To the north was the blue-green sea close at hand, to the east and west the bold knees of the mountains coming out to the water line, to the south the hills piled one on another, broken by twisting valleys. In the late afternoon sunlight, falling athwart the inland slopes, I could see how they were terraced like gardens in order to allow them to be cultivated and the terraces ran up to great heights. Certainly there was nothing about us to make us think we had come to a too city-like community for our experiment. Many, many miles away on heights we could see some white houses in clustering villages, but if there was a town of five thousand people lying about somewhere it was rather artfully concealed.
As I surrendered our tickets to the capo di stazione I said:—
“Is this the station for Gualtieri-Sicamino?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, where is the town?”
“You go along this road.”
He pointed to a narrow wagon road running along the tracks for a short distance, then winding into the heart of the hills. It was two inches deep with dust, and the sun beat down on it with great fervor. In addition to our being encumbered with the heavy camera, and one carefully packed valise, I realized that it was about 110° Fahrenheit on that bit of the king’s highway.
“How far is it to the town?”
“Eleven kilometers, sir.” (Seven miles and more!)
“I—I—suppose I can hire a carriage hereabouts,” I said,—a little faintly, I fear.