ABSTRACT
Some maps mark the port of San Giovanni di Medua on the Eastern coast of the Adriatic and some do not. When the traveller is dropped there by the Lloyd’s steamer, he wonders which are right. Certainly the locality is the landing-place for Scutari in Albania, it figures on Lloyd’s time-tables, and is the terminus of a projected railway. On the other hand there is little to distinguish it from the rest of the coast ; a rotten pier, some sheds, an inn, and ten Turkish soldiers constitute its claims to be called a town. Having realised that it would not be wise to stop long at Medua, you are confronted with the problem of how to leave it. The railway has really terminated in somebody’s pocket, and has never been heard of on the spot. You cannot drive—because, firstly, there are no carriages, and, secondly, there is no road. It is therefore necessary to hire some lean and sullen nags, and a native with a sense of direction, and plunge into the country hoping some time to reach the town and lake of Scutari.
