Choosing a snug and dry place on some sun-warmed rocks at
the foot of a tree, we prepared to lunch and laze, and soon spread abroad
the contents of the tiffin basket.
There is something, nay much, of charm in the utter freedom and solitude
of Kashmir camp life. There is no beaten track to be followed diligently
by the tourist, German, American, or British, guide-book in hand and guide
at elbow. No empty sardine-tins, nor untidy scraps of paper, mar the clean
and lonely margs or village camping-grounds.
The happy wanderer, selecting a grassy dell or convenient shady tree with
a clear spring or dancing rivulet near by, invokes the tiffin coolie, and
if a duly watchful eye has been kept upon that incorrigible sluggard, in
short space the contents of the basket deck the sward. What have we here?
Yes, of course, cold chicken--
"For beef is rare within these oxless isles."
Bread! (how lucky we sent that coolie into Srinagar the other day). Butter,
nicely stowed in its little white jar, cheese-cakes (one of the Sabz Ali's
masterpieces), and a few unconsidered trifles in the form of "jam pups"
and a stick of chocolate.
Whisky is there, if required, but really the cold spring water is
"delicate to drink" without spirituous accompaniment.
Hunger appeased, the beauty of the surrounding scenery becomes intensified
when seen through the balmy veil of smoke caused by the consumption of a
mild cheroot, and peace and contentment reign while we feed the sprightly
crows with chicken bones and bits of cheese rind.
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