IN THE LAND OF THE BORA. Ill 



into a great harbour, and the Cettina tears its way 

 through tremendous cliffs, the Narenta meanders 

 out through nearly a score of miles of fen. Its 

 mouth has more than a suggestion of the Suez 

 Canal, with its little signalman's cottage, stone- 

 faced banks, and ruined labourers' huts. The 

 resemblance ceases when the adjoining marsh is 

 likened to Lake Mareotis, and of course the bare 

 hills enclosing the basin have no parallel at the 

 north end of the canal, at any rate. The marshes 

 seemed to me to promise well for sport, for they 

 swarmed with birds. I saw a buzzard stoop twice 

 at a large wisp of plover, though I could not make 

 out if success crowned his efforts or not. 



Soon Fort Opus came in view, with what we 

 took for an old castle overhanging it, and after a 

 more than usually exasperating delay we landed 

 at half-past five, having taken exactly ten hours to 

 complete this journey of fifty- three miles (as the 

 crow flies). It was too late then, of course, to 

 think of pitching camp in a district notorious for 

 fever, so we sought the shelter of the unpretentious 

 but not comfortless hostelry of the place. 



