India 2001 books

Our driver was a
cheery fellow, who only answered "quite" to everything we said. We drove
through miles of country so stony that all the world had turned grey as
though it had remembered how old it was. The road twisted and curled
about the mountains like the flourish of Corporal Trim's stick: below
one could see the road, only half a mile off as the crow flies, but a
good five miles by the curves. We were blocked by a great hay-cart. Our
driver shouted and cursed without effect, so he climbed down from the
box, and, running round the hay, slashed the driver of it with his whip.
We expected a free fight, but nothing occurred. When the hay had
modestly drawn aside, we found "only a girl." Poor thing! she looked
rueful enough.
The road was the best we had seen in all the Balkans, white and
well-surfaced like an English country highway, and at last we clattered
into Nickshitch, the most important town of Northern Montenegro. It was
like a fair-sized Cornish village, with little stone houses and
stone-walled gardens filled with sunflowers.


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