriter was handed in Tom had been on duty.Very well. Where did Tom live ? The porterwent out to enquire.It was about ten o'clock when the porter andI set off, taking the typewriter with us so thatthere might be no mistake, to dig out Tom.Wereached a tall house in a back street after a timeand climbed four flights of dark stone steps. No,Tom didn't live up there. He lived on the groundfloor. Down we came again. His landlady wasfortunately still up or perhaps I should saypartially up but Tom was in bed and asleep.We both made our way into his room and lit thegas.Tom was a pleasant-looking fellow with very redhair, and a remarkably heavy sleeper. We hadthe utmost difficulty in getting anythingout ofhim. But at last he sat up. It had been a longand weary quest, but now we had him. The

INCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTS 105porter set the typewriter upon the bed and askedhim if he recognizedit. Oh, yes. He knew it.Well, when had it been handed in ? Tom ponderedprofoundly, and I was glad of that. I didnot want him to make up his mind in a hurry." Think, Tom," said I." Do you remember ?" demanded the porter.We waited."Aye," said Tom suddenly, his sleepy countenancelighting up," I mind the noo. I kenfine.It was handit in by a French toorist off the9.50."As the Wanderer had not left Edinburgh tillten that did not help us much. Back we went tothe station and left the typewriter. And then Iset out to try the hotels and other likely places.It was getting pretty late and I had some difficultyin breaking into some of them : and I metwith many more flights of dark stone steps beforeI was done. So at last I lit my lamp again,which instantly and finally went out, got on thebicycle and returned unilluminated to SIEGLINDA.She had reached Hawick but if so, why hadshe not got the telegram?She had not reached Hawick but if so, howhad the typewriter got there ?Even if she had failed to get the telegram she

106 CARAVAN DAYSmust have walked onbut if so, why had she notarrived ?She had gone up the wrong valleybut sheknew the road, having been over it a year before.All the same, she had mistaken the road, forthe two valleys are very much alike but inthat case she could not have gone far withoutfinding out that she was lost, and all thiswas about twelve hours ago. Where was shenow ?It only remained, as far as we could see, to geta motor in the morning and search the county ofRoxburgh. So we lit a lamp at the front of thevan, where it could be seen from the road, andwent to bed. I was only clear about one thingthat I was not going back into Hawick. I feltthat I had exhausted Hawick.About 5.30 a.m. the voice of the Journalist'sWife was heard atthe bedroom window, and Igot up, opened the door and put the kettle on.She explained that she had arrived :depositedher typewriter and asked at the post office for atelegram.She was told that there was none, soshe started to walk up the valley, not knowingof course how far we were from Hawick. Shehad crossed the bridge two miles out of the townby mistake and gone on up the Borthwick Valley

INCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTS 107for several miles.Then she found out that somethingwas wrong, and took a short cut acrossthe hills to the Teviot Valley. This had broughther on to our road just about half a mile above thecamp, and thereafter she had walked blissfullyon, away from the van, for about nine miles.She was told by a passer-byperhaps a relativeof Tom's ? that there was a caravan campedat Mosspaul Inn. It was getting dark when shereached the inn. There she stayed the night.Taking the road again at 5 a.m. she had fallen inwith a friendly motorist, who had given her alift to the gate of our field. And, well, there shewas.To this adventure I owe my remarkable insideof the town of Hawick. When weknowledgedrove in on the following dayit was almost likea home-coming to me.It was at the last ofall our camps, at the footof St. Mary's Loch, while Herbert was busily atwork upon the final furbishing of SIEGLINDA,previous to the Annual Inspection, that onearrived on a bicycle with a message. There was,he reported, a gentleman at the Rodono Hotel,who had sent him up to ask if Mr. Smith wouldbe so good as to lend his horses to pull his motorout of the cabbages.There were no other horses

io8CARAVAN DAYSwithin reach that were equal to it, and he did notwant to be held up for the week-end.Well !I must ask you to reflect not upon thethings I have said, or may still have to say, aboutmotorists in this narrative, but on the thingsthe horribly vituperative thingsthat in nearlyevery chapter I have left unsaid. I thought ofthat longlist. I thought of the helpless Sam,heaving and scrambling in the streets of Hawick.And now I was to be called upon to heap coalsof fire. There is nothing, in reality, that I likebetter to see than a motor-car in a cabbage patch.. . .Yes, Mr. Smith would send up his horses atonce.The car was lying down a steep bank, eight orten feet below the road, and on the very edge ofthe loch.So near, in fact, that I could but reflectthat one hearty shove when no one was looking... It had carried away many feet of the dykeas it went over, and the whole of the bank aboveit was deep in scattered stones, so that Sam andSimon could get no proper foothold at all. Andit was already growing dark. Some eight or tenmen had been assembled and were busily at work,lifting the wheels out of their deep troughs,removing cabbages and affixing ropes. At thefirstattempt the rope broke, and at the second,

INCIDENTS AND PREDICAMENTS 109though both horses did their best,it became clearthat, standing as they were among the wreckageof the dyke, they could not possibly succeed.To Simon belongs the whole credit of this fineHe may be a little overshadowed in myexploit.pages by the prowess of his companion. It istrue that he has not the same gifts of temperament.But let me pay him this tribute. Alonehe did it.There was only room for one horse towork on the road above, when at last we hadlengthened out the ropes to try a new system ofhaulage. The track of the broken dyke was wellsmothered in hay the wheels were boosted upout of the soft earth sundry lanterns were lit,for it was practically dark by now. Then themany workers stood back, and with a vast heaveand steady forward rush the great car chargedthe incline and came to rest onand bumped upthe level road.

I WISH ICHAPTER XIVMINCED SCOTLANDcould convey to you just how Scotlandappears to me now that I have traversed overtwo thousand miles of its roadways. It is nolonger a matter of tracts and distances and vastcontours. By my painstaking curriculum I havewon for myself a clear-cut possession of the wholein manageablemorsels and am able to see itintimately and close at hand, so that I feel myselfto be on terms with every neighbourhood, not asone who has passed through it,but almost as aresident. For I have possessed myself not onlyof mountains and valleys, towns and railwaystations, striking scenes and expanded views,but of fields and cottages and burns, of glimpsesdown leafy lanes, of springs and wells and bathingpools, of sheltered moorland quarries, of waysideshops, of countless tiny bridges and mossy gullies,of farmyards and cottage gardens and a wealthof small familiar things. To hear the name of ain Kincardineshire will recall to me in anvillageIIO

MINCED SCOTLANDininstant the picture of a littlegirl in an orchard,looking up wistfully into the branches of an appletree where her black kitten has taken refuge:Biggar always presents the figure of an extremelystout old lady in black, who ispoking about thehedgerows in search of groundsel for her canary :there isa misprint on a milestone not far fromthe flints :Killin : there is a lady stone-breaker in Sutherlandwho makes fine practice amongthere is a breed of white turkeys near FortAugustus.I am only giving you a few trivialmemories drawn at random from my bag, butenough perhaps to show the nature of the rewardthat falls to the slow-going caravanner. The onefatal blunder that he can make is to try to travelany faster than his natural pace. The motorcaravan . . . But I am not going to begin totalk about that.I believe I have come to understand as I neverdid before the motives of the many differentroads that I have travelled. Some of them areheadlong,stubborn and direct : stiff and unbending,impatient of rise or fall, intent upon theirdestination. Others are more wayward andfanciful, by no means in so much of a hurry, quitecontent to climb a knoll or skirt the shoulder ofa hill.Some seem hardly to have made up their

112 CARAVAN DAYSminds clearly where they are bound for :theyhesitate and weigh alternatives. Others simplywander frivolously. We travelled up the Northside of the Dee to Braemar, upon that magnificentRoyal Road that sweeps from Aberdeen toBalmoral, rising a thousand feet without even amomentary acknowledgment, in the shape of asharp hill a powerful, arrogant road, subduinga rough valley to its traffic. But we came backby the road on the South side, which is of a whollydifferent nature, adapting itself more geniallyto the country it must traverse, content to besmilingly deflected from its line, twisting aboutinto divers pleasant places, free to indulge insharp corners and unexpected undulations. Itgave us noble views of the valley, and it was withmuch regret that we parted company at Aboyne,but as I suspectedit of an intention to lead usastray into the Grampians at that point wethoughtit best to cross the river. Anotherdelectable road of the same sort is that which runsthrough Duns, Greenlaw and West Gordon. Itseemed to me to have very little preference as towhich way it went so long as it touched a township,for the sake of appearances, now and then.There are some patient, long-suffering roads whichalways appear to be grudgingly making the best

MINCED SCOTLAND 113of the great natural difficulties that beset them,such as the feeble track that we followed inSutherland, which started up each new inclinewith a sigh, hunching its shoulders peevishly, buttoiling on. And there are headlong roads, whichsweep and leap forward, making nothing of theheights they have to scale. Many try to deceiveyou by an old device, which the caravanner canafford to smile at. It is to bring you to the topof a steep dip, down and up, at such an anglethat the rise on the far side looks far stiffer thanit is, looks actually precipitous. But you haveonly to go boldly forward to see it come downas you descend and lose its sting, till, behold,it is almost level after all. You have found itout.There is of course immense variety in thechance scenes that I remember. We are travellingfrom Dunkeld to Inverness, and in response to asudden sporting impulse we turn offour routeto explore the Tummel Valley as far as KinlochRannoch. After we have come out of the sharplittle nick that encloses the bridge across theGarry we find ourselves in very heavy country,with seven miles of almost continuous climb ona wet, rough road with sharp gradients here andthere. The conditions are not improved by ai

H4CARAVAN DAYSsuccession of plumping showers, and not till wehave scratched up a sudden rise of i in 12 do wearrive, wet and weary, at the top and draw inat the roadside for tea. Walking a few yardsthrough the trees while the kettle boils we comeout unexpectedly upon that jutting crag whichthey call the Queen's View.It takes our breathaway, for at that moment the sun comes outand lights the whole astounding prospect ofSchiehallion towering on the left and LochTummel winding up the valley hundreds offeet below.Or we drive sleepily along the flat to pay a callin Troon. This would be something worth seeingwe had reason to believe. But I suppose we havetoo many golfers among our friends and had thuscome to a false impression. For golfers neverknow. They are always telling me that such andsuch a place Silloth, Seascale, Troon and manymore issimply glorious. I say that I supposethey mean the links are glorious, and they replyyes,that is so, but there is far more in it than that.It isn't only the golf. It is such a magnificentin itself.neighbourhood I know now that it isn'ttrue. In the same way people used to ask me togo to dances, and when I said I didn't dance,explained that that was of no importance as there

MINCED SCOTLAND 115was always plenty to do at a dance.The onlyconclusion is that ifyou are devoted to golf ordancing you are apt to become afflicted withblindness to other affairs. The great golfingcentres that we visited have been the leastinteresting from any other point of view.They are generally wind-swept and unlovely, andifthey have special natural beauties like theGairloch the golf iscorrespondingly bad. I amafraid that I cannot report on the links at Troon.But we spent a pleasantIhope they are all right.afternoon there, while SIEGLINDA waited in abroad, still,empty street, and our friends met ushalf-way with an early tea which was badlywanted.There are many memories of farm kitchens,and of cottage firesides, of calls paid, eveningsspent and suppers eaten. I see myself againpillaging the kitchen garden of a farm at theYetts of Muckhart, whose owner's one desire wasthat each and all of his vegetablesrepresentedshould bein the next SIEGLINDA stew. I seemyself in a shop in Newton Stewart, confrontedto my amazement by a Cold Sweet AyrshireHaggis. I see myself loading up a trap at Cockburnspathand bringing home the wash from thestation, which had been left behind at Coldstream

n6CARAVAN DAYSa week before, while the driver entertains mefully with the ancient history of the place.the caravan, tightlyI seefitted on the deck of theferry boat, tossing on a stormy sea beneath theForth Bridge, while Sam and Simon stampimpatiently.It is fit that I should record my opinion thatRoss-shire is, without question, the finest countyin Scotland.My judgment mayof course be inerror, for my data, it will be remembered, are notquite complete. I have never been in Argyll.But the others I know, and looking back uponthem, now that the collection is complete, andpassing them in review I count Ross-shire as thebest of all.IIt is the only county (for Sutherland,need hardly say, does not compete) which hasa share in the special features of both Eastern andWestern Coasts. Easter Ross is a noble country,rich in allgood things, beautifully situated aboutthe Cromarty, Dornoch and Beauly Firths,magnificently wooded and well farmed.There ishigh moorland in the heart of it, and on theWestern side Gaiiioch and Maree and otherglorious places. And when you add to all thatthe Conon Valley you would almost seem to havewithin this single county the very gist andsubstance of the scenery of Scotland.As for the

MINCED SCOTLAND 117inhabitants I could wish no caravanner a betterfate than to be cast adrift among them. He willfind that all the affairs and operations of hisjourney are made easy where everyoneanxious to assist him.is so

CHAPTER XVSAM AND SIMONTHERE is no doubt that they served us well, andeven if it is true, as his detractors will have it,that Sam got us into trouble on every possibleoccasion that offered, it isonly fair to look on theother side of the question. His exploits werenever without their humorous and individualfeatures.I am not sure, take it all in all, that hewas not the most entertaining member of theexpedition. On looking back I find I shall havelittle to relate of Simon. Beyond his singularbehaviour one night at Amulree, when he lay onhis back with a nose-bag on and rolled joyouslyfrom side to side by which exercise he wasnaturally very nearly choked he did nothingworth recording in these pages, though he oftenacted as aider and abettor of Sam.Herbert firmly believes in big farms.He likesto know that there are sufficient resources on theHe is neverspot to sustain his horses overnight.quite happy when they are lying out, unless they118

SAM AND SIMON 119are well up to their knees in clover, and when theyare stabled he must satisfy himself on many pointsabout the quality of the hay. When we are amongless than a thousand acres hefarms of anythinggrows contemptuous and speaks of the countryas being laid out " rather on the small holdingprinciple." I do not wish to disparage Herbertin this respect. As long as I am hustling himalong to the tune of a hundred miles a week he"must, as he says, keep his horses up." And Iwas often sorry for him in Sutherland, where thestabling was outrageous and little fodder was tobe had. We were camped one night at a fishinghotel whose stable was small, dark, dirty andoverrun with hens, and one of the guests happenedto stop and admire the horses as Herbert wasresentfully rubbing them down." Horses ?" said Herbert scornfully." Horses ?It's no use bringing horses here.horses when you tour in Sutherland."" Oh ? What do you want ? "You don't want" You want something that youcan throwaway every night when you've done with it.For there's nowhere to put 'em."Quite the worst thing I shall have to tell aboutSam happened at Tweedsmuir. I would leaveit out if I could, but I can't. Had I had any

120 CARAVAN DAYSintention of obscuring the truth I should not havewaited till now to begin. I should have saidboldly that we had been in Argyll.We had camped rather rashly on soft ground,and it had rained all night, so that it was clearthat SIEGLINDA would need a good lift to pull herout. But Sam met us with a blank refusal. Henever made the least endeavour. We had a fulltwo hours of it in heavy rain we : dug out thewheels : we ploughed up the turf in all directions :we brought boards and sticks and levers. Wedid in fact all the various things that we had sooften, with a superior smile, read of other caravannershavingto do in like straits. Herbertworked away with great patience,but once histemper was up nothing would induce Sam tomove. Twice he fell and the harness went inthree different places, and ever we plougheddeeper in. And at last we gave him up.There was a carter passing with a light littlehorse (which Sam could have put in his pocket)and we called them in as reinforcements. Andso Sam was allowed to look on while the faithfulSimon (who had been doggedly doing hisbest),with this little ally by his side, put his back intoit with a sudden heave and brought the van witha run through the gate.

SAM AND SIMON 121That was not a pleasant episode, but Sam onlytried it once again in a lane near Kinross thefollowing Mondayand that time we were muchbetter placed with a good level road before us,where Herbert was able to deal with him : andsoon he found, yet again his life is full of thesediscoveriesthat it was not so good a gameas hehad thought.He had us in difficulties again on the Sundaythat we spent at Stonehaven. To understandthe wanton wickedness of his behaviour on thisoccasion it is necessaryto state that at Peterculterboth horses had been shod. The blacksmiththerehe was, I think, our premier blacksmith,the best shoer of horses that we met withwas overwhelmed with admiration of Sam'sfeet, which demanded no less than seventy-twoinches of his best iron. Such fine material hadhe to work upon and so admirable a job did hemake of it that he besought us to lend him Samfor a week.That might have slightly upset ourarrangements, and we were forced to refuse him.But he had assured us that he would keep himwell and feed him on the fat of the land.Therewas, at the Agricultural Show which was duein a week's time, a competition for the bestshodhorse in the North, and it was a safe thing

122 CARAVAN DAYSfor him ifonly we would consent to a triflingdelay.You are to picture then these beautiful feetwith seventy-two inches of the best iron distributedamong them, free from the slightestblemish. You are to picture Herbert's frame ofmind when he found Sam on the Monday morningwith one shoe missing and one hoof badly broken.It is impossible to guess how he had contrived toget it off there is always an element of mysteryabout Sam's nocturnal doings but there it was.And more than that, the shoe had disappeared.The horses were alone in a small and painfullybare field.Herbert in moments ofsevere exasperationisand he nowgiven to picturesque language,declared that in his opinion Sam, having wrenchedit off, had wandered about with the shoe in hismouth till he found a suitable hiding-place. Idon't believe that there was more than a singlerabbit-hole in that field. But the shoe was foundin that rabbit-hole at the end of three-quartersof an hour of diligent search. We had to patchit on as best we could to keep goingreached a blacksmith some three miles down theroad.till weBut Sam's feet have never again been quitewhat they were at Peterculter.

allSAM AND SIMON 123One morning as we approached Dunkeld, whilethe members of the crew were out upon theroad some way in advance of the van, Sam,startled by a passing train, suddenly plunged andfell. It was fortunate that we were within hail,as had we been round the bend of the road wewould no doubt have gone blithely on for severalmiles while Herbert sat patiently upon Sam'shead, waiting for the assistance of the passer-by.It was rather a tangled mess at the first glance,and would soon have been much worse had it notbeen for the stolid and comfortable behaviour ofSimon, who allowed himself to be unyoked andtaken out, stepping clear of Sam's prostrate legs asThen by degrees we loosed Samhe went by without the least expression of resentmentor surprise.and got him up. He was none the worse, butthere was some damage to the long-sufferingharness, and one of the shafts was broken. I amafraid we must have formed rather a sorry-lookinggroup of unfortunates, fit food for the compassionof the wayfarer, had any chanced to pass thatwaywith SIEGLINDA stranded on the roadside,Simon surreptitiously chewing such grass aswas within reach,time, and Sam defiled byfor he never likes to lose anythe mud in which hehad been lying and hanging his lower lip with a

124 CARAVAN DAYSlook of pain and bewilderment, while Herbertpatched the harness with string and the OldCampaigner and I tried to make the shaft secure.There was much rubbing down and wiping andrearranging to do, but at last we were able togather up our various component parts,like anengine that has been taken to pieces, and proceedupon our way.I never like to travel throughcountry. The horses alwaysa dead levelsuffer from themonotony of a road without any rise and fall,and I am sure that some measure of undulationtoo dull a time that day.helps us all along. Sam had been having muchHe had to do somethingfor a diversion.But his best performances are of course atnight. At a moorland camp above Crieff he hadthe good fortune to discover an open gate in thesmall hours of the morning and went casually offup a neighbouring mountain, with the admiringSimon in his wake. Herbert had no difficulty infinding them, as they were clearlyvisible on thesky-line, strolling onward, but he had a walk ofsome three miles before he came up with themand persuaded them to stop. This episodedisappointedme. I like to think of the caravanner'sfaithful steed,always answering to his

name and sticking likeBut Sam isn't like that.. . . After spendingSAM AND SIMON 125a watch-dogto the van.several weeks in the dullroutine of the hayfield, where he had found littleto entertain him, Sam signalized his return to afuller and more varied life, on the second morningof our last journey, by one of the very neatest ofhis sporting ideas. Just as we were engaged onthe final preparations for the road a small boycame running (we came to know that small boy)with the news that the big horse was loose. Atthe same moment a singular metallic sound, notunlike the clacking of a stick run along corrugatediron, could be heard from the stable. Then Samemerged, smiling broadly, and wearing a bucketsecurely jammed on one of his fore feet, ratherafter the style of an extra boot. I do not knowif he had intended to travel in it, but he appearedto be resigned when it was taken from him. . . .... He was involved in a kicking match witha carter's mare at Dalwhinnie, but in that caseit was adjudged that the honours were even. . . .... In the depth of the night at Strathyre,when we were sleeping in the tent, we wereawakened by a voice." Driver !"A pause." Driver, are yesleepin' ? "

126 CARAVAN DAYSHerbert's reply may be said to have been in theaffirmative." Driver !"This time in a more imperativetone." That big horse of yoursis loose and doin'damage." . . .... I have never got to the bottom of thematter of Sam and the two kittens at Ballantrae.Perhaps my enquiries were rather half-hearted.But something happened in the course of thenightwhich was not at all to his credit. I wasgiven to understand that there were really toomany kittens, however, and the stable was noproper place for them. . . .Now that all is over Simon isenjoying cheerfuldaysof idleness in the Bank End field. He ispretty rough and disreputable in appearance,and he has shown at times no little contempt, asbecomes a traveller of experience,for the restraintsof gates and fences.He came over to methis morning, as I went down the lane, in searchof butterscotch. Sam is no longer with us. Heis in retirement on a farm in Cumberland. Allthat is left of him and my Partner has decreedthat it be framed in oak and hung in the middleroomof SIEGLINDA is a large red card bearingthe words FIRST PRIZE.

CHAPTER XVISPECIMEN DAYSTHE journey from Coupar Angus to Dunkeld liesthrough the very heart of the Scottish Midlands,a glowing country in the month of June, richlywooded and fertile, with arches of honeysucklein the hedges and a counterpane of margueritescast every here and there in the meadows. Thebest thing that we saw that day was the eightyfootbeech hedge at Meikleour, and fortune wasall in our favour, as it was only by taking awrong turning that we passed that way. Andthen we came down into the Tay Valley andthat is the finest river of them all andentered Dunkeld. We came to know all the fourmain roads that run out ofDunkeld before ourjourneys were over, and the camp that we occupiedthat night we visited twice again in thefollowing summer. We crossed Telford's famousbridge and turned up the right bank of the Tay fora mile, by a road that was smothered in foliage,till we came to the junction of the Braan Water,127

128 CARAVAN DAYSwhere there are some open fields, a mill and alittle inn. And there we found the most delightfulcamp in a paddock behind the mill, with toweringtrees on every side.Not far away was a campof Boy Scouts, whose sentinels, rigidat theirposts, had done their level best not to look interestedas the caravan went by. And there wereall manner of creatures in our paddock, so thatwe were provided with ample entertainment atour very doors.The collection of poultry was large and various ;a pet lamb wandered about disconsolately, therewere two calves, with an eye on the buckets, avariety of small dogs, and a goat. When to thisassortment were added Sam and Simon, roamingabout in the most jovial mood, the scene becameremarkably animated. Sam very soon put hisfoot through a trough, and while Herbert wasgently remonstrating with him one of the calvestook possession of the tent. I would have goneto expel him had I not been busy protecting theraw materials for supper which Ion the turf at the back of the van.had turned outBut the bestpassages occurred between Sam and the goat.This was something quite new to Sam, and hestrongly objects to innovations. Time andagain he made a dash at him, the goat gaily

SPECIMEN DAYS 129retreating with defiant hops and skips.He had nodifficulty in keeping his distance as long as theyremained in the open, but Sam manoeuvred himat last into a corner formed by an out-house,with a lean-to roof, that jutted out from the barn.It seemed that all was over with the goat, butthe full strategy of his campaign was only nowunfolded as he sprang nimbly on to the roof andran up itto the gutter of the barn high above.There he turned round and butted truculently.But Sam had already fled. As soon as he heardthe resounding patter of small hoofs upon thecorrugated iron he gave upthe chase and retreatednervously. Thereafter the goat, usinghis roof as a sort of base of operations, mademanySam concluded that it was not as good a game asfearless sallies into the field below. Buthe had thought.The old mill was remarkable for many thingsbesides its menagerie. It was set about by aperfect jungle of little buildings and queer secludedcorners, and there was a fine bathing poolin the stream, and high square columns of stackedtimber and a garden full of giant sweet-peas andclimbing roses.Sam and Simon were captured at last andremoved to another field for the night, and all

130 CARAVAN DAYSour various neighbours were rounded up andstowed away in their several quarters, the goatalone being left master of the field (he sleptapparentlywhere it suitedof the surrounding out -houses) ;outside in the calm that followed.him best in any oneand we suppedIt was my birthday and my Partner presentedme with a beautiful fish-blice, a thing that I hadnever owned in mylife before. It has been agreat comfort to me. No longer need I work awayin frying-pans with inadequate knives, trying hardnot to bruise or break the tender flesh of fishes.Imay safely say that I have never served adamagedfillet in SIEGLINDA since that memorableday.Let us take a day, of a very different character,from our experiences in Renfrewshire, after%crossing the Clyde on our way South. Thiscountry has not been laid out with a view tocaravanning. Our road lay through squalidvillages, among railways and chimneys, bypinched and blackened hedges. There were somesteep hills and occasional electric cars. Once \Velost our way and had to turn back after climbinga long hill all in vain. And we had long delaysat camping time. Nevertheless it is remarkablehow agriculture, our hospitable friend, contrives

SPECIMEN DAYS 131to thrive among the chimneys. Wherever theheavy hand of the mine or factory spares a fewacres, farms may still be found. At last we approachedthe smoke-begrimed township of Dairy,set about by seared and degraded country.WeThere we pulled up and senthad not yet found a resting-place.Herbert to enquireat a farm, which from the road-ward sidehad little promise. We were determined to gono farther if we could help it, but we did notwant to spend the Sunday among the chimneys.We sat and waited, while the Primus got to workupon the tea. After a while we saw the form ofHerbert disappearing over a distant hill, in searchof the farmer. We had, I think, just abouttouched our low-water mark. It was very hotand dusty ; we were thoroughly tired, and infront of us was the black country which we musttraverse if this last hope failed. The horsesstood in drooping posture, the sun beat downupon us,the Primus gently buzzed in the stillnessand in my sinister reflections the countyof Haddington, which was our final goal, seemedvery far away. The plain truth is that we were"road-sick," one and all. We had made ourrecord week, from Dunkeld to Dairy we were:South of the Clyde, as I had vowed to be. We

132 CARAVAN DAYShad travelled 120 miles, and we had had morethan enough of it.The kettle came to the boil and tea wasserved :simultaneously Herbert appeared witha favourable report. That was no small relief,but we had no idea of how good a thing we hadstruck in the hour of our extremity. The hillwas very steep, and the van had to turn backand drive up another way. We skirted round thehouse and buildings and past the yard and poultryrunand there we came upon our very heart'sdesire. It was a great stackyard, set about onthree sides with vast round haystacks toweringinto the blue.In the centre was a little ver-updant square, level as a billiard table and theshort, fresh turf upon it was like a fair greencarpet laid down. We drew up in the centre andshut in as we were we need no longer believein the existence of the road, not fifty yards belowus, or of the belching chimneys beyond. Gratefully,very gratefully, we took out the wearyhorses and tumbled the camp furniture out onto the carpet in the shade.not fail to tell each other, was Sunday.To-morrow, we didThat evening there was a long and interestingcombat between Herbert and the Primus Stove.Iwas never able to make out which of the two

had been the aggressor,SPECIMEN DAYS 133though Herbert deniedthat he had struck the first blow, and stoutlymaintained that it had openedhostilities byspouting oil when it thought he wasn't looking.But it was a fine set-to. For over an hour wecould hear all the pumpings, splutterings, flaringsand hissings of the fray, while dense black fumesrolled out of the tent door and ascended toHeaven ;and more than once Herbert was forcedto retire in search of fresh ammunition in theform of methylated spirits. My Partner thoughtwe should separate them before serious damagewas done, but it seemed to me better to let themtill wefight it out there would never be peace :knew once for all which was the better man.Silence at last descended on the tent and Herbert,worn and blackened and grimly triumphant,appeared with the Primus in his hand,burning with an even flame submissively andwithout a sob.There was a day in Galloway, from NewtonStewart to Tarff, which stands entered in mydiary, without any saving clause, as " the bestday of the tour." The statement is not to betaken very seriously, for I am, I know, apt tolose my head at times when I come to writingup the diary, and most of the days that I have

134 CARAVAN DAYSto describe are the best of the tour. Still it wasa good day, through grand countryit was amighty long way, twenty-four miles it wasperfect weather : and late in the evening wedrove up a hill in the face of the setting sun intoa stackyard that was filled with a warm haze oftingling gold. We were then just entering uponthe finest stretch of road surface, in our experience,in the whole of Scotland (and I hopethat the road-surveyor of the district will allowme to present to him my respectful compliments) ,which continues without blemish to Dumfries.I had been cutting up and mixing materials for astew allday as we went along,and now itonlyremained to put on the pot.The country that we had traversed was remarkablefor the variety of its forest trees. Iamused myself by counting them inone woodthat we passed through and reached a totaltwenty-five.where the branches, low-hanging, scamperedofAnd there were many leafy placesnoisily along the roof, as we pushed by, orwhipped the windows startlingly.That was a tobacco farmer, for there ismorescope in Scottish agriculture than you mightbelieve before you come to search it out. Itlooked a strong crop, and the farmer harvested it,

SPECIMEN DAYS 135as I was pleased to observe, itby choppingoffcrisply with a tiny axe. There was a touch offrost that night and a white mist in the morning,and the very air seemed to be faintly tinged withblue, as itthinned out and vanished in the heatof the sun.And finally let us pick out a day of minor adventures.We were camped just South of Edinburghand the Old Campaigner was with us. Both heand my Partner had to go into town upon variousaffairs and we made an appointment to assembleat the ferry beneath the Forth Bridge (if they didnot overtake me previously on the QueensferryRoad), not later than 3 p.m. I set to work toskirt the City and ifpossibleto avoid the cars.And in this I was so far very successful, havingmade out a route of curious little zigzags. Butwhen I reached CorstorphineI found myself upagainst so steep a ridge, which shut me off fromthe Queensferry Road, that I had to tack awayWeto the West for several miles and finally approachthe ferry from the opposite direction.had sundry delays at a saddler's and elsewhere,and we had a feast of incidents.was a cart,First of all therewhose driver, having been overcomeby strong beverages, was gently sleeping to thepublic danger, while his conveyance blocked the

136 CARAVAN DAYSroad ;and as soon as we had disposed of him weencountered the runaway.That was a most impressive sight.A powerfulyoung Clydesdale horse at full gallop, drawingan iron agricultural roller, which bumped aboutwith a hideous banging, clattering and thumping,bore down upon us. We happened to be waitingat the moment just at the top of the perilous hillthat leads down to the ferry, and it was not at alldesirable that either the roller or SIEGLINDAour horses took fright should set off in thatdirection.Herbert took the horses' heads whileI barred the way, standing in the centre of theroad and playing to the best of my ability thepart of a windmill. I failed to stop the runaway,but at least I turned him. He went thunderingoff up a lane to the right, and the turmoil diedawayin a cloud of dust. Theifback brake broughtus comfortably down the hill, and we reached theferry to find my Partner gazing with longing eyesin the opposite direction. As neither she nor theOld Campaigner had overtaken us on their wayfrom Edinburgh and as we were already longafter our appointed time, they had becomerather anxious about our movements. The OldCampaigner, she told me, had departed in a taxito search the whole of the surrounding neighbour-

SPECIMEN DAYS 137hood. That, however, did not disturb me. TheOld Campaigneris never quite so happy as whenhe issearching for a caravan in an unknowncountry, and though he did not turn up for fullyan hour there was no doubt that he had had athoroughly good time.Our next encounter was with the Commodore.(I don't know at all what his rank and status mayhave been, but at least he wore a white-peakedcap and he appeared to be in charge of the ferrytraffic.) He told us that there was no boat tillthe following morning, as the tide was wrong, andalso that SIEGLINDA was too big to get on to theboat that went then. His best boat, he said,much his best boat was at present laid up. Hewas an excellent fellow, the Commodore, butrather too short in the leg for the work of measuringvehicles.When I asked him to pace the lengthof SIEGLINDA he took eight very solemn little stepsand pronounced her twenty-four feet long. ThenI tried, and covered the distance in five steps.But he was not at all convinced. She wastwenty-four feet, he maintained, if she was aninch. At last he sent for a foot-rule and we arrivedat a more moderate estimate. He then concludedthat she would go on his boat, if duly presentedat 9 a.m. on the following day.

138 CARAVAN DAYSBefore we had time to consider campinggroundfor the night another complication arose.I had the ill-luck though it is a thing that mayhappen to anyone to fall into the hands of thepolice. I might go so far as to say that I wascaptured by a Posse of police, if that is the rightword, for there were no less than five of them. Ihave never been able to make out what they weredoing there, but Ithink they must have turnedtheir attention to me, because they had beenbaulked of other prey. They were no ordinarypolice. They were all beautifully dressed andlavishly decorated with braid and medals, andin the course ofthe court-martial that followed(for I was subjected to a searching enquiry) theyaddressed each other as " Sergeant " and " Inspector" and so on, which really added a distinguishedair to the proceedings. My crime wasconnected with the proper display of my nameand address on the body of the van, as by lawprescribed, in letters of not less than an inch inheight. My defence was that this was a meretechnicality, but the affair was assuming mostthreatening proportionsbefore I knew where Iwas. My name, state, profession, age, address,the colour of my eyes and manyother ratherintimate details (I thought) having been taken

SPECIMEN DAYS 139down in a note-book, the committee retired toconsider its next move. The charge, however,somehow fell to the ground. Perhaps the realcriminal had turned up in the meantime. Iconvinced that so strong a body of police had notambeen drafted I believe that is the expressioninto Queensferry without some important capturein prospect. I was merely a passing diversion.We camped at last right under the ForthBridge, in a neat little corner off the road, andat intervals throughout the night, away up in thedarkness overhead, we could hear the thunder ofthe passing trains.

CHAPTER XVIIALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERSI HAD had a wire from the Old Campaigner, whichI found fortuitously at a village post office. He saidthat he would reach the Caledonian Hotel, Edinburgh,late on Thursday evening and was comingto find us. He only knew that we were somewherebetween Moffat and Inverness and would be gladof instructions. I sent him a reply to the hotel" Take a taxiwhich made his way easy for him :go south by road to penicuik between fourth andfifth milestones biggar road strikes off to rightdon't take it but 973 yards further on lane strikesoff at acute angle to left go 200 yardsdown thislane turn to left and look about." By followingthese directions the Old Campaigner stepped outof his taxi into his tent about 10 p.m. pleasantlysurprised to find himself there. He had come fora week-end which became a week, then a fortnightand finally three weeks, and had he nothad the misfortune to run into telegrams, thatcould not be ignored, in Easter Ross he mighthave completed the tour.140

ALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERS 141The Old Campaigner has a wonderful power ofshedding his everyday self as he comes in sightof a caravan, a tent, a hut or a canoe, or any ofthe other means of escape from the affairs of lifewhich he and Ihave fashioned for ourselves inthe last twenty years. There is no one whoknows better how to chop off short everyone ofhis normal activities and run away a fugitivefrom commerce. His reincarnation as a caravanneris complete.You cannot tempt him withnewspapers or interest him in the movements ofmarkets. And it is generally very difficult totrace him, for he is in no hurry to call at the postoffice for urgent telegrams. To see him at hisCity desk, thoughtfully controlling vast interests,or strolling about on 'Change with his hat pushedback from a puckered brow you would neverdream of the metamorphosis that can be wroughtin him by the immediate prospect of sleepingunder canvas. Perhaps it is partly the influenceof his clothes. He isalways faultlessly dressedin normal life.But as soon as he rids himself ofhis collar and tie and gets into a pair of blueshorts and a sweater, as soon as youadapting a piece of window cord to act as afind himgarter or using a bootlace in place of a button, Itell you candidly it is no use coming to him for

142 CARAVAN DAYSadvice about investments. Very often he arriveswithout clothes and pillages my wardrobe. Theseare the occasions of headlong and unthinkingflight, when he has suddenly found the way openbefore him and it has occurred to his mind thatthere is a caravan somewhere on the road. Hehas of course great qualities as a caravanner, notleast of them that enormous willingness to doanything that is wanted at a moment's notice,and that eagerness to embrace adventure of allsorts, without which our way of travel wouldsurely lose its savour. And he always has thetime of his life.The Old Campaigner has a passion for waysidecompetitions and tests of efficiency. He isalways willing to pithimself against anyone atanything. If he iswalking on a moor he is read}'to back himself for any amount to be the first ofthe party to find white heather. He loves to rollstones down steep hills and see if his goes fartherthan yours. He is an adept in racing two bits ofstick down a stream and pelting them with clodsto urge them on. There is a familiar motor signa little hollow triangle at the top of a stickwhich has given him new openings. And morethan once the caravan has had to wait while heand I have finished a bout of chucking stones

ALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERS 143through the aperture from a distance of twentyfeet. (You are allowed twelve stones and you geta penny a time for each one that goes through.)On the whole I hold my own with him, thoughhe has the better of me sometimes in skippingflat pebbles over the surface of a lake. But therewas one occasion when I was routed. We werejumping a broad ditch in the dark on a crosscountrywalk. I am a far better jumper than heis : I won a medal for jumping at school : I hadit on my watch-chain at the time. However, hecleared it somehow and I came a fearful cropper.He pulled me tenderly out of the mud, and as soonas I had reached the bank," Give me that medal," he said sternly. AndI felt that the claim was just .I should not wonderif he has it still, for I handed it over without aword.He had been with us for a week on the march toJohn o' Groats and had helped to pilot SIEGLINDAup Borgie Brae, for he has a way of turning upwhen there is a big thing on. But I think thehappiest moments that he spent upon thejourney were at our camp in the Tummel Valley,which offered him special facilities for his favouritesport of tubbing in the open air. For some reasonhe despises a tub inside a tent, and if there are no

144 CARAVAN DAYSbathing opportunitiesto be had and in thatmatter he is not hard to please, for he is quiteprepared to wallow in any little stream heinsists on getting the rubber bath out into thesunshine, or the rain, pitchingit in the lee of thetent and thereat some risk from the eye of thepasser-by freely disporting himself in the water.But at this camp he soon discovered a mostconvenient little mill-race, about six inches deepand a couple of feet broad, with a smooth andmossy bottom.The current was so strong thatit was only necessary to lie down and let go to beborne along, hallooing joyously. I did notmyself take part in this exercise, but I heartilyappreciatedit from the door of the van. The OldCampaigner was very late for breakfast, but hehad the time of his life.The Journalist and his Wife also join us sometimes.It is his custom to skirmish along thehigh ground with a camera, when we are on themarch, considerably in advance of the main party.Whenever he has secured a commanding position(and he is extremely fastidious : he must have thevan at an angle that suits him, and a mere telegraphpole is enough to vitiate his background)whenever the moment has arrived we are heldup by wild signals from the ridge above and must

ALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERS 145throw ourselves at once into an attitude. Andit must be said that in the earnest pursuit of hisart he takes a ghoulish pleasure in our misfortunes.If he can catch us stuck in a waterway or in anyother predicament he gloats upon the spectaclethrough his lens.The Journalist's Wife is a born caravanner.All the necessary household arts are rooted inher ;she has great gifts in dealing with utensils.It was she who invented the method of cleaningthe milk bottle till it glitters with sand ;andshe has contributed several new items to ourarsenalthe most notable among them, perhaps,the asbestos platter, by the use of which a potcan be kept equably at the boil. She is deft inmixing mustard, and has real insight into thequestion of straining coffee. More than once Ihave thought (though Imay have been wrong)that I have caught her casting envious eyes intomy kitchen.The Journalist on the other hand is a purepassenger, and has the three virtues of thepassenger (i) he is always happy, (2) he does notleave his belongings lying about the van, and(3) he is never in the way.About two miles above Grantown we foundquarters for the night on a small holding, shut

146 CARAVAN DAYSoff from the road by trees.Above us on a littleknoll among the heather was another caravan,flanked by a long " Alpine " tent a verycharming little encampment which had quite asettled and permanent appearance about it.As soon as I could safely leave the supper I wentover to call. It was the daintiest little waggon,very narrow and very high off the ground,brightly painted and covered with a sun-clothand bearing the inscription HIGHLAND BIBLECARRIAGE over the door.It did not perhaps lookto me a very practical traveller, but its littlegreenshutters and above all its window-boxesfull of blooms went straight to my heart.It wasnot till the following day that we encounteredits owner. He was an aged Highlander, of enormousstature, who had been camped throughoutthe summer in his present quarters, and who toldme that he had been caravanning off and on fortwenty or thirty years. He had built his waggonhimself and also his tent, which was an extremelysolid and finished piece of work, and he had agood deal to tell me about his experiences ofHighland roads, and especially of a winterjourney when he had been completely snowedup and unable to move for several weeks. Thefollowing day was Sunday, and we went to his

ALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERS 147service in a dark littlecowshed, where the congregationpacked themselves in as best they couldamong sacks of artificial manure and storedimplements.I think he could hardly have hada more impressive pulpit, standing as he did inthe failing light of the doorway, with his tallfigure thrown up against the distant view of themountains behind. It was almost dark by thetime his long discourse came to an end, and wehad to grope our way out into the air. After thathe came to spend the evening with us and tell usmore of his reminiscences. And of course wediscussed stoves, a point on which he was particularlysound.It was the Glasgow Fair week when we reachedCallander, so that we had some neighbours in ourcamping-ground, a mile out of the town. Threeother caravans appeared in the course of the twodays. One of these was the real thing a party ofindiscriminate traders, ready to deal in baskets,tin cans or horses, or to take their place in atravelling show if necessary.patriarchal method.Theirs was the trueIt was fine to see them drawin and instantly, even before the horse was out,produce a large arm-chair in which the father ofthe tribe took up his position with his pipe,directing the operations of the women and

148 CARAVAN DAYSchildren, with an occasional languid wave of thearm. I pointed out this exampleof how thething should really be done to my Partner, butshe did not quite agree with me. We paid a longcallon them in the evening and inspected theircaravan's interior.Another party was conducted by a carter, whohad borrowed a van from his employerand wasout for a week's tour with his wife and family.There was an admirable efficiency about thisexpedition, though the van itself was of a heavy,lumbering type. But I came away with theimpression that, in centra-distinction to our otherfriends, in this case it was the wife and familywho were really enjoying themselves, while theburden rested heavily upon the man himself.Of the third party Icannot speak without acertain resentment and a certain deep misgivingfor the reputation of our craft. They had a largevan and it was a huge party eight in all, andall of them men. And they were of the sortwhich loves (I have never been able to understandit)to decorate the caravan with such announcementsas will attract the attention and the scornof the passer-by. They always carry gramophones,and they sing loudly in the small hoursof the morning. And after they are gone the

ALL SORTS OF CARAVANNERS 149whole of the surrounding countryis adorned withreminiscences of their visit in the form of assortedrefuse. This particular van bore many interestinglegends in large type. WE ARE EIGHT : LOOKINGFOR BAIT, for instance. (I don't undertake totranslate. I am only reporting faithfully.)And THE ABODE OF LOVE. And INNOCENTSABROAD. And THE BEASTS ARE FED ATONE-THIRTY.Really the silent panels of SIEGLINDA began tolook very plain and uninteresting to us. We wereled to wonder whether we could not do somethingto brighten up her appearance. One of the Eightcame over in the morning to inspect us, while wewere both inside and Herbert was at work on thebrake-blocks. He subjected us to a pretty carefulstudy without saying a word and made no pronouncementtill he had quite made up his mind.And then :" She won't stand much ! "he remarked sagely,and turned away shakinghis head. And I amsorry to say that Herbert nearly had hysterics.They departed that afternoon and the placeseemed very quiet without them, as they saywhen the children have gone back to school.In dealing with caravanners that Ihave metI cannot leave out Mrs. Goodenough, although

150 CARAVAN DAYSshe belongs to an earlier period. She used totravel with her large, performing family, givingentertainments in the villages, and she alwayslooked in to see me when she passed my way.Ihad a special regard for her on account of theperfect harmony that existed between herselfand her dwelling. Away from her caravan shewas like a fish out of water : she had lived all herlife in it and brought up her family there. Andshe told me that she could never feel at home ina house.She was always" restless like after thefirst few minutes and wanted to get near theRooms is so big and lonely."winder." But wouldn't a house be more comfortable"in the winter ? I would say." " No," she would reply. I never can feel asifI were gettin' warmed through in an 'ouse."" But are you never afraid of being blown overon stormy nights? "The old lady laughed with much enjoyment." They do say," she remarked, " that mothernever looks to be snugto rock a bit."in bed till thevan begins

CHAPTER XVIIIMEMORABLE CAMPSIT was on the day on which we left Inverness onour march to the West that we came into thecomely valley of the Conon Water.I look backupon this district as a place apart. The otherfine neighbourhoods that we visited were all wellknown to us by name and by repute before wereached them. But I have a pleasant feelingthat we found the Conon Valley for ourselves.Its beautiful and kindly scenery, its great sweepingriver, its comfortable farms, and above allits unmatched inhabitants were ours by right ofdiscovery. That was indeed our Happy Valley,and if ever againI drive SIEGLINDA across theGrampians it is safe to say that one of my firstinducements will be to seek out again the friendsthat we left behind us there. For after crossingthe river below Contin and completing a day oftwenty-four miles, we dropped into the greatestcamp, all things considered, of all our longexperience. We might easily have driven on.151

152 CARAVAN DAYSThere was nothing about that farm, as seen fromthe roadway, to single it out from its fellows.But when we had been warmly welcomed by thefarmer and instructed to turn down a narrow lanebelow the garden we came out suddenly upon alittle open space beside the river, completelyscreened from the road, with a ravishing view ofthe mountains.We drew the van up on a levelstretch of turf in the very heart of acres of flamingbroom and pitched the tents in a small hollowdown below. Sam and Simon wandered off andwaded out into the river to drink, thus addingthe one needed touch of special interest in theforeground that made the picture from ourwindows quite complete.No one appreciated this memorable campmore than Herbert. He had come to so good anunderstandingwith the farm hands that hishorses were royally treated both in the stableand out at grass. He had dairy supplies of allsorts to draw upon;he borrowed all manner ofodds and ends as he required them, and we foundhim on the Sunday, when cleaning was in hand,carrying out buckets of boiling water from thekitchen which may surely be described as thevery height of luxury. For my own part Isecured a wealth of vegetablesand a fine choice

MEMORABLE CAMPS 153of flowers. After much consideration we let thehawthorn have its way inside the van, for I thinkshe looks her best in hawthorn.We further explored our Happy Valley on theSunday and went to the most inviting old churchupon an island that was approached by no roador path or other sort of track, but appeared tolike a tree. And wegrow simply out of the grassspent a very sociable afternoon and evening withour host and hostess, who, after we had taken teawith them, came back with us to the van, whenI had to get my roast into the oven.There was a little lane two miles from Beauly,which my Partner had marked down upon ouroutward journey as a likely camping-ground,where we found a glorious resting-place on ourreturn. It was not a convenient spot to camp,for the farm was some wayoff down the hill andwater was far to carry, but it was perfect in itself.There were great trees on either hand, a highbank to the left and a broad view to the right,and the whole place was embowered in floweringbroom. Sunshine filtered down upon us andspread a wide curtain of gold upon the bankabove. I do not think SIEGLINDA ever had sofair a garden.. . .In a splendid neighbourhood below Strathyre

154 CARAVAN DAYSwe camped in a field at the side of the road withan amphitheatre of wood about us. Herbertcautiously manipulated the van through thenarrowest gate that she has ever traversed. Hehad about two inches on either side to come andgo upon, but we touched nothing. It is probablethat he would not have attemptedit had not thefarmer maintained with scorn that it wasmanifestly impossible. SIEGLINDA looked altogetherout of proportion on the farther side,enjoying somethingof the comic success of theconjuring trick by which one passes an egg intoa bottle. . . .At Comrie we fellupon a stackyard of finenot the least of them the hiddenproperties,stream which flowed justpast the van, down alittle narrow gorge entirely closed up with trees.It was a warm day and more than once wedescended into this chasm and bathed in a deeppool, arched closely in with branches and dappledover with rare spots of sunshine. . . .I dare say there is no finer camp in the Lowlandsof Scotland than our last one at the foot ofSt. Mary's Loch ;and we reached it in the finestweek of all the year, at the moment of its climax ;for the bracken that spreads far and wide uponthe rounded hills had turned to its warm autumn

MEMORABLE CAMPS 155tints and the colouring of the landscape, steepedin sunshine, was magnificent. Bracken, weconcluded, would be the very makingof Dalwhinnie,of Loch Shin, of other dreary places inthe North, which fail of their effect by theirsingle allegiance to the heather. . . .But there is no end to my memorable camps,and somethingI must say of the special virtuesof stackyards.It was in the last of our journeysthat we came to recognize that had the institutionof the stackyard been invented for the benefit ofthe caravanner it could hardly have been betterdone. For a stackyardis bound to be easilyaccessible with a good road in and a wide gate.It isalways hard in the surface and you have nofear of sinking. It is near the steading and thusmost handy for supplies, and yet it is quiet andsecluded enough. Stacks are themselves delightfulneighbours, especially the bonny roundstacks of Southern Scotland, and often they forman alluring pattern, pleasant shapes and combinations,open spaces and narrow thoroughfares.when we are caravanning, we are in someFor if,measure as children who are playing at house onthe grandscale and of course we are : that ispart of the secret fascination it follows that thegameis much enriched if the house be set in

156 CARAVAN DAYSa street, in a village with other (make-believe)houses about it. And this is just what happens.You may draw in to the most enchanting littlecorners and interstices. You have immensevariety in the choice of your site. Again thetowering stacks will always give you shade insummer weather and incomparable shelter instorms of wind and rain. And you may becomewhen you are among them the finest epicures inthe matter of your view, so pitching the van asto conceal what isunlovely and open up whatyou wish to look upon.One of the best rewards that we won by makingour last journey in September was in our stackyards.For earlier in the year they are bereft ofall their chief and special qualities. In June orJuly they are for the most part almost empty,peopled only by a few dark old-season stacks,which have lost their warmth and freshness.The grass grows long in them for lack of traffic,and they are deserted, a mere stagnant backwaterin the life of the farm.they are in full tide of accumulation. EveryBut in Septemberdaynew, glowing, golden stacks are going up. Allthe j oiliest operations of the farming year aregoing on there : newpeaks and summits arebeing reached ;carts are movingto and fro.

MEMORABLE CAMPS 157On a fine evening youwill see the farmer'sdaughter coming from the house with her greatbaskets of meat and drink, that all the handsmay sup without delay and not a moment maybe lost. Possibly after dark a vast uncouththrashing mill may come snorting in, grindingand swaying over the uneven ground, manoeuvringclumsily by lantern light. All the life of the farmis concentrated there. You will make morefriends in a single evening in the stackyard thanyou would in a week if you were camped in adistant field.It is not always the most formal and correct ofstackyards that attract me most. Many of themare rambling and unkempt, with trees about themand an occasional neglected implement bymeans of which Herbert saves himself a tent-peg.Docks and nettles may grow in them, but theseare not without their value, as they have greatcapacity for accepting and concealing what iscast away. Jessica one of the members of theunderworld can be emptied into them withoutcompunction. Some have those fine, newfanglediron frames, as stack-bases, on which youmay admirably spread out wet things to dry.And all have when the cropis in the sameclean, crisp, gold and green decoration, the same

158 CARAVAN DAYSwarm welcome and invitation, the same freshand kindly fragrance.Some of them also have wasps' nests.If thatgreat stackyard at Dairy had a fault and Ishould grieve to admit it it was that on theSunday, a still, blue, heavenly day, we wereactively employed for several hours keeping outa wasp invasion, and both of us were stung. Butthere is no rose, I am told, without its thorn.

CHAPTER XIXOUR MARCH TO THE WESTSOON after we left our Happy Valley we cameout upon the open moor. We made a twentyfour-milejourney on the Monday, on a road thatwas much better than we expected, and had tocontent ourselves with what my Partner callsa " corrugated camp," such as we had met withmore than once in Sutherland, at Overscaig,Altnaharra and elsewhere.In these remote districts,I am sorry to say, corrugated iron is muchin vogue, greatly to the detriment of the scenery,and any shed, stable, garage or other buildingthat one may find at the roadside is generallyconstructed of it. These buildings have twoother characteristics. They always have a goodhard level space in front of them and they arealways locked and deserted. So at Achnasheenwe stopped beside a sheltering shed, which rangall night to the assault of the rain. But with themorning the sun came out again and we had acapital day for our heavy march over to LochMaree. The road is not very steep nor the hill

160 CARAVAN DAYSvery long going West, but the surface becameloose and gravelly and we had two difficultencounterswith motors in narrow places. Atthe top we came upon the noble view downGlen Docherty. Freely do I give it pride ofplace along with the Queen's View above LochTummel and that of the Kyle of Tongue. Thereare plenty of views amongour memories thatjostle each other for inclusion in the secondrank. But these three occupy the first. LochMaree, misty and seductive in the tempered sunlight,wandered away into the dim distance, themany islands showing up sharp against the silverybackground, and the commandingoutline ofSlioch rising sheer out of the water on the right.No Highland view can take first rank without areally good mountain in it, but Slioch is overpoweringand precipitous.Indeed there is no loch that we have seen likeLoch Maree.remote.It is not wholly wild and lonely andThe grandeur of the Northern side is inmost happy contrast to the gentle beauty of thebirch-woods and the mossy glens that alternatewith the heather to the South, and the woodedislands scattered everywhere would seem, in thiscontest of two types of Highland beauty, tothrow in their lot with the Southern side.

OUR MARCH TO THE WEST 161The new back brake was tested to the full onthe long descent of Glen Docherty, but it held usadmirably, and just South of Kinlochewe wecamped on a farm road about a mile above theloch. The hotel proprietor, who appeared tohave all the resources of the neighbourhood inhis own hands, greeted us most hospitably, andthrough his help Herbert was able to bring in allthe fresh eggs, as far as we could make out, thathad been laid in that part of Ross-shire in thelast two days.On the Tuesday we proceeded ten miles downthe loch over a most deplorable road and founda capital camping-ground on an open spacebeside a stream, not far from the Loch MareeHotel. That was a day of perfect weather andwonderful views and we spent the afternoon ina variety of domestic jobs, the Official Photographercarrying out important toning andfixing operations on the bank behind the van.There was again a tremendous downpour inthe night, but according to its admirable customthe weather cleared upas soon as it saw thehorses coming and we had a brilliant dayfinal march to the West.for ourAfter our many failureswe had come to regard our arrival on the WestCoast as an event well worthy to rank with ourM

162 CARAVAN DAYSarrival at John o' Groat's, and it must be said thatalthough we had now only eleven miles to travelthey were lavishly beset with difficulties. Theroad was thoroughly bad and the hills wereheavy, becoming, as they always do, more andmore vicious and impracticable as we approachedour goal. After the long pull up from the loch,with a glorious view unfolding behind us, wereached a barren level tract of stunted heather,stones and dark still pools ; and here a tinker'scart hove in sight and drew off on to an openspace beside a corrugated iron shed to let us pass,for there was no room to spare.We were muchdelighted as we came near to recognize ourfriend, the tinker of Lairg, on tour with all hisfamily. Several of them were walking in astraggling line behind ;he and his wife lay atfull length upon the heaped-up tent and impedimenta,and I do not know how many of thesmaller members of the clan had been packed inalong with the other luggage, but during ourconversation with him heads kept popping uphere and there in the most unlikely places.WhenIspeak of a tinker's cart I fear I may give youa wrong impression of that great structure.There was nothing mean or meagreproportions and its breadth at the top,about itswhen all

OUR MARCH TO THE WEST 163was loaded up, was quite as great as that ofSlEGLINDA.The tinker, who is a great amateur of rusticbeauty,reproduceassured usperhaps a pityI am afraid that I must nothis conversation verbatim which isthat we were now within a mileof what he considered the blankest, blankestpiece of sceneryin the North of Scotland :learning that we were likely to catch him up againon our return, we parted, the various small headsdisappearing beneath the surface as soon as theyhad grinned a last good-bye at the retreating"gorryvon."And so we came down into Gairloch, but wehad two villainous little hills to negotiate in thelast half mile of our journey, and both brakeswere on to the full when we came to rest in anopen spacenear the hotel. There was a littlesandy bay on the far side of the road, greatmountains shut us in on the landward side,richly clothed with spruce and birch, and I donot think that in the whole of Scotland therecan be any spot more perfect. I note that theinhabitants all speak of Gairloch in caressingtones, as if it were a small child or a pet animal,dwelling lovingly upon its syllables and givingto the name a gentle charm ;and we were fortu-

164 CARAVAN DAYSnate, doubly fortunate in the lightof the stormsthat followed, in reaching it on a golden afternoonof still airs and clear sunshine.We made no doubt about it that we hadreached the coast at last for we went down tobathe, as soon as the horses were unyoked, andlater in the evening Sam and Simon gave to theassembled inhabitants a gayhalf-hour of livelyentertainment, when Herbert took them alsodown to have their evening's dip. Very fine theylooked from the road above as they sported andcurvetted on the sands, for they needed muchpersuasion to take the plunge. Simon speciallyfunked the thing abominably, and had to behurled in backwards at the last. And in orderthat the necessary comic relief should not beabsent, Sam, when belly-deep in the waves withHerbert on his back, suddenly bucked and threwhis rider, to every one's delight.It chanced that as we drew in to camp we hadmet a large and well-attended funeral procession,and this had had the effect of advertising ourpresence far and wide, so that Sam and Simondid not lack of a good audience for their performance,both that afternoon and, when itrepeated by request,wason the following morning.This accounted also for our many visitors.

OUR MARCH TO THE WEST 165" Weel," said the old minister, as I helped himdown the steps," I can only say that it's anawfu' way tae see the country." And I wasvery grateful to him for this happy variant uponthe phrase that haunts me wherever I go. Iunderstand that by " awful " he meant to expressall that is charming, even as I have hearda Scotchman speak of a " horrid bonny lassie."And Iwas pleased to find that in this favouredspot of Gairjoch they use, as is most meet, aphraseology of their own." " Yes," said I. It is indeed Awful."The minister walked round the van, weighingits substance with his eye. Then he turned againto me." Where was it erected ?" he asked. And thatalso pleased me, for well I knew that any one outof Gairloch would have asked all unconsciousof the platitude where it was built. Not that itever was erected, for when itwas a question ofputting it together its body descended from above.And while we were waiting for a promisedcaller from over the hill who was long overdue,my friend added one more quaint phrase to hisexamples of the Gairloch tongue. He lookedwistfully up the road and " Will he come on"his foot ? he asked.

166 CARAVAN DAYSYou see, Gairloch is different from other places.The manageress of the hotel sent round a dailypaper with offers of her services and insisted onmy inspecting all her principal rooms. Otherinhabitants had to show us their gardens, theirkitchens, their view from the upstairs windows.At the little pier near the post office the wholeroutine of the small trafficthat comes and goeshad to be explained. I think they were allanxious to show that they were not unworthy ofliving in Gairloch, that they recognized theirfavoured position and meant to play up to thebest of their powers. And thus we found it impossibleto make a start before the afternoon.We were of course to return to Achnasheen by theroad by which we had come. Even if we had hadany intention of going on up the coast I think weshould have been deterred by an ugly story thatreached us of a gang of men who had been sentup there to wait at a given point and lend theirservices in the work of digging motors out of thesand. We had plenty of bad hills before us as itwas : I had been guilty the day before of fillingthe oil-tanks too full. That is a matter whichdepends upon the country that you are travellingin. If your oil-tank is ten inches across and thecaravan isdescending a hill of one in ten it is

OUR MARCH TO THE WEST 167manifest that the far end of the tank will be tiltedup one inch and allowance must be made for that.After lunch we got the horses in and were escortedto the confines of the village by many ofour hosts.We passed again through Flowerdalea name that does not seem to belongto thisneighbourhood at all, but rather to some shelteredEnglish valley and into the midst of thatblankest scenery which had so uplifted the heartof our friend the tinker. It is a magnificentwooded glen by which one climbs out on to theheights. But there is, from this side, no distantview of Gairloch. It lies round the corner,tucked away in its own little bay,a treasure thatmust be closely sought for. It would be out ofkeeping with its modest beauty that itshould bepeered down upon by curious eyes from distantplaces.

CHAPTER XXROAD-GAMES, SHORT CUTS AND PENNY DIPFOR my part the weary pass over the Grampiansby Dalnaspidal is no more than a necessary grindthat must be worked through to reach the noblecountry beyond. And as I walked on mile aftermile I fell to playing Road-games to pass thetime.I have walked well over a thousand milesof Scotch roads in the course of my journeys, andit is rarely that I need to look for entertainmentto beguile the way, beyond the pleasures ofcommon observation. But there are methods ofentertaining oneself, as one trudges along, which,without too much engrossing one's attention,provide a pleasant undercurrent of sportivecalculation. These things belong to the specialframe of mind that is the gift of the wayfarer, asort of contented monotony a passive sense ofsatisfaction in things as they are. When Stevensonwas making his inland voyage he tells us thathe used to spend hours on end counting thestrokes of his paddle and forgetting the hundreds.1 68

ROAD-GAMES 169On any main road you may confidently expectto find all the instruments and appliances thatare needed for these sports. You have yourwatch, the telegraph poles, the milestones. Thetelegraph poles are numbered though I haveeven met with travellers so unobservant anduneducated as not to be aware of it.Your firstbusiness of course is to get the distance betweenAs they vary greatly with the bend of thepoles.road you will find that you must pace perhapshalf a dozen different intervals before you arriveat a fair average. From that you go on to findhow many poles there are to the mile, and bywill findtaking the number of one of them youfrom which post office they are counting (thoughthat isperhaps a side issue) .with this guide to help you, to the gameThen you may go on,of Huntthe-Milestone,which is, I think, one of the bestin the repertory.Taking the number of the polenearest the milestone that you are at,you willknow, if your calculations have not led you astray,just where to find the next. You can even locateit afar offby following with your eye the dwindlingpoles that reach away into the distance infront. You can turn to your Partner and say :" Do you see that old spruce tree at the bend"of the road ?

170 CARAVAN DAYS"Yes," she will reply. " What about it ? "'of it."The seventeenth milestone is just at the footYou will be in a state of some excitement as youdraw near and have to substantiate your prophecy.And of course you can have a competition withthe Old Campaigner.. . . But you must notforgetthe allowances and adjustmentsthat arecalled for by the uncertain behaviour of yourpoles. It is no affair of rule of thumb. They willsuddenly bunch close together at a sharp turning.They may even desertthe hill.the road and cut acrossIhave at times played this game when sittinginside the van, but there it is not so easy to geta sure basis of calculation, though it may be doneeither by pacing the intervals vicariously bymeans of Simon's steps, or by taking the numberof the uprights in a roadside fence and assumingtheir distance apart.There are all sorts of combinations open to youas soon as you introduce a new element in thesecond hand of your watch. You will train yourselfto walk a mile in a certain length of time, andifyou have any real aptitude for the thing youshould soon be able to set out confidently to doyour next mile in 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13 or 12

minutes at will,ROAD-GAMES 171and be within a few seconds ofyour goal. Ifyou have no milestones you usetelegraph poles, and it is onlyon a road that isbereft of both that you will fail for lack of material.You may generally reckon that the van istaking seventeen minutes to the mile,unless itis a particularly easy road, and if it be opencountry and you can see her far behind it is apleasant exercise to discover the exact extentof your lead by timing her past two given pointsand pacing the space between as you go on.When she isvery far behind you can most easilypick her up by observing the shadow of a roadsidetree as it crosses the white expanse of roof. Andwhen you are satisfied that you have a full tenminutes in hand you may sit down and smoke apipe.Another field of endeavour isopened up bytrying how nearly you can pace a mile in 1760steps. I made my record on that road up theGarry by doing two milesand that without anydishonest tempering of my paces when the milestonehove in sight in 1743 and 1769. I neverhope to improve on that, as I take it to mean thatmy stepis within one-fifth of an inch of thestandard. I think I should like to arrange amatch with my friend the Commodore, if he everleaves his duties at the ferry.

172 CARAVAN DAYSThere is yet another method of progressionthat you may indulge in when you are tired andthere isnothing to call for notice in the view.By walking at the back of the crutch and layingboth your hands upon it you may, if you will,travel for a mile at a time with your eyes shut.To that itmay, reasonably perhaps, be objectedthat you do not want to travel with your eyesshut, and can think of nothing to be gained by sodoing. But if there were mice on the back of theWhite Knight's horse he didn't choose to havewill remember. Andthem running about, youifyou do want to walk with your eyesshut ifyou happen to be one of the people who do Ishould like to show you that this is the way todo it.Indeed I can think of no other wayto doit with any degree of comfort, with any senseof security from collision, with any real freedomfrom the jibes of those who pass that way. Andbefore you dismiss it as a futile sensation, mayI not ask ifyou have ever tried ? For my part itis my ambition to fall if possible into a perambulatoryslumber. I have been told that Frenchsoldiers sleep on the march. But I have neverbrought it off as yet.Another great diversion of the road isprovidedby short cuts. I adopt a reckless forward policy

ROAD-GAMES 173in this matter, and no number of rank failurescan ever convince me that I will not score thenext time. I suppose the truth is that if a shortcut isgood enough, if it really pays,it is boundto have been discovered by those who are morefamiliar with the road than I : and that consequentlyif there is no path at all nor trace of passingfeet, there will be nothing gained by attemptingit. But I am quitesure that I shall scoreheavily some day and emerge upon the road, farin advance of the van, to fling myself down by thewayside and await it at my ease. I have neverhad a great success in all the long history of myshort cuts. At Wick I traversed half a mile ofmoor and had to retrace my steps while the vanrolled away at a sharp angle. Near ForsinardI found I had two streams to ford :not far fromBallater I was completely entangled in a morass :and once beside Pitlochry Ifrom the road that Iwas so far divorcedmust pass through privategrounds, cross lawns, climb walls and force hedgesbefore I at last came up with the main party andfound them patiently awaiting me. I am veryfond of taking to the railway, but I never scoremuch even there. The last time I walked betweenfour and five miles along the sleepers (which arealways placed six inches too close together for

174 CARAVAN DAYSone's stride) with the caravan in view all the wayand a deep river between, and came out upon theroad at lasta dead heat.My Partner always acceptsit as sufficientexplanation when I am late or when I have beenlost or left behind that I was taking a short cut.And she tells me when I total up my mileage inthe evening not to forget to add them in.Penny Dip has alwaysheld its own as theleading diversion of the crew of SIEGLINDA,though caravanning does not for a moment claima monopoly of it. The last game that I playedwas with the Old Campaigner while we waitedfor his train on the platform at Strathpeffer.There are people who will disparage anythingand the Penny Dip player cannot always hopeto be in sympathy with his spectators. As thegame proceeded we were subjected to the contemptuousscrutiny of a certain grim old woman,who regarded us in pained surprise, quite asthough we had been engaged in some trivial andchildish pursuit, such as riding upon a walkingstick.The Old Campaigner and I were forced toconclude that even now, even in Strathpeffer, theKing of Games was much misunderstood. It istrue that in the crude and elementary form ofPitch-and-Toss it has always enjoyed a certain

vogue in the slums, but that isROAD-GAMES 175only proof of itsuniversal and widely human appeal. There isnothing exclusive about it. As the simplest andmost direct form of itsportive competition hasbeen to us a lifelong companion that can neverpall by reason of its infinite variety.Penny Dip is at once a game of skill and a gameof chance. It is both an indoor and an outdoorgame. It may entail a fair amount of exercise ;or it may be played in a sedentary position;orit may be played in bed.as a test of hand and eye.Itmay be played aloneIt may be played as aduel or a foursome, a match, a bonspiel, a gymkhanaor a tournament. Sometimes it is all overin five minutes : once long ago, when the OldCampaigner and I were playing a thousand up,the contest lasted for nearly seven months. Itrequires no paraphernalia, no preparation ofground or course. No one who has in his pocketthe price of a night's lodging can find himselfwithout the necessary implements. It may beplayed by anyone anywhere and at any time.I have no intention of giving here in detail therules of Penny Dip, for I am afraid they will bequiteout of datebefore theyThey are always subjectreach the reader.to drastic and violentrevision, by the loser, at the conclusion of every

176 CARAVAN DAYSgame. But I would like to indicate some of itsmany subdivisions and to show how, by adoptingsome of the finer features of quoits, curling,bowls and putting, ithas a just claim to be regardedas the Universal Pastime. In certainforms it will also be found to be related to a longforgottengame of one's childhood, whose memoryone loves to treasure on account of the strikingbeauty of its name" Squales."It isas quoits pure and simple that the gamefulfils its highest service to the race, as an everpresentstand-by for odd moments, for unexpectedpredicaments, for all periods of waiting,of incarceration, of enforced inactivity. As afiller-up of gaps and intervals, as a bridger-overof hiatuses it stands alone, always ready tooccupy the drearyhalf-hour with interest andactivity.It comes to the rescue when you havemissed your train, on long afternoons on boardship, or in a hayshed on a moorland farm whenthe guns have been imprisoned by a thunderstorm.If lunch is half an hour later than you expected,ifone member of the party has been delayed andfails to turn up, whenever you are waiting (as allof us so often do) for someone to come out orcome in, to come down or to come back, there isoccasion for Penny Dip. So long as there are

ROAD-GAMES 177two or more of you together you need have nowasted minutes.I have known it more than once save an unsuccessfulpicnic which was tottering to failure.A garden party of the most discordant elements,dependent solely upon this device in the handsof an enthusiast, may be worked up into scenesof hilarious geniality. For the thing rests uponno unstable foundation, upon no other indeedthan the strong inherent desire common toall families of the human race to throw somethingat a mark. And, encircled by a curved forefingerand swung freely from the shoulder, whatcould be more pleasing in its flight than apenny ?It is a great game of skill.the pitch,Much depends uponand one's whole style and method ofattack must be adapted to the local conditions.On turf allowance is made for the spring. Onemay play short with a run-up, by dropping flat,on concrete. On a dusty roadway some of theleading exponents throw beyond the mark andfall at a sharp angle for the rebound. But thesurface of one's dreams is wet sand. The OldCampaigner and Ihave more than once walkedseveral miles to mark out our course above thefringe of the ebbing tide. There only can one

178 CARAVAN DAYSenter into the full joy of that damp, elastic targetwhere every shot falls with a soft " "plip intoits place, where the run-up and the reboundcannot help you and you must pin your faith tothe sheer precision of the flight.The game may be played at a figureof concentriccircles, at a shilling set on edge, into agolf hole or over interveningobstacles on to atable. Some carpets are good. It depends onthe nap. A billiard-table is excellent. Bareboards are a little exasperating :they lead to anexcess of hopping and rolling. The mark is asa rule surrounded by a circle enclosing what isknown as the Parish, with heavy penalties forsuch as fall outside. There are many local bylaws,each enshrining some little nicety orrefinement. And there is the Plute. This isestablished by negotiation before the game begins.It is a special feat, suited to the pitch, which ifperformed by either player instantly terminatesthe game in a sudden blaze of glory.The old system of tossing has been entirelyeliminated. The winner of every bout takes theheads and half the tails, an arrangement whichadds a nice point, as when you are lying well youmake bold to throw heads so as to accumulatea store of them. The faint-hearted, when in

ROAD-GAMES 179a bad position, throws tails so as to cut hisloss.The other outstanding branch of the gamebased upon curling is what is known as TableBinge. It is played on a polished surface a ballroomfloor, a caravan table, a counter or amantelpiece. The penny slides to its destination,and much pretty work may be done in cannons,inwicks and glancing angles. The class of pennycounts for somethinghere. I have knownskilful players who preferred a rough King George,but for my own part Ialways work with a wellworn1862 Victoria.There is also the Round Table Variety: andthe gameof the Tilted Plank. . . .I have never cared at all for the type in whichthe penny must spinin the air. . . .The Rolling Game is still in its infancy. . . .But there are immense possibilities ahead.As an instrument for using up the odds and endsof lifePenny Dip has still a future before Andit.it iscomforting to reflect that it need not beabandoned with advancing years. Howevermuch oppressed by age and poverty one maybecome, as long as one has eyesight and strengthto lifta hand, as long as one's credit is sufficientto borrow half a dozen of the humblest coins in

i8oCARAVAN DAYSthe currency, one need never drop out of theranks.Our match finished opportunely, for I scoreda Plute just as the train came in. And the OldCampaigner took his departure. He had had thetime of his life.

CHAPTER XXITHE ENEMYPERHAPS the caravanner should stick to his ownstation in life and be content to go his own way.Still it is manifestly impossible to avoid occasionalbrushes with the Enemy in the most popularparts of Scotland in the height of the season and:we were not content with such chance conflicts.We made deliberate attacks upon three of hisleading strongholds Strathpeffer, Braemar andthe Trossachs. The first time it was quite anopen frontal attack, and I think we may be saidto have won. The second was a surreptitiousadvance under cover of disguise, and we wererouted.The third collision was a drawn battle,resulting in a truce.You may take it from me that it is a great placeStrathpeffer. It was about midday when wearrived there, and a piper was playing in the sunshinebefore the pump-room (if that is whatAn extraordinary number of extra-they call it) .ordinarily smart people were to be seen, making amorning promenade or sitting about drinking the181

182 CARAVAN DAYSwaters. The scene was indeed not unlike a colouredposter of a Riviera resort, come to life. Now theJournalist and I, who were far in advance of thevan, were not at all dressed for this sort of thing.(The Journalist wears a dark grey flannel shirt,and Ialways walk in blue shorts.) We felt thatthe explanation of our appearance was lacking,but we went boldly on. The Journalist, who is aman of conspicuous personal courage, even seatedhimself at a table in the very thick of it, and calledfor a glass of water.to look for steak.But I went into the butcher'sStrathpeffer was a good dealperturbed about the Journalist, slightly affrontedperhaps, above all puzzled. But the explanationwas soon forthcoming. SIEGLINDA rolled downthe hill and drew up in the centre of the throng,and from that moment Strathpeffer was satisfiedand even pleased at our arrival. It no longerfrowned upon us. In fact it made a variety offriendly overtures. It is possiblethat now thatthe piper had stopped playing the promenaderswere suffering from a lack of entertainment(for the Journalist reported that the waters werenot at all entertaining), and so delightful anobject as SIEGLINDA, shot into their midst, wasgratefully accepted as such. In any case it tookus some time to complete our business, and

THE ENEMY 183Herbert had to stand up to a cross-fire of questionsand Sam nearly bit an old lady, and I hadto admit that it was a nice way of seeing thecountry, an ideal holiday and better than amotor, according to the usual routine. At lastwe climbed the steep hill out of the town andstoppedfor a much-needed lunch under sometrees at the top, conscious of having come verywell out of it.There is no wayout of Braemar that it waspossible for us to travel, so that we did not takethe van beyond Ballater, where we camped for aday, making the rest of the journey there andback by motor-bus. I need hardly say that webitterly regretted so reckless an undertaking.Apart from the horrors of transit, I am not surethat the expedition may be said to have been asuccess. We had laboriously searched out fromthe back of the locker all our best clothes ;for mypart, I appeared in a collar and tie, and Herberthad made a most plucky attempt upon mybrown shoes. As a finishing touch my Partnercarried an umbrella.In Braemar we discoveredthe most tremendous hotel and partook of anextremely elaborate lunch. We sat conversingat our ease, exactly as if we were in the habit ofdoing this sort of thing every day. We ordered

i84CARAVAN DAYSwaiters about. We called for specialities thatwere not on the menu. We refused to be startledby the luxurious table fittings we were not put;out of countenance by the finger-bowls. Weremembered that salad ought to go on a plate ofits own ;we were even annoyed when we foundthat that plate was not in the shape of a corpulentand blunted half-moon. We felt that they hadno right to fob us offwith circular salad plates.And afterwards we tossed down our tablenapkinsand strolledinto the lounge, where wesat toying with fashionable illustrated papers anddrinking black coffee.Then we went and strolled about Braemar.Wevisited shops and made all the proper purchases.We pored over a guide-book. And as a fittingclimax, for we were quite determined to gothrough with the thing, we adjourned to thepost office to send picture-postcards. But hereat last we faltered. My Partner had borne upvery well so far youshould have seen her flingingoff her motor-veil as we came into the hotel, witha peevish remark about the dust :they didn'tknow that we had come in the bus. But now,as she seized her pen and faced her postcard(with a beautiful picture of Balmoral upon it), shebegan to waver.

THE ENEMY 185" No," she said."I can't do it. I can't do itafter all."" Come, come, Partner !"said I." Pullyourself together. Be a tourist !"" I feel as if I could face anything but a picturepostcard,"she said." It isn't so much the send-about. It's theing of them that I am thinkingpeople that have to get them.It's such a wickedmisrepresentation . ' '"Well, we can't afford to break down now,"said I." We have done everything else."" / know !" said my Partner, with a joyfulsmile, and she began writing furiously.It was certainly a happy idea of hers to fillthem with fictitious news and send them to allsorts of fictitious people with fictitious addresses.She informed Miss Jeanie Anstruther M'Gregor,The Heugh Braes, Inverstrathbittock-on-Spey,that we had been much troubled by the dust,but were having a ripping time.To the Stationmaster,Drumtoolie, Strath Damchillie, N.B., shesent the welcome news that her tea-basket andmorocco dressing-case had been recovered ;andshe advised Mrs. Henderson Jones, Housekeeper,The Moat, by Pimhaven, Lincolnshire, that wedid not expect to be home before Monday week.I had to stop her then.I remonstrated with her.

186 CARAVAN DAYSI told her that the post office after all was notpaid to do this sort of thing. But she droppedthem into the box with a sigh of relief." I think we have gone the whole hog now,"she said." Yes," said I." What a delightful changeithas been after the hard life we have been living"in the wilds, hasn't it ?"Oh, yes," she said meditatively." Greatfun."" And we shall have a real comfortable teain that hotel," said I." We shall gointo thelounge and get in front of the fire, and order"muffins and" Don't you think," said my Partner suddenly,and her face litup with excitement, " that ifwe could find a bus that was starting at oncewe might possibly get back in time to have tea in"SIEGLINDA ? We rushed to the hotel to collectour belongings, and five minutes later wescrambled on to an outgoing bus.Herbert was rather surprised to see us back soearly, but as soon as we appeared along the roadhe got the Primus under way and the kettlewas already on when we came in and dashed intothe bedroom to change." I don't think we shall ever go so far astray

THE ENEMY 187again," said my Partner soothingly, as she"of tea. Try not to thinkhanded me my cupabout itany more."Our expedition to the Trossachs, when wecamped SIEGLINDA at Callander and drove in anhas left behind it one sweet andopen carriage,grateful memory of a long, placid, peacefulroad, reserved for unique distinction among itsfellows.It no longer matters to me what happened whenwe got there, but I can still revel in the thoughtof the way there and back. Every mile of it wasa choice experience, though not untinged withregret, for it brought home to me all that wehave lost in these last few years, now that thisroad onlyis left. It recalled caravan tours in adifferent century from the present one. . . .That is the road where no motors are permitted.

CHAPTER XXIIMEALS AND SUPPLIESTHERE isnothing that demands more carefulattention than the purchase of chops. It needsmore than that : it needs close personal supervision.There are certain loose sellers of chopswho, if not watched, will cheerfully hack them offalmost any part of the beast that happens to beuppermost, and call by this special designationfragments of any shape or size. But it is notenough to see for yourself the cross section fromwhich they are to be cut. Even if that looks allright and everyone knows that there isonlyone shape for a chopit may begin to lose itsstrict form after one or two have been cut away,tillprogressively deteriorating, they become,before your two pounds are completed, absolutelyshapeless. The only safe plan is to see the thingthrough. I put all this down simply to show thatI am not readily had over chops. But in one ofthe towns in my D Class there lives a butcherwho had me. I had selected my section, and he1 88

MEALS AND SUPPLIES 189went off behind a red curtain (which he keeps atthe back of his shopnefarious deeds),to cloak and conceal hischopped away for a time, andthen brought me out my parcel. But I amconvinced he had substituted a different cutaltogether, and Idon't think those red curtainsshould be permitted in butchers' shops.It was in Inverness that I got my championsirloin, which was to establish what may perhapsbe a record in touring sirloins. Its first appearancewas on the Sunday at Contin, and it neverleft the stagetill it made its final bow at Gairlochon the Thursday night. Nor was there anymonotony in its repeated appearances. At Continit was hot. At Achnasheen, where it had a warmreception, it was cold and suitably garnishedwith reinforcements and supports. At Kinlocheweit came on as rissoles, blent with tomatoesand had an encore.At Loch Maree it was welcomedin the shape of quenelles aux fines herbes.And finally at Gairloch it was ushered in, amidapplause, as a glorified shepherd's pie, with stripsof bacon let in under the rafters and a crisp brownroof on the top.That is not the only instance of camps that arelinked together in my memory, by the run of athat ministered to each of them in turn.joint

190 CARAVAN DAYSPerhaps there is no heading under which mycamps could be more clearly tabulated than thatof the kitchen exploits that distinguished them.It was at Stonehaven that we had cockerelsstuffed with prunes, and ifyou are doubtful asto whether that was a successful experiment,Ican only say that it isalways open to you totry.But you will have to be careful about yourOn a wet night at Duns a mammothflavourings.mince-pie was in the bill. For we have long agorobbed the Christmas season of its specialities,and always carry mince-meat and plum puddingin the larder of SIEGLINDA. Especially to berecommended are small plum puddings, whichat the end of a long day in cold, wet weatherrender most valuable service, the more so as theyneed no preparation. At Lochmaben we gave adinner party, chiefly remarkable for the firstappearance of pommes-de-terre tout-d-fait. Isuppose that as long as I live I shall neverexhaust the possibilities of the potato. At Perth,where again we were entertaining guests, theapple sauce was late for itsproper occasion, andhad to be turned surreptitiously into a sweet,rather a delicate operation in the crisis of dishingup. Still it scored a marked success in its newrole. But much the best meals are forthcoming

MEALS AND SUPPLIES 191when all supplies have failed and one must workwith odds and ends.In the stress of the John o'Groat's campaign, at Bettyhill, we supped royallyoff a new dish called " Highland Comfort," whosesecret has never been divulged. But I may saythat there was a very saltfinnan-haddock in it,a white pudding, a beaten egg or two, and manyother constituents. I dare sayit sounds horridenough, but I must assure youthat it bore noimprint of its humble origins.At Kinloch Rannoch itbeing the appropriatedate I served the Wagner Centenary Dinner.That was a celebration, to my mind, worthy of thehighest effort, and it was characterized by a newdeparture of considerable importance, so that thename of Wagner has gained for me yet anothervalued memory. Previously thoughsuggestion it had never suggestedrich into me thepractice of deep-fat frying. It was only a fewdays before that I had possessed myself of a basketsuited to frying in deep fat ;and that eveningChips appeared in SIEGLINDA for the first time.The rest of the menu was sufficiently extensiveand elaborate,and the speeches were generallyapproved.But the chips were the crowning moment ;it

IQ2CARAVAN DAYSwas commonly agreed that theycould not well bebettered.Not only in its concrete results did this joyouspractice justify itself. I have come to regard itas one of the most fascinating of culinary exercises.To sit, ensheathed from flying particles inhousemaid's gloves, before the Primus, with thebasket in one hand and the pan in the other, andcontemplate that gurgling, golden, savoury jorum,hissing softly like retreating waves upon the sandto liftup from time to time your glistening,dripping, amber-coloured burden this is indeeda high moment in the routine of the cook.There is a lady of my acquaintance who holdsthat no one of us is quite good enough to deservemushrooms :1913 was a remarkable year forthem, and for the whole of the last month of thetour we practically never ran short. Night afternight, as soon as the van was encamped, one ofas we couldus would stroll out and gather as manyuse. There would be a fresh crop awaiting us inthe morning. We sent them away in boxes toour friends not forgetting the lady, whoseopinion I have quoted above : for it isquitecertain that if there isanyone who does deservemushrooms, it is she. And reluctantly we leftbushels of them behind to waste. It was one of

MEALS AND SUPPLIES 193the few occasions on which I have been able feeblyto reach out toward the caravanner's ideal of"living off the country." In that respect myshortcomings are great. I have never baked ahedgehog in a ball of clay. I have never in mylife used young nettles in the place of spinach.Nay, though I may blush to discover the fact, Ihave never poached a hare, nor trapped a rabbit.The caravanner who can go on from day to daymaking himself light and salutary meals from theherbage of the hedgerow and the berries on thebank has, of course, my respectful admiration.But beyond a few trout,some blackberries andmushrooms, we did nothing in all the course ofour experience to cull our daily fare as we wenton. The plain truth is that, faced with theproblems of the commissariat, I have only onemiserable solution to offer. Give me shops.But the mushrooms were great. It is a realjoy to handle anything so delicate and beautifulas one of these perfect little domes, with itscovering of soft, sleek white kid and the deliciousdull pink wavering ribs within. As a cook I askfor nothing better to play with. We tried themin many ways, but the best of all was this. (I amnot fond of giving advice to caravan cooks, for Idon't expect other people to follow my peculiar

194 CARAVAN DAYSideas, any more than I myself follow the reallyextraordinary ideas of Mrs. Beeton : but this issimple and successful.) I used to skin them andtake out the stalks and lay them on their backsin a frying-pan, with a small pat of butter in theeentre.Then back and forward across the topI would roof them in completely with strips offat bacon. It only remained to put the pan onthe stove for ten or fifteen minutes to create anincomparable breakfast dish.

CHAPTER XXIIIENCOUNTERSTHE widest hospitality exists in many Scotchfarms. Hardly ever duringthe time that wewere dependent upon farms were we unreasonablyrefused camping-ground, and it would be impossibleto give you a full catalogueof all theflowers, vegetables, jam, scones, even pickles inpots and ferns in flower-pots, that were showeredupon us.Our success in gaining admission waspartly due no doubt to Herbert's tactful, indirectand diplomatic methods. But they did not alwaysbear fruit. On one occasion he found an oldwoman in charge of the farm." Good evening, Mistress," said he politely.There was no reply." It's a fine night."" A've seen better."" It's a bonny bit ye have here," looking roundwith cordial appreciation.But the answer wasstill more chilly." It micht hae been waur."

196 CARAVAN DAYS" Ye have some braw poultry, Mistress."" "The best o' them's awa' !And after that itwas hardly worth while tosuggest stabling for the horses.We travelled due South, right through theheart of Aberdeenshire, by many small valleysand over many rounded hills, but always on aWe had a feeling all the timefairly good road.of going across country, of beingout of touchwith main routes, until we reached Deeside.But no Scottish pilgrimage, we felt, could be heldto be complete which had not traversed Strathbogieand Strathdon. Some three or four milesabove Keith we camped following a sound rule inundulating country of always camping at the topon a rather dreary plateau, with sandy soil andmeagre vegetation, set off by occasional raggedlittle knots of spruce and Scotch fir. It was ahungry land, as Herbert, with his eye on thehorses, ruefully observed, but though the farmerhad little to offer us it was clear at once that hewas prepared enthusiastically to offer all he had.So we drew into a pasture field, near the steading.We were not long in finding out that we had fallenamong friends. Every member of the threegenerations that occupied the house expressedthe greatest delight at our " visit," as it was

ENCOUNTERS 197pleasantly named. It was a queer, rambling,very old house with a cavernous kitchen, but hadbeen brought more or less up to date some fiftyyears ago, the farmer assured me, when it was" baith hichtit and reefed." (I do not want tohave to start a glossary so perhaps I ought toexplain that bythat he meant that ithad beenraised and roofed.) He was a keen, energetic,kindly man, struggling hard to make the most ofhis barren acres, and he employed quite unsparinglya curious affirmative expression withwhich he endorsed any sentiments of mine thatfell in with his views. It had been a backwardseason, I surmised."Positeevely," said he."Positeevely."'You have a nice little lot of lassies," Iremarked, as indeed he had. Seven of themand very near an age." "Ou aye," said he. There's a guid pickle o'"them." Then he added thoughtfully, Positeevely."SIEGLINDA, when he had explored her interior,impressed him most favourably" The bestgot-upthing o' the sort, positeevely, that evera saw."The supper was rather scamped that evening,I am afraid, for there was no excuse for having

198 CARAVAN DAYSboiled potatoes two nights in succession, but Iwas so busy discussing agriculture, and especiallywith relation to the winter treatment of sheep inhigh altitudes, that my duties were neglected.An interest in farmingis of course an asset ofgreat value to the caravannerenormously usefulin getting on terms with the country population.And a fine bird's-eye view of Scottish agricultureisnot the least of the valued possessions that Ihave won from my journeys.Idropped into the kitchen for the third orfourth time that evening a little after eight, tosuggestthat the lassies should come out in abody and see the caravan.Their mother gladlyaccepted the invitation and went off to bringthem, while I sat down in the huge fire-place,beneath great black oak beams, and remarkedthat it was a cosy corner for a winter's night."Positeevely."I waited for a while, wondering at the delay,and at last I became aware of a subdued scuffling,pattering noise overhead, for all the world likemice in the wainscot. It continued for some time,with an occasional murmur of small treble voices.And at last it dawned upon me. All the bairnswere already in bed, and a sudden and dramaticuprising was going on for the occasion. The

ENCOUNTERS 199farmer remarked that he was sorry to keep me,but, positively, they would not be long. Andindeed they had made very quick work of it.For already the scuffling was transferred to thestairs outside, the door opened and in they came,as neat a littlesee.batch of lassies as ever I wish toTheir toilet had been extraordinarily rapid,but to all outward seemingit was quite sufficientfor the great occasion.frock, bare legs and clogs.Each one appeared in aEach one (which hadnot been the case by day) wore two comely littlepigtails, and in order that we might give eachother courage, we all walked hand in hand incouples, the odd one pairing off with me in themost friendly manner. That was a great procession,for I cannot adequately convey to youthe freshness and cleanliness and daintiness of itall or the subdued excitement with which atthis time of night !took possession of SIEGLINDA.we poured up the steps andAfter the trouble to which our guests had beenput in order to be presentthe least we could dowas to try to make it well worth while. So thecall was a long one, and by the time it was overthe caravan had given up e"achone of itsmany"pokesecrets and had even discovered a largeof sweeties " in the bedroom cupboard.

200 CARAVAN DAYSMy only fear is that when at last the partybroke up and the guests were bundled off for thesecond time to bed there would be littlerest forsome hours to come, and sleepy heads in themorning.On the following nightit was a hospitablegrocer, with a farm of his own, near the town ofLumsden, who took us in. He also called on usin the evening, and we talked politics tilla latehour. For although in most places agriculture,as a topic, is all-sufficient, I perceive that unlessone issomething of a politician, one cannot expectto go very far in Strathbogie.After that we crossed the last of the heightsand descended toward Deeside, stopping for theSundayon a farm not far fromLumphanan, aplace, I am bound to admit, almost destitute ofthe necessities of life(including water), where wewere rather hard put to it to keepthe horsesgoing. And again on that Sunday we made anumberof friends, and such frequent floral offeringsarrived in the afternoon that we were in difficultiesto display them all. We had so many callersthat by the Monday morningbecome a sort ofthe caravan hadpopular rendezvous, where onedropped in to have a chat and meet one's friends ;and when we pulled out on to the road it chanced

ENCOUNTERS 201that it was just the hour when the schoolchildrenwere on their way, straggling down thehill behind us in little groups. Having picked upthe keeper's two children (who had been to seeus, bearing roses, the day before), the least wecould do was to take up their friends as well.And if it came to that, where was one to drawthe line ? The upshot of it was that every childin sight was stowed at last inside SIEGLINDA, fora " grand hurl " to use the local idiom downthe hill. I do not remember how many wecollected en route, but there was a thrilling scenewhen the van drew up at the foot and tumbledout its passengers at the school door.I should like to return to Aberdeenshire sometime before the legend of the doings of SIEGLINDAhas been quite forgotten.Near Coupar Angus we came into the fruitcountry strongly reminiscent of Kent, andtravelled half a day through close-packed fieldsof raspberries, where pickers were busily at work.We had a great farmer as our host that night,the possessor of a laugh that emanated from avast interior and shook his whole frame with anHe was determined that weecstasy of delight.should come in and play the piano, as both hiswife and daughter were miserable performers,

202 CARAVAN DAYSand his thirst for music was continually thwarted.And after supper he showed me over the wholeof his establishment and related to me the epicof his success, for he had started without capitalor prospects fifteen years before. It was to onequality alone that he attributed his rapid rise tohis present proud position his courage. Fromthe first he assured me "he wasna feared."" Div 'e see yon meer \vi' the foal yonder ? "" Yes," said I." She cost me ninety pound when she was a"yearlin'." He roared with laughter. Hech !" "Hech ! he gasped. I'm no feared tae spend"ma siller on a meer, am I ?With the same indomitable pluck he had justput in a new thrashing mill and purchased twoself-binders, all in the same season." " I'm no feared, am I ? he demanded in glee.And when he assured me that his had been afruit farm five years ago and that he had alreadygot rid of the " berries " and turned over thewhole establishment into a dairy farm, and it waspaying him fine," You're no feared," said I, with admiration." " That's it ! he cried, roaring with laughter.Thus I was given a most vivid picture of hisheadlong career, a succession, as far as I could

ENCOUNTERS 203judge, of the wildest and most urgent experiments,but for my part Iattribute his brilliantadvance not so much to his pluck, which nodoubt was great, as to his great gift of laughter,for I doubt if I have ever met his equal there.He had one queer thing to show me in the formof a hybrid bird which his dog had found in astubble field and which he assured me, and I couldwell believe him, had baffled all the experts in theneighbourhood and even " a gentleman out of amuseum," who had come all the way fromGlasgow to look at it. I am too pooran ornithologistto tackle the riddle of its mixed identity,but there was certainly a strong blend of theduck about it, though, truth to tell,it was alsomighty like a pheasant. It was living a secludedand contented life with the rest of the poultry,and I should imagine that ifmy friend could geta good price for it he would not be feared to effecta sale.One dreary evening in Ross-shire we fell in forthe third time with the Tinker, who was encampedon a little knoll two or three hundred yards upthe road. I went up to see him after supper. Histent was in the form of a vast cavern, a roundedstructure, not more than about four feet high.It was made of carpet, felt, canvas an old sail

204 CARAVAN DAYSthat had been given to him at one of the fishingvillages, and sundry horse-cloths, all weldedtogether and several ply thick in places. Theinside was in total darkness, without any openingof any sort except the turned-back flap where onewent in,and in this doorwaya cheerful coal firewas burning in the rain, with a pot slung over it.Most of the smoke, by this simple arrangement,remained in the tent, and in the course of myconversation with the proprietor the childrenkept popping out one by one for a brief interval,partly to breathe, it would seem, and partly toblink encumbered eyes. Peering into the deeprecesses of the tent, where the red glow spentitselfin the distance, and where vague recliningforms could be made out in the gloom, one had averyfair idea of the condition and home surroundingsof prehistoric man in his ancestralcave.They had stood the weather, which had beenbad, wonderfully well, my friend informed me,but when I asked him if the children had beenquite warm and dry the night before,""Warm," he remarked thoughtfully,But dry, no. We were none of us dry."yes.There did not, however, seem to be much scopefor sympathy.Seldom have I seen a more con-

ENCOUNTERS 205tented family, and the children all had a strikinglyhealthy and well-fed appearance. There was awayside station near by, and one of the smallboys was much taken up with the railway.found him peering into a coach of first-class" Wouldn' it mak'carriages with dilated eyes.a "lovely gorryvon?In the morning, after the Official Photographerhad taken special portraits of the baby andwe had bequeathed sundry spare supplies uponthe rest of the tribe, we said farewell.As showing the varieties of human experiencethat fall to the lot of the caravanner I cannot dobetter than describe my two callers of two consecutivenights in the neighbourhood of Dalwhinnie.The first was a dear little, old, white-haired ladyclean and sun-burned and wrapped in a brownshawl, who came to ask for a few lumps of sugaras the shop was closed. She was walking toPerth, she told me, with her husband, who hadgot work there. I asked if there was anythingelse she would like. But no, they were only shortof sugar, it seemed. They had hoped to sleepin a shed by the railway, but it had been burneddown since last they passed that way. But itwas " no great matter " as she knew ofnot far from the road only two miles on.Ia caveThere

206 CARAVAN DAYSseemed to me to be something rather cheerlessabout a cave, but she made little of it. It was agrand night and they would do fine. And so sheheard her husband calling and slipped away withher sugar. I had expected to overtake them thenext day, but they must have been too early onthe road, for we never saw them again.Our other caller was a very magnificent person,who arrived in a motor-car and asked if she mightbe allowed to look over the van, as she had so oftenwondered how lifein such a thing was possible.She graciously inspected us, and, I think, ratherapproved on the whole, assuring us I don'tknow why that it was very brave of us to dothis sort of thing. And then she rolled away toher hotel.And we were very much impressed.

CHAPTER XXIVCLOTHESIT is an intense satisfaction in loading up acaravan to be able to reduce the question ofclothes to its simplest and sanest elements andget down at once to realities. Shoes that are softand strong, stockings that are good for honestwear, garments that will keep you warm and awaterproof that will keep you dry, head-gear forsun and rain, a sound suit of oilskins, and slippersthat can defy wet grass in the evenings, are stowedgladly into their places.But nearly all the folliesand falsities, the studs and ties and clipsandcollars, the waistcoats and gloves can be cheerfullyleft behind. It is likely that there will bea little secret store of such things pushed awayat the back under the bed, with a view to contingencies,but you always hope that youwill notbe so unfortunate as to have to rake them out.I am very fond of my shoes. When I have asound pair in good order Ilike to look down atthem in meditative moments. I like to pit one207

208 CARAVAN DAYSagainst the other and try to decide which is thebetter shoe. They always have as much dubbinas they ask for. Stockings I rather like to buyas Igo along, so as to make up a geographicalBlue shorts are beyond all praise forcollection.walking, and my canvas shirts are all cut off atthe elbow so as to avoid degraded cuffs. I findit best to make up my mind when the tour beginsthat my Norfolk jacketis never to return. Thatis a severe wrench, for thoughmind parting with new clothes, in response toI do not muchcharitable requests, before I have become fullyacquainted with them, I naturally hate to part withold ones. But ifyou do not boldly pass sentenceupon your Norfolk you will find that you aretrying to preserve it from the severer shocks andscars, and ifyou are going to beginthat sort ofthing you may as well go home and take up againthe life where clothes are used for ornament andpeople are willing to dodge about to keep themclean. Whereas ifyou have made up your mindthat this is its last journey your Norfolk willbecome the perfect shield, absorbing bruises anddisfigurements. What matter if it be torn on anail ? You can always cut off anythingthat isloose. What matter if it be stained with ink ?Better there in reality than on the bed, the floor,

CLOTHES 209a chair or the woodwork of the wall. And if itismore convenient for you to carry your watchin a new pocket you can always cut a hole atthe right place for the chain.The caravanner iscomfortable in his clothes. They are his servant ;not his master. It is well to keep the pocketssound, for you willfind that they have a gooddeal of miscellaneous stuff to carry, and youcannot always be hunting in the lining for yourmoney or your knife.But foremost of all stands the sweater. Ideclare to you thateven before my housemaid'sgloves I count it the first of my possessions.Perhapsit would be well to look its blemishesfearlessly in the face before I abandon myself tothe warm appreciation which is its due ;and soI say at once that if the sweater has a fault it isthat it becomes unlovely in old age. That is ofcourse distressing. It may be said to be bornat its highest moment of :developmentit nevergets seasoned it never ripens or grows mellow.:Let me admit it at once. It goes slowly andsteadily downhill. Perhaps that very fact setsa keener edge on one's affection by tingeing itwith pathos. Anyhow, there it is. A Norfolkjacket mellows as the years go by, ripens withlong usage, with every drenching and drying that

210 CARAVAN DAYSit :undergoes indeed it never attains to its fullcharm and dignitytill it has been tempered bywind and rain and sun. It ismerely raw andcrude when it is new, before it is broken in andshaped and moulded to one's form.But the sweater deteriorates. Its first visit tothe wash is a first step upon the downward course :never again can it quite recapture the virgin woollysplendour of the shop. Inevitably by degrees,while one looks helplessly on, it loses its bloom,becomes attenuated in its texture and at lastbegins to assume the dull, grey-yellow hue of slowdecay. The processisspread over many years,but in the end it loses its grip, grows baggy andwould even flap about the loins ;and then weknow that its course is run. For this reason it iswell to harden one's heart, never growing too fondof individuals, but embracing with enthusiasmthe class as a whole.It has no other fault, for it is the one sane andperfect garment. Its counterpart,the waistcoata thing I have always despisedis a terribleexample of what it has escaped from, what itmight have been. The dress waistcoat above allstands as a monumental specimen of the sort ofthing that can happen to clothing when it isallowed to dwindle and shrink to a snipped and

CLOTHES 211exiguous pattern. But the sweater is ample,generous and efficient. How easily it is drawnon how exquisitely does it fit, envelop andensheath the wearer ! I believe that my outlookupon every new day brightens at the momentwhen, fresh from a cold tub, I reach out expectantarms and dive into its hospitable depths. Andwhen I have drawn it on luxuriously I feel twicethe man I did.I can never have enough of them,for no bedroom seems to me to be adequatelyfurnished without a sweater or two, slung byknotted arms at the back ofthe door or flungcarelessly over the end of the bed. It is well tohave a threefold supply enough for use, enough:to lie about and enough to lend to a friend inneed. And when I fit out SIEGLINDA for the roadI love to tumble them in with a lavish hand.Ineed hardly say that the sweater must bewhite. It is no use tampering with that condition.Even the tobacco-coloured product of camel'shair that has enjoyed a certain vogue will not do.For there is a bloom, a fleeciness, a suggestionof the wool of blameless sheep made pure aboutthe white sweater that cannot be renounced.should of course be wholly innocent of buttonor of pocket.Let us not break or mar its perfectlines with any form of hem or stitch, ridge orIt

212 CARAVAN DAYSjoining. It should be widely open at the neck,for it is well to have no dealings with that spuriousbreed which culminates in a vast, shapelesscollar. And above all it should be quite unadorned.Badges, ribbons or braided edgescannot set it off nor make it one whit more lovelythan it is. It is deplorable that in the hands ofsome misguided personsit has become the vehiclefor " colours."Finally it should be ample : too large, muchtoo long in the sleeves and a great deal too thick.But at no spot should it lose its gripembrace.and closePlucked between the thumb and forefingerand drawn out to a sharp point itshouldspring back with a crisp and instant elasticity.Often has the sweater come to my aid in theThere has been an accident amonghour of stress.the rapids and the small store of change clothingin the punt has been submerged. One must facethe night under canvas with few garments and ameagre packing of straw, and it is cold. I find,quite out of place among the food supplies, asweater that has miraculously escaped. And theOld Campaigner and I toss for it, the loser takingthe extra rug. So all is well. Or I am caught onthe moor in a driving shower of hail which whipsneck and ears. The spare sweater out of mymy

CLOTHES 213knapsack is twisted in a moment into a woollyhelmet, tied by the sleeves round my throat, andthe tempest howls in vain. For the sweater ismore than a garment. It is a muff, a footwarmer,a comforter readyto minister in thenick of time to the head or neck or hands or feetor legs. It isgood to sit on in wet places or tolie on when the groundis hard. It is grateful andelastic as a pillow.Iam not sure that a man may not be prettyfairly valued and apprized by the number ofsweaters that he keeps and the use to which heputs them.

CHAPTER XXVCOUNTIES AND CORNERSOUR enterprise of collecting all the counties ofScotland to bring home as trophies of the longour lastcampaign only became urgent uponmarch when we brought SIEGLINDA back fromInverness. That march lacked something indirectness, for it headed alternately for all thepoints of the compass, sweeping southwardthrough Perthshire, northward through Dumfriesshire,touching the West coast in Ayrshire and theEast in Berwickshire, twice crossing the wholebreadth of the country and once dipping over theborder into England. It was in fact a marchfrom Inverness to Haddington, via Stranraer,which isequivalent to a journey from London toParis via Berlin. But we were picking up andmarking off new counties all the way. Twocounties worried us above all the restHaddingtonand Clackmannan. And our two chiefturning-points were at the corners at Stranraerand Berwick-on-Tweed. Of the left-hand bottom214

COUNTIES AND CORNERS 215corner I have nothing but what is pleasant torelate.We had not found the scenery of the Ayrshirebe to thecoast very striking, whatever it may trained eyes of golfers but after leaving Ballan-;trae and climbing the hill over Downan Pointwe enjoyed better fare in this respect.Glen Appis one of those long gradual descents, throughrichly wooded country and with a rushing streamfar below that we had come to know so well.It is closely related, one might say,that leads down into Gairloch ;to the roadto that betweenKeith and Fochabers ;to Glen Farg on the GreatNorth Road, South of Perth. And in this casethe distant view was enriched by a vision of theopen sea. We came out on Loch Ryan in the verynick of Wigtownshire, between the mainland andthe little collar-stud protuberance that makessuch a dainty finish at Scotland's Southern end.It was a heavenly afternoon, the sea was aboutas blue as it is ever likely to be, and we were ableto draw off the road upon the beach. It isseldom that it is possible to camp actually on theedge of the sand. Not more than half a dozentimes in widely diverse places had we done so,and we always made the most of it, paddling,bathing, and gathering shells and telling each

216 CARAVAN DAYSother how much we were benefiting by the seaair.But the chief sensation of the evening wasthe passing, after dark, of the Belfast boat.In the morning we drove intoturned her head for the East.Stranraer andAs for the town of Berwick, I am remindedof the views of Brigadier Gerard upon Venice.It was, he thought, the most ridiculous place hehad ever seen, for he could not imagine how thedesigner of it had ever intended his cavalry tooperate. In the same way the designer ofBerwick clearly overlooked caravans. We arrivedby a sort of tortuous little slum on the South ofthe river, where the road was up and it wasdecidedly jumpy work creeping along betweendeep trenches. Then came the Border Bridge,which isvery long and narrow, and on the farside we had tomake our way through narrow,streets. It was much thesteep, angular, pavedmost difficult town we had passed through.But now at last we were headed straight forHaddington, which had been our final goal. Ithad exercised a strong compulsion on us for weeksback, tucked awayas itwas in the most inconvenientcorner that it was possible to find.The old coast road from Berwick to Edinburghiseasy travelling all the way, with fine sea views

in places.COUNTIES AND CORNERS 217On the second day we reached Cockburnspath,to learn, for we made close enquiries,that we were not yet in Haddington. There weresome who said that the march between the twocounties was the first burn we crossed : othersmaintained that the railway marked the boundary.Finally one seemingly wise old manassured us that it was two miles on. We gaveitthree miles,for we had not come so far to missour goal through inadvertence at the last, andthere, on a gigantic farm, set about by vastsymmetric stacks, we camped on the edge of theshore. Something had to be done to celebratethe occasion, and the sirloin was served with aspecial garnishing of eight different vegetables.Clackmannan, a month before, had been apressing anxiety to us. Knowing this countyonly by name, I had none the less always beenfascinated by its possibilities. It has such ahectoring, insolent, high-sounding title, a namequite big and bold enough, one would say, forPerthshire or Inverness. And yetI knew verywell that we ran no little danger of missing italtogether if we grewcareless or unobservant.It was clear that there could be no doubt aboutits existence, for it is distinctlyifminutelymarked on allreally first-class maps as a county,

218 CARAVAN DAYSbut we became rather nervous after we left Perthlest we should pass it by. We made enquiries.We kept a sharp look-out over hedges ; westopped from time to time to go down lanes oneither side. We scanned the surrounding countryfrom the tops of hills. We advanced more andmore slowly, feeling our way. But we did notfind itthat day, and we spent a rather anxiousnight, knowingwell that if the morrow shouldprove to be thick and misty we might be baffledafter all. Herbert had a wild idea of camping inClackmannan, but I always like to have room toturn round and to get at the back boxes and soon. I hate to be crowded.We feltthat we were getting" warm," as thechildren say, as soon as we took the road on thefollowing morning, and there is no doubt whateverthat some time in the course of that forenoon wedid cross the county from end to end, thoughwhen exactlyitbegan and when we emerged fromit has never quite been established. It was agreatsatisfaction to us. It showed the anxiouscare with which we were carrying out our programme,that we should thus have gone intodetails, so to speak.look upon itI am not sure that I do notas one of the chief of our exploits.Had I not already determined the name of this

COUNTIES AND CORNERS 219book, there would be much to be said for a titlethat suggested itself to me that afternoon"Caravanning in Clackmannan."In any case I shall never regretit. In thatdistant day, when my position is such that newspaperfellows will come and interview me aboutnothing in particular, I shall not be able to speakof my achievements in remote parts of the globeperhaps. I shall not be able to say not at leastwith any truth that I have been in the StraitsSettlements or Peru. But I shall be able to strikea certain note of distinction all the same.Askedto reveal the more important events of my pastlife, I shall reply, quite simply,"I have been inClackmannan."I have a notion of carryingHuntingdon some day.out a tour in

CHAPTER XXVICAMPERS'LUCK*WELL, yes, of course one is roughing it, as theysay. That is all right. You don't expect avagrant's life to be a bed of roses. I am notcomplaining of the rules of the game. I amalways prepared to rough it in a spacious, weatherproof,well-ventilated and luxuriously appointedcaravan, with a first-class stove, comfortablechairs and a thundering good bed.The troublelies not in the inherent privations of existence ontour far from it. The trouble lies solely in theups and downs, the undulations ifyou take mein the run of luck. Even so, it would be all rightif one thing did not lead to another. But it does.It runs in cycles generally of about twenty-fourhours. You can nearly alwaystell them as soonas you get up. It is in the air. The rubber bathacts as a sort of rough index for the day. If itbehaves well you are pretty sure to be all right.But if it begins flopping over when you are filling*My thanks arc due to the proprietors of Punch forpermission to republish this chapter. B. S.220

CAMPERS' LUCK 221it and flooding the corner where you keep theboots,and ends by turning on you viciously asyou are emptying it out of a high window anddischarging its contents over your shoulder on tothe stove, you are in for it. You must go forwardin faith, with no immediate hope to lighten yoursteps, with your eye fixed bravely on To-morrow.In the meantime you may confidently expect abad egg for breakfast, a heavy downpour of rainwhile you are packing up, a broken trace whenyou stick in the gate, a mistake in the map whichleads you into impossible country and a lamehorse. You will find that you have forgotten thecorkscrew and leftbehind your only pipe, whereyou laid it down on the wall while you wereharnessing ;the shops in the village that you arecounting on are closed for the weekly half-holiday ;your letters have been sent to the wrong address.You endure delays in finding camping-ground,for the farmer has recently made over the farmto his brother-in-law (and can decide nothingwithout his consent), who is just now at thestation with the milk.In any case he has sub-letthe only possible field to the butcher, who is ata market four miles off and (when he isfound)can't move the cattle out unless he has permissionto put them in the meadow that belongsto the

222 CARAVAN DAYSaged schoolmaster, who is in bed with a sharpattack of pneumonia and can't be consulted,without the permission of the doctor, who is notlikely to call again before 6.30,as he has had togo into the next valley to assist in gathering up acarriage accident That is the sort of wayit works . .And, as I have said, one thing leads to another.It is late at night and everythingis at last inorder. It occurs to you, just before turning inthat you will clean the fish for breakfast. Thatwill not take two minutes. You go into the kitchen,get a bowl, a sharp knife and a bucket. Inpouring the water into the bowl you slip and floodthe floor. You mop it up, and then you mustwash your hands. You get a basin, fetch thesoap from the bedroom and pour out more water.You wash your hands. Very well, you return tothe fish. The candle has almost burned out.You go and grope for another in the bottomdrawer of the chest of drawers in the bedroomand have the misfortune to get your hand intothe blacking which should not have been there.You light the new candle, wash your hands andreturn to your fish. But by degrees you aregetting deeper in. The candle topples over. Youhad itjammed on the top of the hot stump andit has gone weak in the knees. You make a fishy

CAMPERS' LUCK 223You have to gograb at You it. are too late to save it, but youknock somethingoff the table and can hear itdripping quietly in the dark. You plunge fishyhands into your pockets, but find you have nomatches.for them to the bedroom,stepping on the lardwhich had also rolledoff the table en route. You find on your returnthat that dripping sound was methylated spirit,and it has contaminated the frying-pan. Verywell. You fix your candle. Everything is gettingfishy by this time, so you wash your hands. Youreturn to your fish. Then you try to wash thefrying-pan with cold water, and fail. You mustboil water, and you have no water left. Youlight a lantern and go to the spring (600 yards).You propose to ignite the stove. It isempty.The oil is beneath the van, and it is now raininghard. You bring the oil and upset the milk whichsome fool had left on the step. You light thestove ;boil the water ;wash the pan ; wash thefloor ; chuck away the lard ;wash your hands ;put out the stove ;fish in the frying-pan.take back the oil and put theIt is now two hours sinceyou began, and your net loss is one quart of milk,a pint of methylated spirit and a chunk of lard.You see what 1 mean when I say that one thingleads to another. , . .

224 CARAVAN DAYSBut then, if the morrow is a good dayit willThere will be no lookinginaugurate a new cycle.back. The fish will not, after all, taste of methylatedspirit. You will find enough milk in theblue jug. As you empty the bath out of thewindow itwill quite gratuitously put out a risingconflagration where some one had set fire to theold newspapers and might have set fire to the van.At breakfast ifyou happen to drop a plate offthe table it will not break but it will kill a wasp.As the day goes on itinerant butchers and bakerswill minister to you in the nick of time. A preternaturallyintelligent postman will pursue you ona bicycle with the lost letters. By taking a wrongturning you are brought at once to the mostperfect camp of the whole tour, in a shelteredmeadow by a winding stream, with a spring ofpure water welling up within ten yards. One ofthe lamps of the stove goes out, while you areneglecting it,and thereby saves the sirloin frombeing grossly overdone.And late at night a sudden heavy showerextinguishes the gramophone of the party thatiscamped on the other side of the hedge.

CHAPTER XXVIIRAIN AND LACK OF RAINTHE great spate caught us at Loch Maree on ourway back from the West. There had been asudden blatter of rain just before we startedfrom Gairloch, but it had cleared up and theafternoon was dull and dry. We had no idea ofwhat we were in for as we drew on to our oldground by the stream. We even went so far asto put up the camp stable, which was to stand,a bedraggled monument among the mists, formany hours to come. We intended to camp forthe Saturday and Sunday, as we were expectingthe Journalist and his Wife to join us on theSaturday afternoon, and we spent the eveningin putting up the other tent and getting out extracamp furniture, so that the establishment wasspread out to its full extent in preparation forthe lounging outdoor life of our two days' respite.But an old seaman at Gairloch had told me thatwe would be fortunate if the weather kept up." It's a good country this, for rain," he said.Q 225

226 CARAVAN DAYSThe spate began on the Friday evening. Itcannot be held to have ended before the earlyhours of the following Wednesday morning.did not rain quite continuously, but, as far aswe could judge, there were not more than six orseven hours out of a hundred when rain was notcoming down. Never on our travels has our goodfortune in the matter of meeting with dryweather, while actually on the road, been soconspicuous. For we were able to make the mostof the few hours when it was dry in getting onwith our return journey. But never have I beenabroad in a caravan in such a thoroughgoing rainas that. Throughout the Friday nightit camedown straight, in torrents, and with the morningwe found our outlook clipped and reduced to afew yards of steaming mist. We could see nomore of the mountains or the loch, and the roadvanished within a stone's throw into whiteobscurity.On the Saturday the wind beganto rise andItthe rain increased in force all day. We lived aretired, domesticated life, for there were manyletters to answer, and hardly put our heads outof the van before lunch. But it became clearas the afternoon wore on and the outlookgrewdarker that we could not condemn the

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 227Journalist and his Wife to sleep in the tent. Itwas not actually leaking, but it would be impossibleto keep the water out if anything touchedthe canvas, as is almost sure to happen with twobeds inside, and the surroundings were becomingsoft and boggy. I got out the spade and trenchedboth tents well about against encroaching floods,and Herbert covered hisbedding with a waterproofrug ;and we consulted weather prophets,all of whom adopted a most pessimistic tone andconcurred in the opinion that it looked like " thebeginning of a spate."Then I got out the Primus stove and kept itgoing the whole afternoon in the extra tent. Thecanvas, cooked on one side and drenched on theother, remained in a sort of neutral condition ofcrew inside.clammy warmth, and we concluded that we mustmake our arrangements to accommodate all theThat is rather a complicated undertakingand means not a littleforth,hauling back andstowing away, expanding and unfolding,fitting and adjusting. But it can be quitecomfortably done.The Journalist and his Wife appeared about5 p.m., having travelled straight from London toAchnasheen, and then traversed the hills in anopen motor, and I could not but envy them the

228 CARAVAN DAYSmoment of arrival, for SIEGLINDA is a hospitablerefuge at such a journey's end.Herbert, who had now transferred the Primusto his own tent, reported that there was nothingwrong with his sleeping outfit, and after supperwe stowed away my Partner and the Journalist'sWife in the bedroom, while the Journalist and Ifitted out the middleroom for ourselves, byshutting down tables and chairs, putting downmattresses and making beds. We had anexcellent night, and woke to find that the windwas now coming off the loch in a North- Westerlydirection and the rain was coming down insheets.I have said that all weather isgood for caravanning,and I may add that I look back withmuch pleasure and amusement upon the queerlife that we were forced to live on that Sundayat Loch Maree. It was quite unmatched in myexperienceit entailed much extra labour, but;it was entirely free from hardship. I had nowshut the front of the van, as the rain was drivingthat way, and an eastern window was openedfor ventilation. This reduced my kitchen toMydarkness, and I must have a candle burning.cooking operations were not assisted by this norby the fact of enormous bales of wet clothes being

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 229handed in to dry at all hours of the day. Forof course we did not, as my Partner would say," stuff in the house." We went walks in diversdirections, and brought back our dripping garmentsto be restored. They were all round mein the kitchen, decorating the walls on either side,cluttering up the space above the stove andflapping about my head whenever I moved.Imanaged to bequeath an extra mackintosh onHerbert, as a supplement to his own, and hewent on for several days cheerfully getting thetwo wet through in regularrotation. He hadreinforced his tent with an ingenious rampart ofhorse-cloths, and the Primus still did good servicefor him. But by the late afternoon the state ofaffairs outside was becoming more and moreserious. The little stream, which, when first wehad known it, had been five or six feet below ourlevel, was now beginning to flood the camp. Alarge pool formed beneath the van and creptrapidly nearer to the tent, and almost the wholeopen space beyond us was under water. Withmuch interest we watched the rising levels, andas it became clear that the tent would be drownedout before morning, Herbert (although he protestedloudly against such a craven surrender)was sent to sleep at the hotel.

230 CARAVAN DAYSThere was no change whatever in the prospectson the Monday morning, though the flood hadgained little upon us, and the rain was still comingdown lustily. But we were due to move on toKinlochewe that afternoon if the road wouldcarry us. On this point our advisers were hopeful.This road, we were told, was really at its best inwet weather.That was what it was accustomedto. It was in a drought that it generally gaveway. All the same, we had some anxiousmoments (when, as Herbert said, it " didn't doto stop and think") where the surface quakedand undulated as we passed.As soon as the horses were put in the rainstopped, and although it came on again beforeour three hours' journey was over, we had itdrymost of the way. It needed a big pull to take usout of our morass, but Sam was in form thatmorning and lifted the van all by himself beforeSimon got properly going. We were fortunatelyon hard ground that night at our old camp atKinlochewe, where we stopped on the farm road,and Herbert's tent was fairly favourably placed:which was just as well, as that was the worstnightof all.So far we had met only with rain and wind, butnow the temperature fell and driving sleet greeted

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 231us in the morning, while the summit of Slioch,in the only glimpse we had of it, was deep insnow.Loch Maree is completely surrounded by highramparts, except on the extreme West, wherethere is no passable road, and all that can be saidis that it is easier to get out at the end than atthe sides. Even then it is a heavy pull, rising700feet in less than three miles. It was stillraining when we left Kinlochewe, and all theworld was charged with water to an amazingdegree. It was as if the soil had been saturatedlong ago and could not hold another drop.Waterlay deep in every hollow, it trickled down everybank, it oozed up from the mosses underfoot andcoursed muddily along the road, it seemed toexude from the very rocks, making them glistenin the steel-grey light: and the air was full of theturbulent voices of the swollen streams. Thehill proved to be not nearly so bad as Bor-gie Brae,though it was fully twice as long, and Sam andSimon worked their way up it methodically inshort stages.The rain went off for a time before we reachedthe top and we had a last wintry glimpse alongthe loch, the heights on both sides now grey withmelting snow, before we turned the corner and

232 CARAVAN DAYSbegan the descent to Achnasheen. But longbefore we reached our destination at the CorrugatedCamp it was coming down again in sheets,so that we could hear the iron shed resoundingafar off to the lashing of the drops. We drew into the Eastern side, where we were excellentlysheltered, and it rained all night.But that was the last of it, and as soon as thespate had spent itself there was no looking back.We entered at once upon a spell of warm, stilldays. That was early in June. A most startlingchange had come over the country when we cameSouth in the autumn. For the great droughtwas then at its height. The crops between Dunkeldand Pitlochry were most pitiful, and everywherethere was shortage of water ;even therushing torrent of the Garry was reduced to asuccession of almost stagnant pools.The grocerin Dunkeld, as he sliced the bacon with hisguillotine knife, assured me that such a seasonfor weather had never been known in these parts.In January they had had to endure the heaviestsnowfall within recent years, which had seriouslydamaged the trees and blocked up some of theyoung woods for a month or more. In May camethe floods, when the Tay twice overflowed itsbanks and devastated the country, and now they

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 233had the drought. The Tay had not been so lowfor a century, and the Tummel Water during thepast week had uncovered a certain white rock,as itreceded, which had not been seen above thesurface since 1826.of caterpillars in June.There had also been a plagueBut there I cut him short,for I am not at all sure that caterpillars can beclassed as weather.I could not quite understand his manifestdespondency. For it was a wonderful summer,the hotels were full, Dunkeld was prosperousgroceries were clearly in demand. But when Iput itgroceries.to him I learned that his heart was not inHe was a fisherman, and that was thesecret of his despair.I reflected afterwards thatthat hardly covered the case of the caterpillars,but I had no time to go back and ask him aboutthat.A few days later, near Balloch, we found ourselvesat camping time in a countrybereft oflevel spaces, and had to pull up a steep little lane,leading to a farm at the hill-top. The lanebecame altogether too steep, but we managed todraw in at the side of it, among the trees by"It was a capital seat," but far froma spring.level. We contrived, however, by building upthe back wheels with flat stones for the best part

234 CARAVAN DAYSof a foot, to reach a satisfactory settlement, andHerbert went on with the horses to the farmabove.Very soon, as the evening approached, itbecame evident that we were encamped upon aspotof some moment to the inhabitants of thesurrounding country. For the little spring onthe bank beside us, which discharged through afragment of iron pipe into a broken trough below,had come, by reason of the drought, into a suddenglare of publicity and appreciation that it hadnever known before. That feeble trickle had tosupport dozens of households far and wide, whoseusual water supplies had been long exhausted.All the evening we watched the straggling chainof water-carriers moving up the hillside, and frommy kitchen, where (with the front open)I sat atthe stove, I looked down upon a changing sceneof quiet activity.It is admirable no doubt to be able to drawwater at will from a tap without stirring fromthe house, but perhaps we have lost somethingin sociability and the communal life, now thateach of us may sit at home alone, hugging hisprivate supply.For in old days a spring, whichfed a whole village, must have done much todraw people together, to give opportunity for

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 235neighbourly encounters, for exchanging news, formaking acquaintances and handing on messages.It is a sort of central point to keep us all in touchwith one another. I am not sure that anythingquite takes its place. These engineers andplumbers and such people have a good deal toanswer for. I suppose that as we get more andmore scared about our failingcoal supply thatother age-old institution of the fire-side will alsohave to go. Each of us will sit apart, on chillywinter nights, hugging perhaps more literallythis time his private radiator, and familylifewill suffer a blow from which it may never recover.Certainly many of my own most valuable encounterswhen caravanning have taken placewhile my bucket filled at the spring.Very little of that precious water was allowedto go to waste, and I had to watch my opportunityto get my own supplies, for throughout theevening hours the steady stream of new arrivalswent on, and generally several were waiting fortheir turn. And in that matter the mode of procedurewhich Imay well believe is as old asthe hills, as old in any case as the time when firstmankind carried water in vessels was not toform a waiting queue, but to set down yourbucket in its due order to represent you and then

236 CARAVAN DAYSturn aside to beguile the time till it moved upthe rank. All was done in the most seemlyroutine as if the traffic of the spring was part ofthe normal lifeof the place, and yet these wereby nature tap-users, brought here only by a greatemergency. The men and women passed thetime in conversation or sitting idly on the bank.But the children and most of the water-carrierswere children had matters of far more momentin hand.In the course of a few weeks they hadelaborated a whole system of sports and pastimes,so that not a moment was lost. You plankeddown your can at once and turned eagerly to thebank above to take part in a continuous game,which lasted throughout the whole evening, a newcomerjoining in every minute or two, as one ofthe others dropped off, so that the whole personnelchanged frequently without in any way upsettingthe run of events. The organization seemed tome to be perfect, though I do not profess to haveunderstood the finer points.It was not my ideaof Blind-Man's-Buff, nor yet of Hide-and-Seek,though it partook in a measure of both of them.There was much chasing and catching, hiding andevading in its composition.At times the playersclapped their hands in unison, and when a specialcrisis occurred they sang.

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 237But that bank had other attractions. Therewere fine trees to climb, you could slide down thehard brown turf in one place, and there was adepending branch on which you could swingperilously out over the very lane. It was indeedoften decidedly annoying to be called away becauseyour bucket, moved up by some friendly hand,was full and blocking the way.And now that the rain has come and thedrought is over I suppose the little spring has lostits Customers and pours out an even and neglectedstream to trickle down the gutter. Next yearthere will be no more pleasant summer eveningson the bank. But on the other hand we may lookfor an extra half-hour in bed in the morning,when we don't have to fetch the water before wego to school. In Wigtownshire I watchedtwo very small children with a pony-cart,filling great milk cans from a spring by theroadside. They beganbefore seven o'clock inthe morning, handing up a jug at a time, and ittook them nearly an hour to complete their cargo.I am not defending the drought, though it wasthe cause of some worthy new habits and customsamong us.see the rain when itThe truth is that we were all glad tocame on the morning whenwe reached Stranraer, even farmers with half

238 CARAVAN DAYStheir harvest out, even caravanners. We arenot at all accustomed to long spells of dry weatherin Scotland, and I do not think that they suit ourtemperament very well.Ever since the beginning of that week theweather had been showing signs of giving way,but with a great reluctance. We had had somemistyhours on the Mondayand a few drivingskiffs of rain. The Tuesday had been showery,and it had been wet when first we took the roadon the Thursday morning. It was rather as ifthe perfect balance of the long dry spell had beendisturbed, and after oscillating more and moreviolently it came down with a crash on the Fridaymorning.That was the real end of the drought inScotland. We had weeks of glorious weatherbefore us yet, for this mighty summer did notabdicate until its course was run. But for themost part the drought was broken in those nextthree days, allthe vast draining systemof burnand loch and river, which had been largely inabeyance for many weeks, began to work againand water supplies came back to taps that hadlong been dry.We travelled all day in the rain, stopping fora time to shop in Stranraer, and then having

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 239worked out the extreme South-West almost toits limit turned sharply to the East across theneck of the peninsula. We camped that nightin a stackyard near Glenluce. On the Saturdayalso it rained allday with increasing force anddetermination, and I was a gooddeal disappointedand annoyed. Not of course that Iobjected to the rain, for I welcomed it, and I hadbeen hoping for some time that we should getsafely round the corner before the weather broke.Rain is quite negligible on the road so long as itis coming from behind. The front of the vanremains open as usual and all goeson well. Itisonly when we have to travel into the teethof it that the thing becomes complicated. Thewhole of the front must then be shut up, and it isdreary work sitting inside, while Herbert remains,a sport for the elements, on the footboard. Nowrain in the South of Scotland, when it sets seriouslyto work (as it so often does), comes almost withoutexception from the South- West, and as soon aswe had turned the corner our route would lie forten days to come in a North-Easterly line.you will see that I had made my dispositions mostcarefully, and when the rain began just as wereached the corner I had good cause to congratulatemyself. I smiled at the streams upon theSo

240 CARAVAN DAYSwindows in the morning, for you see a little forethoughtand knowledge of weather conditions ofthe district. . . .All day itEast.rained in torrents from the North-SIEGLINDA pounded along through the puddles,hermetically sealed, and the only cheerful itemin the outlook was the figure ofHerbert, whichcertainly did something to set off the flat,closedfront of the van. In Stranraer I had bought forhim a beautiful bright yellow oilskin coat witha sou'-wester hat to match, in which get-up,glistening with descending streamlets,he posedas a commanding figure-head.Rain does not always fit very well into the lifeof the caravanner perhaps, and that is a matterof great regret to me. There is no doubt that arunning cargo of wet clothes is more than anycaravan can carry, so that one is forced to defendoneself with mackintoshes, and cannot go outfreely to get wet through as I prefer to do. ThereI have a grudge against caravanning as onewho has tried to set me at variance with anold friend and crony. There isperhaps a slightbalance here in favour of a more settled life, inwhich it is possible to go out, for instance, andembrace whole-heartedly those glorious days

RAIN AND LACK OF RAIN 241when clean, white rain swings in billows acrossthe landscape, drenching deliciously: and afterwardsto changethat Iand have a tub. I always feelam losing my opportunities in a caravan,that I cannot make the most of them.very fond of rain.For I am

CHAPTER XXVIIIMEMBERS OF THE UNDERWORLDTHIS is the name that we give to that little corpsof scavengers whose humble, gruesome dutiesminister so continuously to the comfort of ourlife in SIEGLINDA. My review of our journeyswould be quite incomplete did I not deal withthis question, as the prompt and wise disposal ofodds and ends is a practice not always easilyattained by caravanners. And first I must introduceyou to Jessica the derivation of whosename is now wrapped in age-old obscurity. Sheis a green canvas bucket or :bag to be precise, afireman's bucket. She is light, collapsible, watertight,and she hangs in the housemaid's cupboardin the kitchen.Jessica is the universal recipient. Refusal isunknown to her. All's fish that comes into her net .She will collect in a single day, and gulp downout of sight,potato peelings, fish-bones, torn-upletters, plum-stones, fruit-tins, tobacco ash,empty match-boxes, withered flowers, exploded242

MEMBERS OF THE UNDERWORLD 243sparklets, broken crockery, crusts, discardedslippers indeed it is useless to try and give youany adequate idea of the ground she covers.She is set upon the floor when supper begins, sothat leavings of all sorts flash out of sight in atwinkling. She lends her assistance to the cleaningof the stove. The Official Photographer borrowsher when she is at work. The Head Mechanicwould never dream of sitting down to a jobwithout her by his side. She will sometimes becarried offby the Seamstress. She is the inseparablecompanion of the Cook. I cannot reallyspeak of Jessica without a grateful emotion. Herquiet, unobtrusive work of absorption, herinsatiable appetite, her uncomplaining receptivityare of untold value to us. Once a day, or oftenerif the case demands it, she isemptiedat somedistance from the van, and usually into nettles.And frequently she is washed. That is done byspilling about half a soap powderinto her andfilling up with boiling water and then stirringvigorously with a stick ;and it iscustomary alsoto assemble the other members of the underworldin her interior that none mayThe tragedy of Jessica's existence islose the benefit.that she isnot allowed to survive the tour.._ Despite themany rinsings and scrubbingsthat fall to her lot

244 CARAVAN DAYSthere is an impression that by the time the touris over her course is run and her usefulnessexhausted : another little namesake must takeher place and claim her peg. And the besttribute that I can pay to her memoryis to recordthe fact, which is without question, that life athome when the tour is over is curiously difficultwithout her.The other members are allvarying degrees.cloths and rags ofThey are the \vipers, the moppers,the sloppers-up. Originally there was onlyone of them the Limit. It was her duty to copewith every form of spill, upset, drip or drain.She was in theory as universal, as undaunted asJessica herself.But the Limit after a while beganto put on airs. I don't quite know how ithappened.She did not complain of milk or oil, butshe began to draw the line at gravy. And at lastshe had her :way she got an underling theLast Straw. Of course she really gained nothingby that, for after a brief, high-class career in herown character, dealing only with her own chosenproducts, she went inevitably down to the secondplace herself, where she had all the rough workand none of the easy jobs. For the titles in thisdepartment must be regarded rather in the lightof roles to be played than of personalities.

MEMBERS OF THE UNDERWORLD 245(Jessica is of course a personality.) One rag inits time plays many parts.Having acted as theLimit, and then as the Last Straw, there isyetanother office to fill, which has grown up quiteFor we found that even the Last Strawlately.was not to be the last and lowest.There is a finaldepth in the form of the Ne Plus Ultra, whichiscalled in to handle the stove when the lampshave been smoking.It must not be imagined that any of thesesurvive the tour or indeed last out its wholecontinuance. At very frequent intervals theNe Plus Ultra finds a resting-place in Jessica aclean ragis started at the top of the rotation andthe others move one down.We have tried manymaterials and the best of all is a form of cheaprough towel, torn into pieces of about a footsquare.The Scullion has complete charge of all themembers of the underworld, for it is sometimesa little confusing, and it is above all necessarythat some one should remember which is which.

CHAPTER XXIXTHE JOURNEY'S ENDDURING the last week signs that the journey wasnearing an end began steadily to grow about usday by day. The second tent was packed intoitsbag and slung into the net below ; then theextra camp furniture was pushedround thecorner behind the chest. A new recklessnessshowed itself in our use of the electric torch, forthere was no more call for economy:the laundrybaggrew fat in its corner and encroached uponthe wardrobe. But the wardrobe itself was notso crowded as it had been.A day came when myold Norfolk jacket, burst at the elbows for thelast time, was hung, with a tender regret, upona wayside tree, boldly addressed on an accompanyingcard to the firsttramp that should passby and not without an old pipe and an ounceof tobacco in the pocket to speed it on its way.For the great company of things that were nevermeant to survive the tour was shrinking hour byhour. The bedroom mat, the chipped woodenspoon, the cracked butter-plate246and a host of

THE JOURNEY'S END 247others were left behind and the members of theunderworld were washed for the last time. Nolonger did I accumulate dripping, but ratherspent it lavishly the stock of candles ran down:and the rolling-pin and board were washed andstowed away. Indeed a striking change hadcome over the commissariat department. Theback boxes and the larder, which had been stuffedfull and bulging with supplies at Inverness, grewlean and empty, so that the few members thatremained joggled together on rough roads forlack of packing. All was being brought slowlyto a fine point. Only the tinned tongue wastreated with respect and allowed to keep itsplace. For it is our pleasant custom to carrywith us always one tinned tongue. We tell eachother that it is there in case of emergency, but itis an inherent part of the game that it shouldcome home again unscathed. I fancy that intimes of famine we would rather live on breadand water than tap that tongue. And I havesometimes wondered ifany specialaccrued to it throughvirtue hasits travels. Was it not atone time customary to take a cask of sherryround the Horn and back before it could be lookedon as mature ?been to John o' Groat's ?Well, what of a tongue that has

248 CARAVAN DAYSAt Selkirk we did our shopping in half-stones,half-pounds and half-dozens, for the end wasdrawing near.On the Sunday at St. Mary's Loch the weatherchanged, the temperature dropped fifteen ortwenty degrees and wintry showers swept beforethe wind, turning the sparkling loch to a dark,forbidding grey. Nothing could possibly havebeen more appropriate. It was what I had hopedfor, plannedby the rigoursfor. To be driven back at the lastof the autumn storms had beenpart of my set programme. And at least it maybe said that it came off to this extent the weatherdid something to let us down gently,to make itas easy for us as it could be made. Certainly inour exposed position it was bitterly cold, andwe remained inside for the greater part of theday, overhauling every inch of the interior andtuning up to our best standard of decency andorder.We also,counting in the seventeen miles thatremained for the morrow, made sundry calculationsof the sum of all our travels. Since we setout for John o' Groat's the total mileage was 2160,occupying 24^ weeks. We had moved on on 128days and camped on 43. Our longest march was27 miles. Our biggest week 120. Our best

month 440.THE JOURNEY'S END 249The average daily march was justunder 17 miles : and our greatest altitude was1528 feet. Rather an interesting record, and onewhich Ihope will be put down to the credit of theScottish climate isthe number of hours of rainwhich we actually encountered while on the roadand it must be remembered that we never alteredour plans to avoid rain.summers we had only 55 hours.In the whole of the twoAs we must havespent at least 720 hours in all on the road, this isequivalent to no more than 8 per cent, or, let ussay, an average of less than half an hour for everyday.But our proudest record, to my mind, is in thefact that the whole of the journeys were madewith the same pair of horses, that we never metwith a hill where we had to get assistance, andthat never in the course of them were we delayedfor a day, or indeed for an hour, through a lameor sick horse.For my part if I can bring the van and horsesback as sound as when they went away, withouthaving any matter to conceal of patches andrepairs, I am well content. I have no specialinterest to spare for the harness. The harnessyou will say is part and parcel of the whole.In my opinion it is an exasperating part and a

250 CARAVAN DAYSmost irritating parcel.I do not mean to say thatour harness isneglected. It always looks allright, but each set seems to contain enormousunseen possibilities of disruption. Harness isalways like that. I think there cannot be anysort of tradesman in the world whose incomedepends so largely on repairs and so little on newproduction as that of the saddler. It would, Iknow, be beyond me to count up the long listsaddlers' shops, dotted here and there throughoutthe length and breadth of Scotland, with whichI have had to do business at one time or another.I did once try to get two new sets before thesecond journey, but they did not fitbe sent back.ofand had toI shall not try again, for I perceivethat by now I am well upon the way to obtainingmy new sets by other methods. It cannot bevery long, at the present pace, before by gradualreplacement of one part at a time, I shall reachthat consummation, piecemeal.But SIEGLINDA was as fair a sight to the eye ofthose who were to welcome her as she had beenwhen she drove away. Perhaps there is a littleless of shine and glitter in her varnish. But I amnot sure that she isany the worse for that. Andperhaps the steps and under-carriage and the corkcarpet at the door have suffered from the long

THE JOURNEY'S END 251traffic that has passed over them. But that ishonest wear. Even though we did touch thepillar of the suspension bridge near Fort Augustuswith the front corner of the roof and I have beentrying to conceal that from you so far it hasbeen cunningly repaired and leaves no tracebehind. Her panels are unscathed ;there is noscratch about her uprights;even the littleV-shaped projections, where the bar-ends arethreaded through, that run like a row of buttonsalong the base of her frame have lost nothing oftheir chiselled edges ; and if ever you are to getjammed in a gateway these are the first to sufferand be pounded out of shape. There is a newpadlock on the larder of course, for we lost theold one at Kingussie, there are new brake-blocks,for the others were destroyed by Sutherland.But take her all in all it is " incredible," as herbuilder tellsand returned like this.me, that she has been that journeyBy noon Herbert is readyfor the AnnualInspection. Herbert indeed has almost oversteppedhimself and gone in for sheer extravagances.He must black Simon's feet and polishSam's : he must fluff out their fore-locks : heperforms the most elaborate scheme of decorationon their plaited tails ;he must have a ribbon on

252 CARAVAN DAYShis whip. The effect, you may be sure, will losenothing by his negligence.It was a glorious morning, very cold with ahigh wind from the North-East ,which fairlydrove us home down the valley of the MoffatWater.We pulled up at the cottage with, as far as wecould judge, the largest family, to deposit aninteresting and varied assortment of high-classremnants. We discarded, each in its turn, theNe Plus Ultra, the Last Straw and the Limit.Jessica was with us almost to the last, and nowreposes in a wood not two miles from home, wheremy Partner and I hope before long, on a fineSunday afternoon, to go over and look her up.We had no shower of rain to dim and dull ourperfect radiance. The sun shone all the way, thewind blew keen and white clouds scampered onbefore us ;for all the world, it seemed, was goingour \vay. We pulled up for lunch eight milesfrom home, and the front of the van, perfectlysheltered from the wind and pointing to theSouth-West, was like a sun-bath.Simon, " slinking along," as Herbert says,with his eyes on the ground, had no idea of hisdestination. But Sam at the earliest opportunitytook a good look across the valley, and it dawned

THE JOURNEY'S END 253upon him that all the twists and turns of manyweeks had been working up to this that thelong trail had brought him home at last. Andafter that he needed no touching up to show hispaces. In a secret little dell beside a streamHerbert pulled up for the ultimate, mysteriousrites. The dishes we had used at lunch werewashed in the stream, the van was flicked overwith a cloth,the harness was treated to a finalrub, and out came the little blacking-pot againfor Simon's boots. There I had to stop him, forthe time was getting on, and SIEGLINDA is neverlate.And so we turned the last corner and evenSimon realized it and came tooling up thestraight.Herbert turned to me." Shall we try this farm to-night?" he saidsolemnly, as soon as the buildings were in sight.(This is a traditional jest which always signalizesour return.) And I reply that we might try itof course, though it is rather a hungry-lookingplace.We can already see the little congressat thelane head that awaits us. ... Familiar beastsare grazing in the fields on either side. ... Adog runs out to greet us. ... We pass the old

254 CARAVAN DAYSbeech tree . . . and the iron . . .gate and thehole in the dyke.. . . We run into the assembledgroup. And we draw . . . up.It is some time before we make our way downthe lane. For the truth is that this also is ahospitable farm, not lacking in warm welcome.After all, there still remains Argyll.

CHAPTER XXXCARAVAN DAYSMY last object must be to try to sum up what itis that makes Caravan Daysdifferent from allothers, and how it isthey come by the specialFor they are veryquality that sets them apart.different. It is as if, looking back and turningover the pages of all the daysbehind, Ithat I have leftfind them for the most part dulled bythe growing distance, mistyand indistinct, fullof gaps and obscurities. But as I look throughthat faded gallery I come every here and thereupon a bunch of pageswhich are stillclear andbright, where the outlines stand out sharply andthe details are not lost : where the pigmentshave been of more lasting quality and time hasnot toned them down. These are my CaravanDays.It isextraordinary how clearly they are remembered.Living through them again, as Ihave done in this book, I have been able to movefreely over well-known ground.255I have each one

256 CARAVAN DAYSof them, whole and separate, well within mygrasp. I am ready to stand a cross-examinationupon them, and I defy my questioner to stumpme. I could tell him where it was at our campat Douglastown or at any other camp that Ifound a safe resting-place when I went in theevening to empty Jessica. I could tell him withouta moment's thought in which directionHerbert set off for the milk at Kincardine O'Neil,or whether there was shopping to do at Coldstream,or at which camping-ground the newloop for the ink-bottle was inaugurated,or ifthere was any rain on the march from Perth toDunkeld, or where we stopped to pick up waterfor lunch between Thurso and Johno' Groat's.Each day stands out apart likea bead upon astring. That is a quality that Caravan Daysshare with no others. When I have gone toVenice for the first time or travelled throughCanada or visited the Alps or met with any othergreat and fresh experience, Iafter just what Icannot say monthsdid from day to day, howeverclearly I remember the outstanding moments.But itmay be that caravanning has no outstandingmoments : that all is levelled up to anew plane where nothing specially memorablehappens because everythingis memorable.

CARAVAN DAYS 257At any rate, it is clear that days that are socompletely recalled have been vividly lived andthat everything in them has been significant.That is the first truth about Caravan Days.There isnothingin them that does not count.They are free from slack and empty periods.They leave no room for killing time. They arebusy days, packed with insistent occupationsdays in which there is always much to do andeverything is well worth doing. They are beautifullymonotonous, and yet no two are the same.And that they stand out, each one apart, is dueto the fact that they are divided both by timeand space with journeys between camps. Theyare new days of new habits, a new outlook and anew state of mind and feeling, and they have thepower of reaching out and leaving the old thingsbehind. That is their special gift. Worries andproblems and cares are not easily eluded evenfor a few weeks in the year. There are times whenit is not possible to travel away from them bytrain or ship or motor.But it is generally possibleto walk away from them beside a caravan.It isgiven to the caravanner, as the days run on, tofind a new proportion in the value of things, forthe time being, in which the successful cookingof a supper or climbing of a hill weighs more withs

258 CARAVAN DAYShim than all the unsolved questions that he hasleft at home. I do not say that he would beindifferent to the news, reaching him by telegram,that his house had been burned down (althoughhe ought to be),but at least he would pause toask himself if that was really as great a calamityas it is held to be. His house isvery far away, butthe steak is on the table beside him, and it ishigh time that he lit the Primus.They are days with a perfect balance, betweenrest and exertion, labour and reward. Much oftheir high contentment is due to their system ofrewards and prizes.For you will get nothing thatisgood till you have earned the right to it. Ifyou would smoke a pipe in peace on the road youmust push on at a good pace and gain a full mileupon the van to give you time to lie down on thebank till she comes up. Lunch is a special prizeafter ten miles of steady walking, and whateverdifficulties you have had to encounter you maylook for your reward at camping time, when thehorses go off to their stable and the house is setin order for the night. The happy ceremony ofsupper which is the prime reward of the caravanner'sday is in just and full recompense forthe labour of the cook. And all the incidents ofthe long day have paved the way for exquisite

CARAVAN DAYS 259hours of sleep. Sunday in campis in itself areimbursement that has fallen due.We do not travel after all in search of newcountries or new experiences, but in search of anew frame of mind, and all the properties ofcaravanning hard exercise, fresh air, continualemployment, the joyous incidents of the road, thesmall activities of the camp, the moving panoramaof the scenery all work together toward thatframe of mind that we go out to seek. It isdistinguished by a rich and equable good humour,a full and genial faculty for taking all things asthey come. I have spoken in Chapter XXVI ofan evening of heaped-up exasperations such asmay occur, but I have given no idea of the perfectserenity and smiling amusement with which theyare bound to be met. And in my third chapterI have described a night when I was driven frommy bed by an outbreak of jibbing and cluttering,and my growing irritation under the ordeal.But Iknow you will understand that there wasno real irritation in that matter. It was a stageanger that possessed me. I was playing the partof the Caravanner at :Bay that was all. As amatter of fact, the broken bootlace of the everydaylife is a far more potent disturber than all theinsensate turns of fortune that the caravanner has

26oCARAVAN DAYSto face.Whether he is hauling buckets of waterup a slippery bank in the rain, or walking threemiles after dark to an adjacent village for forgottenletters, or waiting. ... He has greatof timepower of waiting patiently for any lengthwhen there are complicated enquiries about acamp, or the horses have gone to be shod and theblacksmith isaway at his dinner, or when onemember of the crew has lost himself on a shortcut or gone to ask the way. He knows that thereisalways plenty of time, and sitting here indefinitelyis simply part of the game.It is a frame of mind of keen enjoyment in thesmallest things. The caravanner cannot takethem dully for granted as he was wont to do.He has lost that stupid familiarity. It is as if hegets a fresh start and sees things as they reallyare. He appreciates what a beautiful and simplecontrivance a corkscrew is : he can pause to begrateful:to the inventor of the tea-infuser herejoices in the happy accident by which there arestackyards about farms and disused quarries bymoorland roads. He wonders at the great labourand ingenuity of the makers of maps. He delightsin the rumble of wheels and the jingling of harnessAnd he has alland the clopping of horses' feet.sorts of fine sensations, which he has rediscovered,

CARAVAN DAYS 261in the feel of his shoes and the fitof his clothes,in washing tingling fingers in clear running water,in working off the stiffness of the morning andforging on ahead with swinging strides, in changingdusty road clothes for evening flannels andgetting tired feet into loose slippers, in the springof the turf and the blaze of the sun and thegrateful shade of the trees.Caravanning does not owe very much to thecharms of novelty or the force of comparison.The first days of a tour are good, but not half sogood as the last the :journey of the moment isusually the best that we have ever made. Foras one's skill, in all the little practices of the craft,increases and expands with long usage the loveof it all grows steadily upon one. As every daycontributes something new to those that are tofollow, experience enriches and advances the lifeof the Open Road more and more. It is a mistaketo put a premium upon Yesterday or to elevateTo-day the best and most desirable of Caravan:Days should always be To-morrow.

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~lump*a^. *rfu l>fty' MERDEENBntmar^^-*Bfllar,r Sanchayjliahtnnieidal;:-'-..^S/oir Arhallt/ ''MAP OF " SIEGI.INDA'S'' JOURNKYSThe author's route is in red. Other roads in black

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