This was the best camping-ground we had had in Cyprus; for the first time we stood upon real turf, green with recent showers, and firmly rooted upon a rich sandy loam. A cultivated valley lay a few hundred yards beyond us, completely walled in by high hills covered with wild olives, arbutus, and dwarf-cypress, and fronted by the sea. Some fine specimens of the broad-headed and shady caroub-trees gave a park-like appearance to the valley, through which a running stream entered from a ravine among the hills, and, winding through deep banks covered with myrtles and oleanders, expended itself upon the shingly beach in the centre of the bay. This sheltered cove, about 300 yards across the chord of the arc, formed rather more than a semicircle by the natural formation of the coast, and was further improved by a long reef of hard sandstone, which extended from either point like an artificial breakwater.
At first sight the little bay was a tempting refuge, but upon closer examination I observed ominous dark patches in the clear water, which betokened dangerous reefs, and other light green portions that denoted sandy shallows. The cove is useful for the native small craft, but would be unsuitable to vessels of more than seven feet draught of water. I had observed that francolins were more numerous since we had arrived upon the sandstone formation, and the cock birds were calling in all directions; the locality was so inviting that we felt inclined to remain for a few days in such a delightful spot; but the season was too far advanced for shooting, and I therefore confined myself to killing only what was absolutely necessary for our food, and I invariably selected the cock-birds of francolins. I do not think these birds pair like the partridge, but I believe the cock is polygamous, like the pheasant, as I generally found that several hens were in his neighbourhood. It is a beautiful game bird, the male possessing a striking plumage of deep black and rich brown, with a dark ring round the neck. It is quite a different variety to the mottle-breasted species that I have met with in Mauritius, Ceylon, and the double-spur francolin that I have shot in Africa. It is considerably larger than the common partridge, but not quite so heavy as the red-legged birds of Cyprus, although when flying it appears superior. The flesh is white and exceedingly delicate, and it is to be regretted that so valuable a game bird is not introduced into England. I generally found the francolin in the low scrub, although I have often shot it either in the cultivated fields or in the wild prickly low plants upon the open ground which have been misnamed heather. The habits of this bird have nothing in common with those of the red-legged partridge, as it is never found upon the bare rocky hill-sides, which are the general resort of the latter annoying species, and although the scrub bush may contain both, there is a marked difference in their character. The red-leg is a determined runner, and therefore a bad game bird for the shooter, as it will run ahead when first disturbed and rise far beyond shot range, instead of squatting like the grey partridge and permitting a sporting shot. The francolin is never found upon the bare hill-sides, neither is it a runner in the open, although it will occasionally trouble the dogs in the bush by refusing to rise until they have followed it for some distance, precisely as pheasants will run in covert until halted by the "stops" or by a net. I am not sure of the power of resistance to cold possessed by the francolins, as they are seldom met with upon the higher mountains in Cyprus, but are generally found upon the inferior altitudes and low grounds: still the hazel-huhn of Austria is a species of francolin which resists the intense cold of a central-European winter.
Only one march remained to the extreme eastern limit of Cyprus, Cape St. Andrea, distant fourteen miles. The country was exactly similar to that which we had recently passed through, and although alike, it could hardly be called monotonous, as the eye was never fatigued. The few inhabitants were poor to the last degree; the dwellings were mere hovels. We passed deep holes in the ground, the sides of which were baked by fire, so as to resemble earthen jars about ten feet deep and seven in diameter, with a small aperture; these were subterranean granaries, the sure sign of insecurity before the British occupation. The flat-topped hovels had the usual roofs of clay and chopped straw, and projected two or three feet as eaves beyond the walls, which were of stone and mud, exhibiting the crudest examples of masonry. The projecting eaves were curiously arranged by hooks of cypress, like single-fluked anchors laid horizontally, which retained beams, upon which the mud and straw were laid; the heavy weight of the earthen roof upon the long shanks of these anchors prevented the eaves from overbalancing. Enormous heaps of manure and filth were deposited opposite the entrance of each dwelling, and in the Christian villages the most absurd pigs ran in and out of the hovels, or slept by the front door, as though they were the actual proprietors. These creatures were all heads and legs, and closely resembled the black and white representative of the race well known to every child in the Noah's Ark.
It was rather disheartening to approach the extremity of the island, and upon entering a long narrow valley our guide assured us that although no apparent exit existed, we should ascend a precipitous path and immediately see the point of Cape St. Andrea. The valley narrowed to a point without any visible path. A few low hills covered with bush were backed by cliff-like heights of about 300 feet also clothed by evergreens. Upon our right, just below the steep ascent, were sand-dunes and the sea. We now observed the narrow streak of white upon the hillside, amidst the green which marked the path. We had left the brown sandstone, and once again were upon the white calcareous rock. Our animals could barely ascend the steep incline, and several times we halted them to rest; at length we reached the summit, the flat rocky table above the valley. The view was indeed lovely; we looked down upon the white monastery of Cape St. Andrea, two miles distant, and upon the thin eastern point of Cyprus about the same distance beyond, stretching like a finger from a hand into the blue sea: the elevation from the high point upon which we stood gradually inclining downwards to the end of all things. A short distance from the cape were two or three small rocky islands and reefs protruding from the sea, as though the force of the original upheaval had originated from the west, and had expended itself at the extreme east, where the heights above the sea-level had gradually diminished until the continuation became disjointed, and the island terminated in a sharp point, broken into dislocated vertebrae which formed islets and reefs, the last hardly appearing above the waves. This ended Cyprus on the east. The lofty coast of Asia Minor was distinctly visible.
CHAPTER VI.
CAPE ST. ANDREA.
The promontory of Cape St. Andrea at the broadest portion is about five miles, and from this base to the extreme end is nearly the same distance. The whole surface is rocky, but the interstices contain a rich soil, and at one time it was covered with valuable timber. There is no portion of the island that presents a more deplorable picture of wholesale destruction of forests, as every tree has been ruthlessly cut down, and the present surface is a dense mass of shrubs and young cypress, which if spared for fifteen years will again restore this extremity of Cyprus to prosperity. I examined the entire promontory, and ascended the rocky heights, about 500 feet above the sea upon the north side. It was with extreme difficulty that I could break my way through the dense underwood, which was about seven or eight feet high, as it was in many places more than knee-deep in refuse boughs, which had been lopped and abandoned when the larger trees had been felled. The largest stumps of these departed stems were not more than from nine to twelve inches in diameter: these were the dwarf-cypress, which would seldom attain a greater height than twenty feet at maturity.
Fine caroubs had shared the fate of all others, and many of the old stumps proved the large size of this valuable tree, which, as both fruit-producing and shade-giving, should be sacred in the usually parched island of Cyprus. At an elevation of about 350 feet above the sea a spring of water issues from the ground and nourishes a small valley of red soil, which slopes downwards towards the monastery, two miles distant. The shrubs were vividly green, and formed so dense a crest that several partridges which I shot remained sticking in the bushes as they fell. I never saw such myrtles as those which occupied the ravines, through which it was quite impossible to force a way. The principal young trees were Pinus maritima, dwarf-cypress, mastic, caroub, arbutus, myrtle, and wild olive. The name Cupressus horizontalis has been given to the dwarf-cypress, but in my opinion it is not descriptive of the tree: a cypress of this species, if uninjured, will grow perfectly straight in the central stem for a height of twenty feet without spreading horizontally. It is probable that the misnomer has been bestowed in ignorance of the fact that an uninjured tree is seldom met with, and that nearly every cypress has been mutilated for the sake of the strong tough leader, which, with one branch attached, will form the one-fluked anchor required for the roofs of native dwellings already described. In the absence of its leader the tree extends laterally, and becomes a Cupressus horizontalis. The wood of this species is extremely dense and hard, and when cut it emits a resinous and aromatic scent; it is of an oily nature, and extremely inflammable. The grain is so close that, when dry, it somewhat resembles lignum vitae (though of lighter colour), and would form a valuable material for the turner. There are two varieties of cypress in this island; the second has been erroneously called a "cedar" by some travellers, and by others "juniper." This tree is generally met with, at altitudes varying from three to six thousand feet, upon the Troodos range; it seldom exceeds a height of thirty feet, but attains a girth of six or even seven. The wood is by no means hard, and possesses a powerful fragrance, closely resembling that of cedar (or of cedar and sandal-wood combined), which may have given rise to the error named. It splits with facility, and the peculiar grain and brownish-red colour, combined with the aroma, would render it valuable for the cabinet-maker in constructing the insides of drawers, as insects are believed to dislike the smell. The foliage of this species exactly resembles that of the Cupressus horizontalis. The cedar may possibly have existed at a former period and have been destroyed, but I should be inclined to doubt the theory, as it would surely have been succeeded by a younger growth from the cones, that must have rooted in the ground like all those conifers which still would flourish were they spared by the Cypriote's axe. The native name for the cypress is Kypreses, which closely resembles the name of the island according to their pronunciation Kypris. The chittim-wood of Scripture, which was so much esteemed, may have been the highly aromatic cypress to which I have alluded.
After a ramble of many hours down to the monastery upon the rocky shore, along the point, and then returning through the woods over the highest portions of the promontory, I reached our camp, which commanded a view of the entire southern coast with its innumerable rocky coves far beyond telescopic distance. From this elevation I could distinguish with my glass the wreck of the stranded steamer in the bay at Volokalida. We were camped on the verge of the height that we had ascended by the precipitous path from the lower valley. As the country was a mass of dry fire-wood we collected a large quantity, and piled two heaps, one for the camel-owners and the servants, and another before the door of our own tent to make a cheerful blaze at night, which is a luxury of the bivouac seldom to be enjoyed in other portions of this island. While we were thus engaged an arrival took place, and several people suddenly appeared upon the summit of the pass within a few yards of our tent. An old woman formed one of the party, and a handsome but rather dirty-looking priest led the way on a remarkably powerful mule. Upon seeing us he very courteously dismounted, and I at once invited him to the tent. It appeared that this was the actual head of the monastery and the lord of all the promontory who was thus unexpectedly introduced. Cigarettes, coffee, and a little good cognac quickly cheered the good and dusty priest (who had travelled that day from some place beyond Rizo-Carpas), and we established a mutual confidence that induced him to give me all the information of his neighbourhood.
I had observed hundreds of cattle, goats, sheep, and many horses, donkeys, &c., wandering about the shrub-covered surface during my walk, and I was now informed that all these animals were the property of the monastery. These tame creatures are the objects described in some books upon Cyprus as "the wild oxen and horses of the Carpas district, the descendants of original domestic animals"! The monastery of Cape St. Andrea forms an exception to all others in being perfectly independent, and beyond all control of bishops. This wild country, far from all roads, and forming the storm-washed extreme limit of the island, was considerately out of the way of news, and the monk was absolutely ignorant of everything that was taking place in the great outer world. He had heard that such mischievous things as newspapers existed, but he had never seen one, neither had that ubiquitous animal the newspaper-correspondent ever been met with in the evergreen jungles of Cape St. Andrea. His monastery was his world, and the poor inhabitants who occupied the few miserable huts within sight of his church were his vassals. Although the bell of the monastery tolled and tinkled at the required hours, he informed me that "nobody ever attended the service, as the people were always engaged in looking after their animals." During the conversation a sudden idea appeared to have flashed upon him, and starting from his seat, he went quickly to his mule, and making a dive into the large and well-filled saddle-bags, he extracted an enormous wine-bottle that contained about a gallon; this he triumphantly brought to us and insisted upon our acceptance. It was in vain that we declined the offering; the priest was obdurate, and he placed the bottle against the entrance of the tent, which, if any one should have unexpectedly arrived, would have presented a most convivial appearance.