By 7 A. M. the four post-horses and the Soorudji are ready. In these parts of Turkey, blessed with a post-road, you have no choice as to your mode of travelling, nor can you stop where you will, so easily as you may with horses hired from private owners. Yannitsa being te next post from Salonica (reckoned ten hours), thither must I go. The Soorudji or post-boy, always rides first, leading the baggage-horse, and is almost always fair food for the pencil, for he wears a drab jacket with strange sky-blue embroideries, a short kilt, and other arrangements highly artistical.
The morning was sultry and uninviting. We left the ill-paved, gloomy Salonica by the Vardhari gate, which at that early hour was crowded with groups of the utmost picturesqueness, bringing goods to market in carts drawn by white-eyed buffali: immense heaps of melons appeared to be the principal article of trade; but their sale being prohibited within the walls of the city, on account of the colera, the remaining inhabitants came outside to buy them, taking them in nascostamente (secretly). The broad, sandy road, enlivened for a time by these peasants, soon grew tiresome, as it stretched over a plain, whose extent and beauty were altogether hidden by the thick haze which clung close to the horizon. Hardly were the bright white walls of Salonica long distinguishable; and as for the mountains of Olympus, they were all as if they were not, – a colourless, desert 'pianura' – such seemed my day's task to overcome. Nevertheless, though the picture was a failure as a whole, its details kept me awake and pleased, varieties of zoology attracting observation on all sides. Countless kestrels hovering in the air or rocking on tall thistles; hoopoes, rollers, myriads of jackdaws, great broad-winged falcon soaring above, and beautiful grey-headed ones sitting composedly close to the roadside as we passed – so striking in these regions is the effect of general system of kindness towards animals prevalent throughout Turkey – the small black-and-white vulture was there too, and now and then a graceful milk-white egret, slowly stalking in searchful meditation.
The usual pace of the Menzil (the Turkish post) is a very quick trot, and the great distance accomplished by Tatars (Tatar, a courier) in the journeys is well authenticated; but not being up to hard work, I rode slowly; besides, the short shovel stirrups and peaked saddle are troubles you by no means get used to in a first lesson. At half past eleven we reached the Vardar (anciently the Axius), a broad river (the apple of discord between Greek and Turk, as a boundary question), and here crossed by a long structure of wood, bristling with props and prongs: near its left bank stands a khan – destined to be our midday resting-place.
A sort of raised wooden dais, or platform, extends before the road-side Turkish khan: here mats are spread, and day wayfarers repose, the roof, prolonged on poles serving as shelter from sun or rain. Three Albanian guards – each a picture – were smoking on one side, and while Giorgio was preparing my dinner of cold fowl and an omelette on the other I sketch the bridge and watch the infinite novelty of the moving parts of the scene which make this wild, simple picture alive with interest, for the bridge and a few willows are foreground and middle distance: remote view there is none. Herds of slow, bare-hided buffuli, each with a white spot on the forehead and with eyes of bright white – surrounded by juvenile buffalini, only less awkward than themselves; flocks of milk-white sheep, drinking in the river; here and there a passing Mohammedan on horseback, one of whom, I observed, carried a hooded falcon, with bells on his turban; how I wished all these things could be portrayed satisfactorily, and how I looked forward to increasing beauty of costume and scenery when among the wilder parts of the country.
1 P.M. Again in travelling trim and crossing the rickety bridge; we trotted, or galloped for three hours across a continuous, wide, undulating bare plain, only enlivened by zoological appearances as before, all the distant landscape being hidden still. Near the road many great tumuli were observed on either side during the day, a kind of saline mist appearing to fall for more than an hour. At the eighth hour we had approached so near the mountains that their forms came out clearly through the hazy atmosphere and one needle-like white column, the minaret of the chief mosque of Yiannitsa was visible, the town itself being nearly reached at the ninth hour, an event which, with a stumbling horse and fatigued limbs, I gladly hailed.
It would not do to let a day pass without making a large drawing, so I waited ouside the town or village, to work until sunset. Yiannitas is near the site of ancient Pella, the birthplace of Alexander the Great; in our days it is a beautiful specimen of Macedonian town scenery, situated in groves of rich foliage, overtopped by shining white minarets, with here and there one or two mosque domes and a few tall dark cypresses; these are the most prominent features; all the little dirty houses, which, which a nearer acquaintance makes you too familiar with, are hidden by the trees, so that the difference between that which seems and that which is is vastly wide. Yet as (my drawing done) I entered the place nothing can be more striking and characteristic than the interior of the village, though the poetry and grandeur vanish. Lanes, rich in vegetation, and broken ground, animated by every variety of costume, surround the entrance and conduct you to streets, narrow and flanked with wooden, two-storied houses, galleried and raftered, with broad-tiled eaves overshadowing groups of Turks and Greeks, recumbent and smoking in the upper floor, while loiterers stand at the shop doors below: in the kennel are geese in crowds, and the remainder of the street is as fully occupied by goats and buffaloes as by Turks and Christians. Beyond all this are mounatins of grandest form, appearing over the high, dark trees, so that altogether no artist need complain of this as a subject.
Curious to know how one would be off for lodgings in Macedonia, I found Giorgio at the postmaster's house, where, in one of the above-noticed wooden galleries (six or eight silent Turks sat puffing around), I was glad of a basin of tea. But it is most difficult to adopt Oriental mode of sitting; cross-leggism from first to last was insupportable to me and, as chairs exist not, everything must needs be done at full length. Yet it is a great charm of Turkish character that they never stare or wonder at anything; you are not bored by any questions, and I am satisfied that if you chose to take your tea while suspended by your feet from the ceiling not a word would be said or sign of amazement betrayed; in consequence you soon lose the sense of the absurd so nearly akin to shame, on which you are forced to dwell if constantly reminded of your awkwardness by observation or interrogation.
Whatever may be said of the wretchedly 'bare' state of a Turkish house or khan, that, in my estimation, is its chief virtue. The closet (literally a closet, being about six feet six inches by four and perfectly guiltless of furniture) in which my mattress was placed was floored with new deal and whitewashed all over, so that a few minutes' sweeping made it a clean, respectable habitation, such as you would find but seldom in Italian Locande of greater pretension. One may not, however, always be so lucky; but if all the route has accommodation like this, there will be no greater hardship to encounter.