The dak bungalow stands on a little plateau overlooking the road and a
swift river, whose tawny waves were loaded with mud washed from the hills
by recent storms. On a slope opposite, the queer, flat-roofed native
village perched, and above it swirled a misty pall which hid all but the
bases of the hills. To this village we strolled, but it was not
interesting; the inhabitants did not seem wildly friendly, and the mud and
dirt and dogs were discouraging. So we roamed along the Domel road till we
came to a high cliff of conglomerate, which had recently been shedding
boulders over the track to an alarming extent; so, deciding that it would
be merely silly to risk getting our heads cracked, we turned back, and,
re-crossing the river, clambered up a steep path above the right bank. Here
we soon found great rents and rifts where falling rocks had come bounding
down the steeps from above, so once more we turned tail, and, giving up
the idea of any more country walks in that region, betook ourselves to the
gloomy and chilly bungalow. The only really delightful things we saw
during our doleful excursion were a lovely clump of big, rose-coloured
primula, drooping from the clefts of a steep rock, and a pair of large and
handsome kingfishers,[1] pursuing their graceful avocations by a roadside
pool--their white breasts, ruddy flanks, and gleaming blue backs giving a
welcome note of colour to the sedate and misty grey of the landscape.
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