The mayor lunched with us, and for a man who has, as he says, anaemia of
the stomach, chronic dysentery, and inflammation of the intestines, he
ate most freely, and if such is his daily habit, he deserved all he had
got.
Our guide was the most picturesque we have yet had. He was an Albanian
with a shaven poll save for a tuft by which the angels will one day lift
him to heaven, small white cap like a saucer, over which was wound a
twisted dirty white scarf, short white coat heavily embroidered with
black braid, tight trousers, also heavily embroidered, but the waistband
only pulled up to where the buttock begins to slide away--we wondered
continuously why they never fell off--and the long space between coat
and trousers filled with tightly wound red and orange belt. He called
himself Ramases, or some such name. Our saddles were pretty good, the
stirrups like shovels, the horses the best (barring at the Front) we had
had since Prepolji.
We rode over a creaky bridge, Jan's horse refusing, so he went through
the river, and out into the new road which is being made to Ipek.
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