During July and August, which is mid-winter, the grass plains are set on fire, in parts purposely, but sometimes accidentally.  They are usually left intact near the road, for transport oxen find plenty of pasture in the coarse high grass which no other animal will touch; but the seeker after game will burn miles and miles of this grass when it is sufficiently dry at the roots.  It has acted as a sheltering mantle for its four-footed population for many months, and now the “hunters’ moon” is fairly risen and the buck must beware.  Therefore, if one leaves the road for two or three miles to the right or left, vast black plains are discovered, on which only about a fortnight after burning a very vivid green, and, it is said, a very sweet, grass springs up, which game of all sorts greatly love.  Here they graze in herds morning and evening, and here probably they meet their death—­but of this more anon.  It took our party ten days to reach Kalomo,[50] then the capital of North-Western Rhodesia.  This included a six days’ halt in quest of game on a rocky kopje eight miles off the road—­a veritable Spion Kop, rising from a flat country and commanding views for miles round.

As regards travelling, I can only say it was very comfortable as we did it.  Riding ourselves, our baggage (divided into loads each weighing about 30 pounds) was carried by natives, who generally preceded us out of camp.  The day’s journey was divided as follows:  Up before the sun, and dressing by the uncertain light of a candle lantern.  It was cold enough to render no dawdling possible, and one hurried one’s toilet in order to get to the already brightly burning fire and steaming hot coffee.  The sun would just then be showing its red head in the far east, and already the camp was in commotion; tents were being struck, bedding rolled up, while a certain amount of scrambling would be going on amongst the cunning blacks, each wishing to possess himself of the lightest load.  To prevent shirking, one or two of the native police who accompanied us watched the proceeding with lynx-like eyes, and, amid much arguing, chattering, and apparent confusion, a long line of carriers would emerge like a black snake from the camping-ground into an orderly string—­quaint figures, some of them wrapped in gaudy blankets, and even then shivering in the keen morning air; some with their load on their heads, others carrying it on long sticks, all with the inevitable native vessel, fashioned from a gourd, containing their daily ration of grain.  As a supplement to these carriers, we were also accompanied by the (in Africa) familiar “Scotch cart.”  In other words, this is a strong cart on two wheels, drawn by bullocks, and its usual pace is about two and a half miles an hour.  It apparently possesses the delightful qualification of being able to travel on any road, no matter how rough, without breaking down or turning over; in fact, when travelling by road in Africa, it facilitates matters as much as the employment of a charwoman oils the wheels in an English household, and it is therefore as much to be recommended.