Captain Greendays said that he wished he, too, could wear a dust-cloak and veil! A Queensland visitor thus described the road, in the visitors’ book at the “Welcome Home.”
“Before my thoughts my muse must quail,
With dust my hair and clothes are pale,
But this to say my tongue is itching,
To fly this roads the birds need britching.”
A visit to “Paradise” at the far end and head of the lake was to have appropriately occupied Sunday, our second day. But alas, it dawned in rain and storm, an utterly impossible morning for a lake-picnic. The lake rough and grey, the mountains shrouded in mist, we shivered at the sight and sorrowfully resigned all hope of Paradise, for this was our last day.
The much-abused “Trots” are really greatly to be pitied. They arrive in a country on a visit, and are immediately presented with a list of places and tours quite disproportionate to the time at their disposal. They attempt to choose the best, but are invariably told as they proceed, and as their time relentlessly shortens, that those left out are by far the most important. And eventually, so anxious are they not to miss the chef d’oeuvre after coming so far, they try to see everything and end fagged out by rushing about, having had no real enjoyment of any one excursion, and carrying away only blurred and hazy recollections instead of one or two perfect pictures. It was not so bad as that with us, but even in our comparatively leisurely progress we felt continually that we did not give nearly enough time to the different places.
And now this wet day made us feel guilty of wasting the time owing to Lake Manapouri, for it prevented our giving a fair due to Wakatipu since it would now be impossible to visit what more fortunate visitors and photographs pronounced the prettiest part of the lake, and since we could not do that it had been better not to come at all.
Yet we could not wholly regret our change of plans, for even that first fair view of Queenstown was well worth the journey, and our drive to “Skipper’s” had been quite a novel and very entertaining experience.
We breakfasted in moods none too amiable. What was to be done with the day? How amuse our invalid?
Oddly enough we had all forgotten that it was Sunday, and when a lady opposite me passed an elaborately embroidered handkerchief across the table to my neighbour with the remark,
“She gets just a few things out by each mail so that she has always the newest designs,” a solution of the puzzle came to me in a flash. And then my neighbour returned,
“Oh, I must go and see them. The Irish Linen House, you say? Dear me, it sounds like Regent’s Street!”
It did, and a most enticing sound it was on a wet day in a resourceless hotel. I promptly suggested shopping to Mrs Greendays,—photographs, curios,—and
