Towards evening Thomson and I walked to Mudros by a back road, and were fascinated with the primitive ways of the natives. Their mode of threshing in particular interested us. We wandered through the village, meeting crowds of native men, women, and children, the men mostly squatting in front of dirty cafés, or lounging inside, sipping, as far as I could make out, syrup and soda water. This love of syrup I have seen in Holland and Belgium and in France, and I fancy is universal in hot countries. We visited the church, which I had been in three months before. An old verger—for such I took him to be—took us round, a venerable old fellow with kindly eyes, and long beard, long robe, and tall brimless hat. He pointed out everything, talking a mixture of French and Greek; showed us the Bible on the altar, a beautiful silver covered tome, the various pictures, etc., and the pulpit of the "Episcopos". "Oh, the bishop," said I. "No, no, Castro Episcopos." He meant the Bishop, who perhaps pays the place periodic visits, his palace being in Castro, the largest town on the island. A candle—a mere taper—had been lighted for each of us on entering, and was set in a circular candlestick. For this performance we were expected to pay of course. Before leaving I dropped a piastre (2½d.) into a plate, and handed Thomson another, but he finding he had three British pennies dropped all in, greatly to the delight of our guide into whose pocket all this wealth went. "Merci, merci," says the old chap who dives for another candle, and lit a second for the good of Thomson's soul.
July 22nd.—Thomson and I set off after breakfast to Rosapool, a village to the N.E. On the way we studied the method of threshing the wheat, which seems to be occupying the full time of every member of the families at this time. The threshing floor on which the operation is conducted is twenty yards across, circular and laid with flat stones. About sufficient sheaves to form half a dozen of our "stooks" at home is evenly spread on the floor, while a pair of oxen draw a sledge made of two stout boards, about 5 feet long, turned up at the point, and studded most carefully with flints projecting fully half an inch. The driver, who is usually a woman, stands on this and directs the cattle round and round, prodding them freely with a goad. Some of the larger floors have a second team: several I saw to-day consisting of two donkeys and a pony. These were not muzzled like the oxen, they had no sledge, their hoofs doing the work, and they were kept going round at a good pace. The winnowing follows, after the whole is reduced almost to snuff. This is carried out by throwing shovelfuls in the air, the slight breeze we have to-day carrying the pounded straw away and leaving the heavy grain.
Rosapool is off the beaten track and is not much spoiled by the present influx of men. We managed to get a drink of excellent beer—Pilsner, from Athens—the old fellow who served us explaining that he had no right to let us have it, but as soon as a military policeman who was standing at his door, moved on we were placed on chairs at a small table and had our repast. We visited the church which was not unlike the bigger one at Mudros. With her head on the doorstep was a wizened old woman fast asleep, guarding three piles of salt she had laid out to dry in the sun. She got on her haunches, mumbled to us in a friendly way, and showed us how she worked her spinning machine, which she had with her. This consisted of a pole about 2 feet high, with a base which she clutched with her great, coarse, bare toes, and as she teased out the wool from the bunch at the top she twirled a short spindle with her right hand making a remarkably even thread.
We next climbed a hill near this, which we found rough and rugged, as every hill here is. It was scorched absolutely brown, thistles—especially yellow-flowered ones—alone showing signs of life, along with a pretty, dwarf Dianthus. The rocks are covered with an orange-coloured lichen which gives them a warm colour. When lying on the top I could almost imagine myself in Scotland, if I kept my eyes above the villages and valleys, and viewed the hill-tops only. Away to the north of us was a large, pure white lagoon, shut off from the sea by a sandbar. No doubt this was a layer of salt formed the same way as the inland lakes with their salt we were accustomed to at Mex, and it was likely from this the "old wifie" had got her salt.
Every village has its fig trees, the largest under 20 feet high, their large leaves rich green and luscious. Almost every house has one or more of these. There is but one pattern for their houses, a square box two storeys high, often with a bit of balcony covered with vines. The general colour of a village is grey, cold, and forbidding, but this is relieved by the fig trees, and the bright green and blue paint many use on their doors and windows. Everything is primitive, and long may it remain so; all seem happy and contented on the small pittance any of them can earn. There is no attempt at farming on anything but the smallest scale.
Was it in Lemnos, the Ægean Isle, Milton lands Satan when thrown out of Heaven?
We hear that Achi Baba was to be stormed to-day, but we do not believe it. Big gunfire is distinctly heard at this distance (over 40 miles) and we have heard but a very few shots. Last night the booming was constant for a time.
July 23rd.—To-day we had a route march of nearly twelve miles, the first since we left England. We went through Rosapool to the northern shore of Lemnos, where the men bathed and rested for an hour. We found a fine beach of silver sand. We reached camp a little after 2, with excellent appetites. By a little clever man[oe]uvring—and with the aid of Sergeant-Major Shaw—Kellas and I managed to reach Rosapool while the men rested outside, and we had a long, cooling drink of Pilsner.
July 24th.—Went over almost every street in Mudros this morning. There were five of us, and we made many purchases for our mess—white wine, plums, Turkish delight, preserved fruit, tomatoes, etc. In the evening Thomson and I inoculated every one in camp against cholera—my second dose.
July 25th.—When we landed at Lemnos we chanced to meet Padre Komlosy, who has looked us up in camp a time or two since. He had a service at 10 for us and the Welsh Fusiliers who are on their way to Gallipoli for the first time. These Welshmen wear a cockade of white feathers in their helmets and the officers three black ribbons down their backs, from below their coat collars. Padre Hardie also visited us in the evening.