TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

p;? About noon, we come to Brindisi (about which I
know nothing except Edward Lear's limerick), and
I take a shower bath and dry myself in the sun and
a bracing breeze, in a garden near the railway where
"ablution-sheds", etc. are put up among fig trees,
vine-pergola, and almond trees, with a group of
umbrella pines at one end shadowing an old stone
seat for summer afternoons. Felt like staying there.

On again about 3—the final stage to*Taranto—
crossing a flat cultivated plain fringed and dotted
with tufts and cloudy haze of pink and white blos-
som, with green of prickly pears (?) and young corn,
the wind swaying the dull silver of tossing olive trees
—all in the glare of spring sunshine. Bare fig trees
are the most naked trees I've ever seen.

At sunset we passed Grottaglie, a town on a hill;
flat-roofed white houses, one above another, and an
old brown castle with a tower and sheer wall at the
top of it all. Orchards in bloom below, already
invaded by shadow. The town faced west, and
seemed lit from within, smouldering and transparent
and luminous like a fire-opal. It looked like a dream
city. (Probably a damned smelly place for all that.)
Arrived Taranto about 9, in moonlight.

Friday > February 22nd, 6 p.m. In a tent; rest camp.
Walked along the harbour after lunch in glaring sun-
shine and shrewd wind. Blue water; rusty parched
hills away on the other side. Towns far away like
heaps of white stones. Glad of my good field-glasses,
I sat on a rock and listened to the slapping gurgle of
the water, (clear as glass), while the other three
straddled along the path, swinging their sticks and
looking rather out of place without a pier. This jour-
ney will always come back to me when I think of an
absurd song which everyone sings, hums, whistles,

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