The dak bungalow, prettily placed in a clump of trees, seemed the abode of luxury to us after the discomfort of Ghari Habibullah, and we fondly hoped that, being now upon the main road which runs from Rawal Pindi to Srinagar, our troubles were over.

Saturday was the 1st of April, the day upon which I should have applied for my pass for Astor.  Wiring to Srinagar to explain that I was in Kashmir territory (which I subsequently found was enough to entitle me to a pass), and also to Smithson to say that we were making the best of our way to join him, we “took the road” after breakfast.

The carriage and the two ekkas had come in early, having been unloaded and then carried bodily over the “slide.”

A broad and smooth road, whose gentle gradient of ascent was merely sufficient to keep us level with the river bank, opened up an alluring prospect of ease and comfort.  We lay back on our comfortable cushions and watched the clouds as they swept over the mountains, hiding all but occasional glimpses of snow-streaked slopes and steep and barren ridges.

The valley of the Jhelum between Domel and Ghari is not beautiful—­merely wide and desolate, with steep hills rising from the river, their lower slopes sparsely clad with leafless scrub, their shoulders merging into the dull mist which hangs around their invisible summits.

Alas! it soon became apparent that our troubles were not over.  The cliffs above us became steeper, and the familiar boulder reappeared upon the road.  Small landslips gave us a good deal of trouble, although we had no serious difficulty before reaching Ghari.  Here we were told that a complete “solution of continuity” in the road at Mile 46 would prevent our reaching Chakhoti, so we reluctantly decided to remain where we were for the night.  Although a cold and dull spring afternoon is not exciting at Ghari, where distractions are decidedly scanty, we found interest in the discovery of the Smithsons’ heavy luggage, which had been sent on from Rawal Pindi ages ago.  Here it lay in the peaceful backwater of a native caravansary, piled high on a bullock-cart, whose placid team lay near pensively chewing the “cud of sweet and bitter fancy,” and apparently quite innocent of any intention of moving for a week or two!

We extracted the charioteers from a neighbouring hut, and gave them to understand, by means of Sabz Ali, that hanging was the least annoyance they would suffer if they didn’t get under way “ek dam” at once.  They promptly promised that their oxen—­like Pegasus—­should fly on the wings of the wind, and, having seen us safely round a corner, departed peacefully to eat another lotus.

The luggage arrived in Srinagar towards the end of the month.