A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil | Page 5

as is good for them.
[1] See Appendix 1.
[2] _The Tourist's Guide to Kashmir, Ladakh, Skardo, &c._, edited by
Arthur Neve, F.R.G.S.




CHAPTER II
THE VOYAGE OUT
It seems extraordinary to me that every day throughout the winter,
crowds of people should throng the railway stations whence they can
hurry south in search of warmth and sunshine, and yet London remains
apparently as full as ever! We plunged into a seething mass of
outward-bound humanity at Victoria Station on the 22nd of February,
and, having wrestled our way into the Continental express, were
whirled across the sad and sodden country to Dover amidst hundreds of
our shivering fellow-countrymen.
Truly we are beyond measure conservative in our railway discomforts.
With a bitter easterly wind searching out the chinks of door and
window, we sat shivering in our unwarmed compartment--unwarmed, I

say, in spite of the clumsy tin of quickly-cooled hot water procured by
favour--and a gratuity--from a porter!
The Channel showed even more disagreeable than usual. A grey, cold
sky, with swift-flying clouds from the east hung over a grey, cold sea,
the waves showing their wicked white teeth under the lash of the strong
wind. The patient lightship off the pier was swinging drearily as we
throbbed past into the gust-swept open and set our bows for the unseen
coast of France.
The tumult of passengers was speedily reduced to a limp and inert
swarm of cold, wet, and sea-sick humanity.
The cold and miserable weather clung to us long. In Paris it snowed
heavily, and I was constrained to betake myself in a cab--"chauffé," it
is needless to remark--to seek out a kindly dentist, the bitter east wind
having sought out and found a weak spot wherein to implant an
abscess.
At Bâle it was freezing, but clear and bright, and a good breakfast and a
breath of clean, fresh air was truly enjoyable after the overheated
sleeping-car in which we had come from Paris.
It may seem unreasonable to grumble at the overheating of the
"Sleeper" after abusing the under-heating of our British railways.
Surely, though, there is a golden mean? I wish neither to be frozen nor
boiled, and there can be no doubt but that the heating of most
Continental trains is excellent, the power of application being left to the
traveller.
The journey by the St. Gotthard was delightful, the day brilliant, and
the frost keen, while we watched the fleeting panorama of icebound
peaks and snow-powdered pines from the cushions of our comfortable
carriage.
The glory of winter left us as we left the Swiss mountains and dropped
down into the fertile flats of Northern Italy, and at Milan all was raw
chilliness and mud.

Nothing can well be more depressing than wet and cheerless weather in
a land obviously intended for sunshine.
We slept at Milan, and the next day set forth in heavy rain towards
Venice. The miserable ranks of distorted and pollarded trees stood
sadly in pools of yellow-stained water, or stuck out of heaps of
half-melted and uncleanly snow.
No colour; no life anywhere, excepting an occasional peasant plodding
along a muddy road, sheltering himself under the characteristic flat and
bony umbrella of the country.
At Peschiera we had promise of better things. The weather cleared
somewhat, revealing ranges of white-clad hills around Garda.... But,
alas! at Verona it rained as hard as ever, and we made our way from the
railway station at Venice, cowering in the coffin-like cabin of a damp
and extremely draughty gondola, while cold flurries of an Alpine-born
wind swept across the Grand Canal.
Sunshine is absolutely necessary to bring out the real beauty of Italy.
This is particularly the case in Venice, where light and life are required
to dispel the feeling of sadness so sure to creep over one amid the signs
of long-past grandeur and decaying magnificence.
On a grey and wintry day one is chiefly impressed by the dank
chilliness of the palaces on the Grand Canal, whose feet lie lapped in
slimy water; the lovely tracery of whose windows shows ragged and
broken, whose stately guest-chambers are in the sordid occupation of
the dealer in false antiques, and whose motto might be "Ichabod," for
their glory has departed.
It is five-and-twenty years since I was last in Venice, and I can truly
say that it has not improved in that long time. The loss of the great
Campanile of St. Mark is not compensated for by the gain of the penny
steamer which frets and fusses its prosaic way along the Grand Canal,
or blurts its noisome smoke in the very face of the Palace of the Doges.
Well! A steady downpour is dispiriting at any time, excepting when

one is snugly at home with plenty to do,