My amiable bullock-driver, the big Georgi, had always assured me that
"game abounded in the immediate neighbourhood of Dali;" of course I knew
that the happy hunting-ground contained some special interest for
himself. Upon arrival on the outskirts I ordered the vans to pass on the
outside of the town, and I would seek a camping-place up-stream. Instead
of this I was assured that we should pass through the town, and find a
lovely grove of olive-trees by the river-side, the perfection of a
halting-place. For the first time I now discovered that Georgi's wife
and family lived in Dali, and that he was not such a fool as he looked.
In a few minutes we were descending a lane so narrow that the gipsy van
only cleared the walls of the houses on either side by three or four
inches. This lane had been paved centuries ago with stones of all sizes,
from a moderate grindstone to that of a football. When people had wished
to build a new house, they had taken up a few stones to make a
foundation; the street was a series of pitfalls filled with mud and
filth, including miniature ponds of manure-coloured water. The surface
appeared impassable; the projecting water-spouts from the low roofs
stuck out like the gnarled boughs of trees. Here was a pretty mess!--all
because Georgi's wife was in town. It was impossible for anything larger
than a perambulator to turn, and as the springs yielded to the uneven
ground, the van bumped against the walls of the houses and threatened
destruction.
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