In bars in the United States, any one wishing
for whisky and water was (I advisedly use the past tense)
accustomed to drain a small tumbler of neat whisky, and then to
swallow a glass of water. In India everything is arranged on this
principle; the whisky and the water are kept quite separate. The
dead-flat expanse of the Northern plains is unbroken by the most
insignificant of mounds; on the other hand, in the hills it is
almost impossible to find ten yards of level ground. In the same
way during the dry season you know with absolute certainty that
there will be no rain; whilst during the rains you can predict,
without the faintest shadow of doubt, that the downpour will
continue day by day. Personally, I prefer whisky and water mixed.
In 1891 the Viceroy had selected the Kumaon district for his usual
official spring tour, and all arrangements had been made for this.
As my sister was feeling the heat of Calcutta a great deal, she
and I preceded the Viceroy to Naini Tal in the Kumaon district, as
it stands at an altitude of 6500 feet. The narrow-gauge railway
ends at Kathgodam, fifteen miles from Naini Tal, and the last four
miles to the hill-station have to be ridden up, I should imagine,
the steepest road in the world.
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