In dear old England this sort of experience would have spelt shocking colds, and probably rheumatism for life, but here—­well, we crawled into our tent and found it, thanks to a couple of waterproof sheets spread on the ground, surprisingly dry.  A change of clothes, a good dinner, produced under the most unfavourable circumstances from a wretched little cooking-tent, and a fire burning goodness knows how, in the open, showed the world to be quite a nice place after all.

After dinner a great camp-fire was lit in front of our tent, the rain cleared off, and I sat smoking with much content, while all our soaking garments were festooned on branches round the blaze, and Jane and I turned them like roasting joints, at intervals, until the steam rose like incense towards the stars.

The coolies, too, had quite got over their homesickness, and were extraordinarily cheerful, their incessant jabber falling as a lullaby on our ears as we dropped off to sleep.

Saturday, June 24.—­We got away in good time for our short eight-mile march to Lidarwat.  The coolies went off gaily—­the day was warm and brilliant, and the views down the valley towards Pahlgam superb.

We had camped on the low ground at Aru, just across the bridge, but about half a mile on, and upon a grassy plateau there is an ideal camping-ground facing down the Lidar Valley, towards the peaks which rise behind Pahlgam.  Want of water is the only drawback to this spot, but if mussiks are carried, water can easily be brought from a small nullah towards Lidarwat.

Tearing ourselves away from this spot, and turning our backs upon one of the most gorgeous views in Kashmir, we plunged into a beautiful wood.  Maidenhair and many another fern grew in masses among the great roots which twined like snakes over the rocky slopes.  Far below, with muffled roar, the unseen river tore its downward way.

By-and-by, the path emerging from the wood shelved along a green hillside, where bracken and golden spurge clothed the little hollows, while wild wall-flower, Jacob’s Ladder, and a large purple cranes-bill brightened the slopes where happy cattle, but lately released from their winter’s imprisonment, were feeding greedily on the young green grass.

I fancy the cattle have a remarkably poor time here in winter.  Hay is not made, and very little winter forage seems to be collected.  As the snows fall lower on the hills, the flocks and herds are driven down to the low ground, where they drag through the dark days as best they can, on maize-stalks and such like.

I noticed early in May the water buffaloes just turned out to graze in the Lolab, and more weakly, melancholy collections of skin—­and—­bone I have seldom seen.

Now, however, up high in every sunny grassy valley, the Gujars may be found camping with their flocks—­cattle, ponies, buffaloes, and goats, working upwards hard on the track of the receding snow, where the primula and the gentian star the spring turf.