A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil | Page 7

on our way. The Austrian Lloyd's
"unaccelerated" steamers are not too active in their movements, being
wont to travel at purely "economical speed," and so we were given an
excellent view of some of the Ionian Islands, steaming through the
Ithaca channel, with the snow-tipped peak of Cephalonia close on our
starboard hand.
Then, leaving the far white hills of the Albanian coast to fade into the
blue mists, we sped
"Over the sea past Crete,"
until the tall lighthouse of Port Saïd rose on the horizon, followed by
the spars of much shipping, and the roofs of the houses dotted
apparently over the waters of the Mediterranean. At length the low
mudbanks which represent the two continents of Africa and Asia
spread their dull monotony on either hand, and the good ship sat quietly
down for a happy day's coaling.
Port Saïd has grown out of all knowledge since I first made its
acquaintance in 1877. It was then a cluster of evil-looking shanties, the
abode of the scum of the Levant, who waxed fat by the profits of the
gambling hells and the sale of pornographic photographs. It has now
donned the outwardly respectable look of middle age; it has laid itself
out in streets; the gambling dens have disappeared, and the robbers
have betaken themselves to the sale of the worst class of Japanese and
Indian "curios," ostrich feathers from East Africa, and tobacco in all its

forms.
Port Saïd has undoubtedly improved, but still it is not a nice place, and
we were unfeignedly glad to repair on board the Marie Valerie as soon
as we noted the cessation of the black coaly cloud, through the
murkiness of which a chattering stream of gnome-like figures passed
their burthens of "Cardiff" into the bowels of the ship.
Port Saïd was cold, and Suez was cold, and we started down the Red
Sea followed by a strong north wind, which kept us clad in greatcoats
for a day or two, and, as we got down into wider waters, obliged us to
keep our ports closed.
An object-lesson on the subject of closed ports was given in our cabin,
where the fair chatelaine was reclining in her berth reading, fanned by
the genial air which floated in at the open port,--a truculent Red Sea
billow, meeting a slight roll of the ship, entered the cabin in an
unbroken fall on the lady's head. A damp tigress flew out through the
door, wildly demanding the steward, a set of dry bedding, and the
instant execution of the captain, the officer of the watch, and the man at
the wheel!
How dull we should be without these little incidents!
A hoopoe took deck, or rather rigging, passage for a while, and evoked
the greatest interest. Stalking glasses and binoculars were levelled at
the unconcerned fowl, who sat by the "cathead" with perfect composure,
and preened himself after his long flight.
The striking of "four bells" just under his beak unnerved him somewhat,
and he departed in a great fuss and pother.
Our roomy decks afford many quiet corners in which to read or doze,
and now that the weather is rapidly warming up we spend many hours
in these peaceful pastimes, varied by an occasional constitutional--none
of your fisherman's walks, "three steps and overboard"--but a good,
clear tramp, unimpeded by the innumerable deck-chairs, protruding feet,
and ubiquitous children which cover all free space on board a P. & O.

Then comes dinner, followed by a rubber of bridge, and so to bed.
On Saturday the 11th we passed the group of islands commonly known
as the Twelve Apostles.
First, a tiny rock, rising lonely from the blue--brilliantly blue--waves;
then a yellow crag of sandstone, looking like a haystack; and then a
whole group of wild and fantastic islands, evidently of volcanic origin,
and varying in rough peaks and abrupt cliffs of the strangest
colours--brick-red, purple-black, grey, and yellow--utterly bare and
desolate:
"Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative
power, The weary eye may ken,"
save only the white lighthouse, which, perched on its arid hill, serves to
emphasise the desolation of earth and sky.
The Red Sea is remarkably well supplied with lighthouses; and,
considering the narrowness of the channel in parts, the strong and
variable currents, and the innumerable islands and shoals, the supply
does no more than equal the demand.
I cannot imagine a more grievous death in life than the existence of a
lighthouse-keeper in the Red Sea!
_Sunday, 12th_.--We passed through the Gate of Tears this
morning--the dismal, flat, and unprofitable island of Perim being
scanned by me from the bathroom port, while exchanging an
atmosphere of sticky salt air for an unrefreshing dip in sticky salt water.
The hoopoe is again with us;