108 IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. 



and swore (the skipper did that, though), till at last 

 we were out again and away for the mainland once 

 more, not very many miles south of where we had 

 left it. One of the first villages we passed was 

 another Rogosnica — called cli Almissa, to dis- 

 tinguish it — nestling up under the bare crags some 

 mile above the sea. From hence we ran past 

 the famous Vrulja, concerning which the proverb 

 runs, " The bora is born at Fiume, married at 

 Quarnero, and dies at Vrulja." But it dies hard, 

 for the spot is known for its terrific storms, and 

 even this fine, bright morning there was a fresh 

 breeze blowing over the pass. Down the Vrulja 

 winds the high-road from — well, very nearly from 

 all Dalmatia, but lastly from Duare, to Makarska 

 and beyond. Above us now were the rocky masses 

 of the Biokovo, but it would have been hard to 

 believe that those cliffs were as high as any hill in 

 England, but that on this fine, bright morning the 

 fleecy clouds were hanging about halfway up the 

 steep. 



By ten we were in Makarska harbour, but it 

 was weary work to tie up so big a ship in so small 

 a port, and it was nearly forty minutes later before 

 we could step ashore. Makarska is, however, a 

 place of no interest (we had got tired of the Illyrian 

 pirate story), so we were not sorry when the reel 

 and bottle performance was completed again and 

 we were once more under way. 



