Here, indeed, it is that
"Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile."
We stopped to look at the ruins of an ancient mosque, built in the days of
Akbar by the Shiahs. Its remains may be deeply interesting to the
archaeologist, but to me a neighbouring ziarat, wooden, with its grassy
roof one blaze of scarlet tulips, was far more attractive. Moving homeward,
we floated under a lovely old bridge, whose three rose-toned arches date
from the sixteenth century--the age of the Great Moguls. The extreme
solidity of its piers contrasts strongly with the exceedingly sketchy (and
sketchable) bridges manufactured by the Kashmiri.
In fairness, though, I must point out that, as the bridge in Kashmir
usually spans a stream liable at almost any moment to overwhelming floods,
it would appear to be a sound idea to build as flimsily as possible, with
an eye to economical replacement.
The Kashmiri carries this plan to its logical conclusion when he fells a
tree across a raging torrent, and calls it a bridge, to the unutterable
discomfiture of the Western wayfarer.
[1] That lady subsequently killed a remarkably good 13-pointer bara singh
and some bears in October.
CHAPTER VIII
THE LOLAB
_May_ 1.--The pear and cherry blossom has been so lovely in and around
Srinagar that we determined to go to the Lolab Valley and see the apple
blossom in full flower.
We started in some trepidation, for the warm weather lately has melted
much snow on the hills, and Jhelum is so full that we were told that our
three-decker would be unable to pass under the city bridges--of which
there are seven.
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