Trypi [Tripi]. Sunday 16. Dearest Mother I must begin my letter to you here and post it where the gods may have appointed a post office. We are now deep into the country, beyond railways and inns and it's more delightful than I can tell you. We drove all day yesterday from Arcadia [Arkadhia] over the passes into Lacedaemonia. Arcadia, I regret to say, is by no means the Arcady of poets. The mountains are bare and rocky and though the great plain of Tegea, across which we came, was green with corn there were neither trees nor rivers in it. The rocks and thorny scrub of the mountains were however full of flowers. The blue stylosa iris, which we forced last winter, was growing in quantities, anemonies scarlet, white, purple and blue, and great colonies of cyclamen. When we got to the head of the pass we came face to face with Taygetus [Taiyetos Oros], snow covered, for they had had cold weather in the mountains last week; as we went down the country became greener and more fertile, till at the bottom of the valley we crossed the Eurotas [Evrotas] full of water (most Greek rivers are quite dry!) and lined with poplars and mulberries. Sparta [Sparti] is a miserable place; it never was anything more than villages, with one great temple on the Acropolis, and since that has disappeared, nothing whatever remains. While the other two had tea, I went off to have the museum opened. There was a mountebank performing (very ill) in the principal street and the whole Spartan population was engaged in watching him, however, with some trouble I detached a small boy and, in my best English, sent him off for the key. When he returned, the whole of Sparta, soldiers, mountebanks, loafers, followed me into the museum and looked at me while I looked, as best I might, at the tombstones, which were the only things there. Fortunately there presently appeared the Curator, a most affable person, apologised to me, drove out the mob, and did me the honours in French and English such as are spoken at Sparta. Papa joined us and together we admired the indifferent treasures of which the curator was very proud. He counselled us to go off and see some mosaics, especially one "which I have new founded. There will be a describe by me, you will see in the paper." So read your Times with care. I am quite sure I am not educated up to floors of mosaic, but this one was in the most charming little garden full of monthly roses and orange trees in flower. We saw two floors and were then making the best of our way to the post office when the Curator sent off a messenger hot foot to ask when we were coming to his own particular find; so I went off and found him, sponge in hand, ready to wash the faces of the ladies on the floor and give me a describe of the young woman who was "putting his arm" round a gentleman's waist. At 6.30 we set off for Misthra [Mistras] which lies right at the foot of Taygetus, embedded in orange trees and mulberries. The mountain rises up in a steep wall with a great cleft in it, through which you see the snow peaks. The whole village was heavy with the scent of orange flowers and full of the sound of water - you have to be a week in Attica [Attiki] to know what a joy it is to find water - and above our heads the ruins of a Frankish castle, perched up on a great rock, stood out against the moon. It was a vision of beauty. We lodged in the house of a Greek peasant, most comfortable. Papa and Uncle Tom had a big room opening onto the balcony, and I had our hostess's bedroom, which was a little cupboard leading into the kitchen, quite nice however. We carry our own beds and are most luxurious. Themistocles sends us up a dinner of 4 courses, after which Constantine announces that "it is convenient for the coffee," so we have delicious cups of Turkish coffee. After dinner we sat on the balcony, and the little brown owls squeaked in the orange trees and far away a man was playing tunes upon a pipe. Today again has been heavenly, a blazing sun and a cool air. We walked up to the castle through the most extraordinary ruined and deserted town. It is a back wash of the Crusaders and was built by one of the Villehardouin who came and was king here. Byzantine churches covered with frescoes, steep paved streets, palaces, gateways with great flanking towers, and at the top of all the citadel where a Palaeologus lived after Villehardouin's day. It was a kind of Sleeping Beauty place, only all in ruins and no way of bringing it to life again. We lunched at a monastery on the hillside, at the foot of the town, after which we got onto mules and rode over a spur of the hill to this place which is at the bottom of the Langada Pass; we are to cross it tomorrow. Our saddles are Greek, enormously high in front and behind, with two or three rugs thrown over them and no vestige of a pummel for me. They are more like armchairs than saddles and you tumble over your mule's head when he walks downhill and over his tail when he walks up. They ought to provide you with a helmet like the White Knight's. We are again established in a peasant's house, two bedrooms luxuriously furnished with our beds and a basin, and a vine covered verandah for dining room. I have just gathered a great bunch of anemonies for our dinner table. The place is full of Judas trees and oranges in full flower. Themistocles is busy preparing a magnificent repast; I expect it will be convenient for at least 6 courses here. Our friend the Curator was spending his Sunday in Misthra and lunching at our monastery. He greeted us with effusion, and we him. We have struck against goat's milk; Constantine accordingly appears in the morning with a jug of "very good sheep's milk. I have just pick it up new" which sounds a difficult operation. It's much nicer.

We have had a long day, 9 hours' riding, which means about 11 on the way. We haven't covered more than about 20 miles but the roads, which are bridle paths on the mountain side, are so very bad that one can't go faster. Our steeds were mules - I took a toss off mine! It swerved suddenly and danced round, sending me off at a tangent, for there is no way of sticking onto a Greek saddle. I took all the skin off my knee, but was otherwise unhurt. We rode over the Langada Pass, very fine but awfully bare. There was a Greek boy who joined our party with 2 mules carrying skins of oil from his father's farm in Sparta [Sparti] which he was to sell in Kalamata [Kalamai]. He spoke English having been 2 years in New York. We made friends with him and were much distressed when one of the skins burst and a gallon of oil was spilt! Papa gave him 2 drachmae which confirmed him in his high opinion of English people. We got to Kalamata at 6 and washed which was an extraordinary joy. We are in a real inn but we dined at a Restaurant opposite. A German lady lives in the upper floor of the Restaurant; my landlady introduced me to her across the street, taking us to be compatriots, and we conversed for some time from our several rooms - she was engaged in sweeping the floor of hers. My landlady, a Greek, was so much pleased with the success of the introduction, that she embraced me!
We don't mean to bring any mules or Greek saddles back to England. I have tried every way of riding mine - except with my face to his tail - and they are all bad. Ever your affectionate daughter Gertrude