78 ■ BIRD-HUNTING 



Dulcigno is, I think, the most, or at all events 

 one of the most, picturesque places I have ever 

 seen. At one end of the small bay, and dominating 

 the harbour, stands the old Venetian castle, or its 

 ruins, one of the many memorials along this Adriatic 

 coast of the long- vanished supremacy of Venice. 

 This is now a curious collection of ruined buildings, 

 and small houses made out of their materials, inter- 

 sected by narrow, tortuous passages and rocky 

 stairways, and crowned at the highest part by a 

 ruined church. It is a perfect human warren ; even 

 the roofless, windowless cellars sheltering crowds 

 of half-naked people, whose eyes glare at you out of 

 the darkness of their noisome abodes like those of 

 wild and unclean animals, while their muttered curses 

 at the intruder follow him as he stumbles and slips 

 along the rock-hewn paths. Myriads of Jackdaws 

 nest in the crevices of the walls, and also in the rocks. 



At the other extremity is the modest villa of the 

 Prince of Montenegro, perched on the top of a low 

 cliff, and surrounded by trees. Between the two is 

 the beach, the road along which forms the chief 

 promenade of the inhabitants, and two or three 

 buildings, which include the Turkish Consulate 

 and the small inn in which I stayed, TAlbergo 

 Athanase. But the principal attraction to me was 

 the bazaar, the main street, where the shops were 

 collected together. On bazaar day, or market day, 



