The Market Place, Cettinje.
About half-way I paused to sketch, it was bitterly cold, and by the time I had finished could hardly feel my fingers. The horses had been taken out of the carriage and I had lunch to warm me up; it was composed of eggs fried in rancid oil—very nasty! but the bread was of excellent rye. The rest of our party passed us on their way to Cettinje, which they intended to visit and return in the same day. Soon the wind rose and came in gusts at every zig-zag going down the mountain side; I did not envy the others who could not reach the yacht again till ten o’clock. The evening was very stormy, we thought of their terrible drive in the dark, and were on the look out all the evening for them. About eight we saw two lights on the mountain slowly descending, so we were sure it must be our travellers, who arrived safe and sound about 10-30, very tired, and one driver was drunk, so those in the carriage walked eight miles rather than drive. A stormy, wild coast is this, warm in the valleys but bitterly cold in the mountains, and a good deal of snow still at the end of April.
After Montenegro I decided to return once more to Ragusa—that fine old fortress town—with Miss B., so we bade farewell to the yacht and retraced our steps once more, and from there we travelled through Herzegovina and Bosnia.
Here a new guide met me from Pola, strongly recommended by a friend of ours there, and he proved a great success, by name Karabaich.
Miss B. and I found ourselves at a very comfortable hotel—The Imperial—where we stayed a week in this delightful old town surrounded by walls and fortresses.
The Fontana Onofrio, Ragusa.