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It seemed upon the whole unlikely that a path could be made for a considerable time, so we lunched peacefully in the carriage, a pair of extremely friendly crows assisting at the feast, and then, leaving our landau to follow as best it might, we walked into Domel, crossing the Jhelum by a fine bridge.
The valley of the Jhelum between Domel and Ghari is not beautiful merely wide and desolate, with steep hills rising from the river, their lower slopes sparsely clad with leafless scrub, their shoulders merging into the dull mist which hangs around their invisible summits. Alas! it soon became apparent that our troubles were not over.
We were so bored on Thursday that we determined to push on, coûte que coûte, on Friday morning, although a note sent back by one of the gunners from Domel, by a coolie, informed us that the road about a mile short of that place was completely blocked by a fallen mass of some hundreds of tons.
This morning the two young gunners departed on foot, leaving their tonga, as the road to Domel is reported to be quite impassable. They intend to walk by a short cut over the hills, and get on as best they may, the race for Astor being a keen one. We decided to remain here, the weather being still gloomy and unsettled, and the road being impossible for a lady.
Through the haze we could make out Domel, our goal, lying far below, and then the old Sikh fort of Musafferabad. The road was so encumbered with rock-falls that we walked the greater part of it, until we came to the new bridge over the Kishenganga, whose dark red waters rush into the Jhelum about a mile below.
Dripping, we walked by our wet horses up to the top of the pass, hoping for a swift and easy descent on the farther side to Ghari Habibullah, where we intended to sleep, as we had given up all idea of being able to get on to Domel. Presently the horses were pulled up sharply as a ton or two of rock and earth came crashing upon the road in front of us.
Mollien started from Djeddeh on the 29th January, 1818, and taking an easterly course between the 15th and 16th parallels of north latitude, crossed the kingdom of Domel, and entered the districts peopled by the Yaloofs.
So we roamed along the Domel road till we came to a high cliff of conglomerate, which had recently been shedding boulders over the track to an alarming extent; so, deciding that it would be merely silly to risk getting our heads cracked, we turned back, and, re-crossing the river, clambered up a steep path above the right bank.
Our henchman having somewhat recovered of his fever, thanks to a generous exhibition of quinine, we gave the order to pack and start, hoping to achieve the twelve miles which separated us from Domel, even though the last bit had to be done on foot.
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