Wanderings through unknown Austria

by Randolph Llewellyn Hodgson

Byron.

On Tuesday, 4th June, we had a regular "day out." We were twelve—the original eleven who went to Miramar, with the addition of "our host." We started at 7.30 in the morning, and this involved getting up at six. There is nothing I object to more than early rising. Since my earliest infancy I have always been told what an excellent thing it is to get up early, and the ancient proverb (which you may have heard)—

Early to bed and early to rise
Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise—

has been repeated to me so often that I actually know it by heart. I do not believe in it, though; I infinitely prefer the sentiments contained in the old Scotch song—

I would rather go supperless to my bed
Than rise in the morning early.

It was not a matter of going supperless to bed in this case, but it meant (at least to our host and myself—we were late) starting without breakfast. We rose to the occasion. Rather than keep the rest of the party waiting, we went without breakfast, and had the satisfaction of feeling martyrs for the rest of the day.

My collaborator, our host, the Thin Boy, and myself were in the first carriage. We kept congratulating ourselves and each other on this fact all the way. There was plenty of dust, clouds of it, and we could dimly discern the other carriages behind us, and their miserable occupants being half-smothered, whilst we were in the pure fresh air of the morning. It was a very pretty drive of about two hours to Aquileia, past marshy meadows bright with flowers, and vineyards with their graceful festoons of vines, the fresh and luxuriant green of the plain contrasting strangely with the gray barrenness of the neighbouring hills, through the little old-fashioned town of Monfalcone. It is quite an Italian town, with its big piazza, graceful church tower, and balconied houses—closely shuttered, of course; the inhabitants seem to have a horror of fresh air. After Monfalcone the scenery too becomes quite Italian, though we are still in Austria. The plain continues fresh and green as ever, but the hills fade away in the blue distance. We cross that bluest of rivers, the Isonzo, drive between green hedges fragrant with wild roses and honeysuckle, pass a long, low, house covered with roses, with a lovely garden and a grass lawn-tennis ground (the only grass court I have seen on the Continent), go over numerous little brooks that wind along under the dark shadow of overhanging bushes, and are generally haunted by promising families of downy yellow ducklings, and at last reach Aquileia.

Here we had what was a second breakfast to most of the party, of coffee and rolls. Our host did not eat anything. He said he couldn't eat when he had risen in "the middle of the night." It was a mild rebuke, but it passed unnoticed.

We intended to go to Grado before seeing Aquileia, so after this meal we sought our steamer, a launch that plies daily between the two places. It did not require much seeking, firstly, because it rested on the placid waters of the canal close to our "hotel," and, secondly, as it guided us to its whereabouts, with great consideration, by a series of most unearthly screams of the whistle, and by disgorging vast quantities of evil-smelling smoke.

The scenery is rather pretty after leaving Aquileia. High reeds and grass grow down to the water's edge, larks carol joyously in the sky, reed-warblers twitter among the rushes, and bright-hued dragonflies dart hither and thither. There is a smell of new-mown hay in the air (which causes the Fat Boy to sneeze thirty-seven times without stopping), and one sees the peasants at work, with the big, gentle, sleepy-looking oxen drawing the waggons. One soon leaves the canal behind, and comes out into numberless shallow lagoons of salt water, with dreary sandbanks, and lonely-looking posts to mark the deeper channels. There are a few dismal huts on some of the sandbanks, and in one place a church tower stands alone in its glory—the rest of the church has fallen down. We saw no living thing there except a solitary eagle. It is a desolate and melancholy sort of place, and I for one was very glad when we came out into "blue water" and Grado hove in sight. It forms a pretty picture, this little Venetian-like town, the blue sea, and the fleet of fishing boats with their brightly-coloured sails.