Every one, I suppose, is subject to a trick of mind which often puzzles
me. I am reading or thinking, and at a moment, without any association
or suggestion that I can discover, there rises before me the vision of a
place I know. Impossible to explain why that particular spot should show
itself to my mind's eye; the cerebral impulse is so subtle that no search
may trace its origin. If I am reading, doubtless a thought, a phrase,
possibly a mere word, on the page before me serves to awaken memory. If
I am otherwise occupied, it must be an object seen, an odour, a touch;
perhaps even a posture of the body suffices to recall something in the
past. Sometimes the vision passes, and there an end; sometimes, however,
it has successors, the memory working quite independently of my will, and
no link appearing between one scene and the next.
Ten minutes ago I was talking with my gardener. Our topic was the nature
of the soil, whether or not it would suit a certain kind of vegetable. Of
a sudden I found myself gazing at--the Bay of Avlona. Quite certainly my
thoughts had not strayed in that direction. The picture that came before
me caused me a shock of surprise, and I am still vainly trying to
discover how I came to behold it.
A happy chance that I ever saw Avlona. I was on my way from Corfu to
Brindisi. The steamer sailed late in the afternoon; there was a little
wind, and as the December night became chilly, I soon turned in. With
the first daylight I was on deck, expecting to find that we were near the
Italian port; to my surprise, I saw a mountainous shore, towards which
the ship was making at full speed. On inquiry, I learnt that this was
the coast of Albania; our vessel not being very seaworthy, and the wind
still blowing a little (though not enough to make any passenger
uncomfortable), the captain had turned back when nearly half across the
Adriatic, and was seeking a haven in the shelter of the snow-topped
hills. Presently we steamed into a great bay, in the narrow mouth of
which lay an island. My map showed me where we were, and with no small
interest I discovered that the long line of heights guarding the bay on
its southern side formed the Acroceraunian Promontory. A little town
visible high up on the inner shore was the ancient Aulon.
Here we anchored, and lay all day long. Provisions running short, a boat
had to be sent to land, and the sailors purchased, among other things,
some peculiarly detestable bread--according to them, _cotto al sole_.
There was not a cloud in the sky; till evening, the wind whistled above
our heads, but the sea about us was blue and smooth. I sat in hot
sunshine, feasting my eyes on the beautiful cliffs and valleys of the
thickly-wooded shore. Then came a noble sunset; then night crept gently
into the hollows of the hills, which now were coloured the deepest,
richest green. A little lighthouse began to shine. In the perfect calm
that had fallen, I heard breakers murmuring softly upon the beach.
At sunrise we entered the port of Brindisi.