The remaining half of our twelve-mile march lay along a continually rising
track, which finally brought us to Kitardaji, a cosy pine-built hut,
perched upon a hill clothed with deodars, at the foot of which ran the
inevitable stream.
This, alas! is our last Kashmir camping-ground, and it is one of the most
charming of all.
At 8.15 this morning we bade farewell to Kitardaji. We had got up before
dawn to see the sunrise, but afterwards took things leisurely, as the
march is short to Baramula, and our boats were to be in waiting there, and
we had made all arrangements for a landau and ekkas to be in readiness to
take us down to Rawal Pindi, while the Colonel returned up the Jhelum for
more shooting before rejoining his wife at Bandipur.
The march of about thirteen miles from Kitardaji to Baramula is fine--the
views of Nanga Parbat in the early hours, before the sun's full strength
cast a golden glow over the distance, were magnificent, and long we
lingered upon the last ridge, gazing over the great valley, ringed with
its guardian mountains, ere we sadly turned our backs for the last time on
the scene, and wended our way downward to Baramula and our boats.
Kashmir seems to be as difficult to get out of as to get into! What was
our amazement and disgust to find neither landau nor ekkas, nor,
apparently, any chance of getting them!
Baramula was in a ferment, and wild confusion reigned because the Viceroy,
having somewhat suddenly determined to come to Jammu, the Maharajah and
all his suite, together with the Resident and his belongings, were to
start down the road at once, and all transport was commandeered by the
State.
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