234 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



in his time sold hats of the latest fashion to the 

 young bloods of Funchal. 



Thither to the island of our last hopes, sped 

 the Falcon one breezy morning in May, and 

 as she dipped and somewhat rolled in an exceed- 

 ingly impolite sea, we were overhauled by the 

 Kildonam Castle, homeward bound. At first 

 sight, the little I. de Cima looked an unpromising 

 rock, but we grew to like it mightily during our 

 three days of occupation, and it was with great 

 reluctance at the last that we saw Cossart's 

 comfortable tents rolled up and taken back to 

 the launch. The glamour of the camping life is 

 apt to be a little overdone by travellers who write 

 books, for they invariably overlook the horrors 

 usually incidental, the noxious insects, prowling 

 beasts, thievish natives and climatic trials ranging 

 from cataclysmic rains to cyclonic winds. On 

 this occasion, however, perched on a little ledge, 

 snug against the cliff, and within fifty yards of the 

 Atlantic breakers, I can swear that none of the 

 usual drawbacks (and I have known them else- 

 where) interfered with our enjoyment of the 

 perfect peace. There were no insects, though 

 spiders of great size and appalling mien abounded 

 on the stony plateau atop the cliff. The only four- 

 footed visitors were a most friendly mongrel dog 

 from the phare and a few goats, which their owner 

 now and then drove to distraction by hunting 



