The view from this terrace over the landscape of the east is one of the most inspiring that could be conceived. The western inlets of Lake Van, with their long promontories and varied outline—with the precipitous barrier of the Kurdish mountains rising along the one shore, and from the other the fabric of Sipan—are perhaps the most beautiful portion of the inland sea. They scarcely figure upon existing maps. Certainly when you rise above them, and the expanse of the water is spread beneath you, and Sipan emerges free of all lesser heights—while as yet their essential detail has not been lost by distance, but the vast prospects, which they lack, have been regained—these western inlets are the pride of the scenery of Lake Van. The setting sun sheds a mellow light upon the great volcano, robed in snow, upon the white summits of the Kurdish range, upon the dim outline of Varag. Around the field of pale water are shed a thousand delicate hues, over peak and dome, and buried garden and arable. We can still see the lonely tomb upon the headland. On the opposite coast we see Surb, fairest of little bays; the steep cliffs behind Garzik; the arms of the Sheikh Ora crater, almost encircling the lake admitted to its inmost core.
Such is the landscape—so full of light and most ethereal colour—that has dazzled the eye during the ascent of the rampart. We ride on, along the terrace, with the uppermost slope on our right hand. It has a gradient of about 17°, and is largely covered up with white pumice sand. The track worms its way to a fork in the outline, which we reach in about ten minutes. It is just after six o’clock. The ground falls away, and a scene expands before us which Mother Earth, repentant of her orgies, has acted wisely in surrounding with a wall.
The whole circumference of the gigantic circle towers around us, the vaulted slopes of the outer sides breaking down with precipitous cliffs, which, in some places, attain a height of over 2000 feet above the rubble at their base. The impression of height and steepness is accentuated by the lighting—the sun setting behind the crater. The same circumstance increases the weirdness of the vast spaces of the interior, with their multitude of chaotic forms. Flatness is the prevailing characteristic of the bottom of the basin—but the surface has been blown out by subterranean explosions, or sunk into deep pits, or flooded with viscous lavas, oozing up, and cooling into comb-shaped crags. Here it is a shapeless hill covered with white volcanic dust; there a lava stream, resembling rocks from which the tide has receded, that compels a large circuit from point to point. The coarse herbage has already been burnt by the sun, and its hues assimilated to the volcanic sand. These ragged yellows intermingle with the sombre lavas; and the only touch of beauty in this hell of Nature is a little piece of blue at its furthest side. It is just a glimpse that we obtain of the principal lake.
But what is the meaning of these many paths which seam the interior, arguing a considerable traffic to and fro. Are there villages in the crater? We have never heard of any; we are assured that none exist. Not a fire, no light is anywhere visible; but the tracks are broad, and have all the appearance of being regularly used. We feel surprise and express it to the Kaimakam. He answers naïvely that Kurds come here now and then.
After a short halt, the whole party defiles down the narrow path—zaptiehs, cavalry, a detachment of infantry. Looking backwards, it is a long, thin line from base to summit, the number of horses making an imposing array. Arrived at the foot of the wall, we skirt the cliff for some distance in a north-westerly direction. It is our object to find some shade for our camp. But in this search we become involved in some deep ravines, covered with groves of aspen and birch. Juniper conceals the hollows in the rocky surface, and adds to our difficulties in the failing light. None of the trees are of sufficient height for our purpose; and the Kaimakam entreats us to avoid these wooded ravines, which are, he says, the favourite haunt of bears. They descend to the shore of the warm lake. At last we espy a clearing, a kind of platform, free of brushwood, yet close to the aspen groves. It overlooks, at a considerable elevation above it, the mirror of a fresh-water lake. The peaceful water fills the whole western segment of the crater. Great, black masses in the heights about us intensify the darkness; they are composed of obsidian, pure, and black as jet. On a tiny promontory of the opposite shore a shepherd’s fire starts from the shadows. Failing shade, it is just the site for an encampment, and here we erect our tents ([Fig. 186]).
Fig. 186. The Lake in the Crater of Nimrud.
The morning breaks serene and clear; we have slept, as usual, with our tent open upon one side. It has been chilly during the night; but the temperature rises with great rapidity as the sun mounts above the rim of the crater. A charming landscape is framed within the opening of the green canvas, receiving the mellow light from behind. Beyond the foreground of quivering aspens and white-stemmed, tremulous birches, the eye rests upon the transparent surface of the lake. The opposite segment of the circle of cliffs is mirrored in the water with all the wealth of detail which they possess. Where these images cease, the surface is blue, like any other lake in the recesses of the mountains. We miss the changing effects and splendour of colour, characteristic of the lake of Van.
We descend through the groves to the margin of the water, to take our morning’s bathe. The declivity is pretty steep, and there is a difference of level of 300 feet between our camp and the lake. The wood is still cool and fresh. Tall stalks of flowering yellow mullein rise within it; and the prevailing greenness is relieved by patches of pink from the rosebay willow-herb, or of pale salmon from clusters of poppies. It seems quite a nursery for a variety of insects, this crater of Nimrud. Last evening, as we arrived, the bushes were dotted with sleeping butterflies, reminding us of the appearance of those shreds of coloured cotton which are affixed by devout pilgrims to the shrubs round their sacred place. This morning the air is all hum and bright wings; we notice the swallow-tail in abundance, the marbled white, some clouded yellows, a multitude of fritillaries, a few tortoiseshells.
The water is pure as crystal; but it feels cold, having a temperature of 64° Fahrenheit. To the taste it scarcely differs from ordinary water, although we thought it was at once more pleasant and more bracing to the skin. It is evidently increasing in level. Many of the trees along its margin are submerged. We saw no fish, only some small leeches and fresh-water shrimps.