22nd.—Not having forgotten the Hill woman I saw on our return from the waterfall, I rode alone to Būttah, hoping to catch sight of her, but was disappointed: en route, my dog Sancho put up a nide of Kallinge pheasants; they rose with a phurr,—as the natives call the noise of a bird,—as of a partridge or quail suddenly taking wing.
23rd.—Colonel Everest has a fine estate near Bhadráj, called “The Park;” I rode over with a most agreeable party to breakfast there this morning, and to arrange respecting some boundaries, which, after all, we left as unsettled as ever; it put me in mind of the child’s play:—
“‘Here stands a post.’—‘Who put it there?’
‘A better man than you, touch it if you dare.’”
Boundaries in the Hills are determined, not by landmarks, but by the fall of the rain; in the division of a mountain, all that land is yours down which the rain water runs on your side, and on the opposite side, all the land is your neighbour’s over which the water makes its way downwards.
Colonel Everest is making a road—a most scientific affair; the obstacles to be conquered are great,—levelling rocks, and filling up khuds. The Park is the finest estate in the Hills.
25th.—I was fortunate in being able to procure camels, and sent off my baggage from Rajpūr in time to allow the animals to return to Meerut to be in readiness to march with the army there collecting for Afghānistan.
26th.—A sā’īs cooking his dinner by accident set fire to my stables, in which were five gūnths: the privates of the Lancers and Buffs, whose barracks are a little higher up the Hill, were with us in a moment; they saved the ponies, but the stable, which was formed of bamboo, mats, and straw, was reduced to ashes. A few days afterwards our house was set on fire; the men, who were always on the alert, put it out immediately.
29th.—Having ascertained that the water in the Keeree Pass had subsided, and that it had been open for three days, we determined to quit Landowr for Meerut: accordingly a dāk and horses having been laid for us, our party went down this morning to Rajpūr. It was a beautiful ride, but when we reached the foot of the Hill the heat became most unpleasant: such a sudden change from fires and cold breezes, to the hot winds—for such it felt to us at Rajpūr—when we took refuge at Mrs. Theodore’s hotel. She has stuffed birds for sale; her Moonāl pheasants are very dear, sixteen rupees a pair; but they are not reckoned as well prepared as those of Mr. Morrow, the steward at the hospital. Our party being too large to proceed dāk in a body, it was agreed I should lead the way, with Captain L⸺ as my escort. At 4 P.M. we got into our palanquins, and commenced the journey: crossing the Deyra Dhoon it was hot, very hot, and the sides of the palanquin felt quite burning. As the sun sank we entered the Keeree Pass, where I found the air very cold; and it struck so chillily upon me that I got out of the palanquin, intending to walk some distance. The Pass is the dry bed of a mountain torrent, passing through high cliffs, covered with fine trees and climbers; a stream here and there crosses the road. During a part of the year it is impassable, but the water having subsided, the road had been open three days.