Just below the gorge where the Elvire River (a tributary of the Ord River) breaks through the range is situated Flora Valley Cattle Station, the property of the brothers Gordon.  A charming little place, after the rains; the homestead stands on a high bank above the river, here fringed with high, shady trees.  Beyond the homestead and the yards, a fine plain of grass stretches out, surrounded by rough and rocky hills.  As charming as their little place were the owners, the most kind-hearted and hospitable folk it is possible to imagine.  Here we stayed a few days to get some meat salted for our journey; nothing would satisfy the two brothers but that they must find the finest bullock on their run, kill it, and give it to us.  Flora Valley is a great place for the blacks, who live there in scores, camped by the river, and fed by the kind-hearted squatters.  Leaving the station and travelling South-East, our route lay through a few low hills, and then we came out upon the Denison Downs, most magnificent plains of grass.

The first few days of a journey are most unsettled, saddles do not fit, packs will not ride, the animals will not agree, and dozens of like annoyances.  Our three new camels, Bluey, Hughie, and Wattie, were almost unmanageable; for not only had they been running loose for some time, but had never been well behaved or well looked after.  Bluey was a dreadfully wild brute, and all but brought Warri, who was riding him, to grief; after bucking and plunging and trying all manner of tricks, he stampeded at his fullest speed, with his head towards some overhanging branches, under which he might have passed with impunity, but they must have crushed Warri en route.

Luckily I was just in time to get Highlander between the tree and the camel, and so saved a nasty accident.  Besides these small troubles, Breaden and Godfrey were suffering agonies from “sandy blight,” a sort of ophthalmia, which is made almost unbearable by the clouds of flies, the heat, the glare, and the dust.  Breaden luckily was able to rest in a dark room at Flora Valley and recovered, or at least sufficiently so to be able to travel; Godfrey was very bad indeed, quite blind and helpless.  At night we pitched his mosquito-net for him—­for these insects are simply ravenous, and would eat one alive or send one mad in this part of the country—­and made him as comfortable as possible; in the morning, until I had bathed his eyes with warm water he was blinded by the matter running from them:  then during the day he sat blindfolded on The Monk, one of the horses—­a most unpleasant condition for travelling.