AT GIBRALTAR EN ROUTE 5 



I set out from Gibraltar, a roundabout course 

 enough, but taken as a means to a desirable end. A 

 friend, yachting in the Mediterranean, volunteered to 

 convey the little expedition to Batoum if we would 

 but get ourselves so far as the Rock. The idea in 

 going to the Caucasus at all was to see what we should 

 see, to shoot a little, climb a little — not seriously, as 

 climbers understand the word — and generally, tripper- 

 like, do some part of the country. For the rest — the 

 Call of the Wild. 



When you leave a barbaric life, and return to what 

 we call civilization, you stifle your regrets by saying 

 over and over to yourself that of course you are 

 emerging from a small and belittling existence, and 

 will now have an opportunity of taking wing as one 

 of the intelligent insects who are privileged to flutter 

 interminably round in the bright light of the world, 

 and it all seems quite true for a time. It is something 

 to aim at, you say, surely a far bigger thing than the 

 mere enjoyment of a savage life, indulging savage 

 pleasures. And then there's the warm feeling of con- 

 tented pride that the mere jungly person is holding 

 his own in the flight with the sparkhng-winged ephe- 

 merids who have been in the heart of things all the 

 while. But, as a permanency, NO. To get to a comer 

 of the world by yourself — wild creatures have solitary 

 souls — and do a gallop round, tail in air, just when you 

 like, sitting and thinking, also, when you like, or 

 else — just sitting, has an indescribable attraction for 

 some people. 



My companions on the little trip to the Caucasus 



