The high road, or rather path, to Scutari, is considered good for Montenegro.  In reality it is a mere track, in places paved with cobblestones atrociously laid.  It is odd that many important districts in this country are entirely unconnected by roads with the neighbouring towns, and consequently such things as carriages do not exist.  As an instance, the whole of the country lying beyond Rijeka towards the sea, containing two important towns, and in size about an eighth of Montenegro, possesses one short road—­from Virpazar to Antivari—­and one carriage.

Our path lay for the first three hours through a richly vegetated country, and the scenery at times was quite English, owing to the amount of oak trees which overhang the path.  But at nearly every open space was a Turkish graveyard.  The indiscriminate way in which the Turks bury their dead is most extraordinary.

We reached the River Bojana, and rode along the bank some time before we came to the ferry.  It is a broad and swiftly flowing river of quite imposing size.  The heat was now getting tremendous, and a friendly Albanian picking apricots on the roadside gave us many handfuls, which proved very acceptable.

Two Albanians came across in a large barge in answer to our hail, and we and our horses—­the latter, by the way, stepping into the barge most unconcernedly—­were piloted across.  Here we entered Albania, and were examined by a fierce-looking Customs official.  He turned our baggage out on to a mat, and evidently meant to overhaul it thoroughly, when a few Daily Graphics caught his eye.  After that he dismissed the remainder of our things with a wave of the hand, which our men promptly repacked, and retired into the papers.  A lot of other men came up, and we were pleased to afford so much delight with our illustrated journals.

As we were drinking coffee in the very primitive inn, a heavy thunderstorm came on, and deluges of rain, keeping us here for about an hour, when it cleared up sufficiently to proceed.  Our landlord at Dulcigno had packed us up a meal with a bottle or two of wine at our orders, and we, now being hungry, inspected the basket.  It was, to put it mildly, distinctly disappointing, and not fit to eat or drink.  Added to this, my hunting knife was stolen, and we were very glad to get on again.

The rest of the ride was the reverse of monotonous.  The path was now as slippery as grease, and our horses floundered at every other step, and at times we plashed through quagmires, and became bespattered from head to foot.  Several men passed us with rifles slung over their shoulders, but interchanged salutations with our guard.  With the exception of one small revolver, we were unarmed and practically helpless.  A short time after our ride through this district, a stranger was killed.  It is very unfair to refuse foreigners the permission to carry any arms through such dangerous parts, when it is considered a disgrace to go unarmed by the inhabitants.  Our saddles, too, were beginning to cause us much discomfort.  After the first few hours on a Turkish saddle, every movement of the horse becomes agony.