Soon, we were up in a clear cloudless sky. A white city on the coast looked like a beautiful gem set in this vast expanse of sand. The belt of green which we crossed soon vanished. Stretching as far as eye could see - nothing but brown sand remained in sight. This was not a country of soft sand dunes as I had imagined the desert to be, but a region of cruel craggy mountains - brown, grey and barren.
In Scotland, we had blessed all the little sunshine we got at this time of the year, here was a land that would bless any rain it might get. Occasionally we passed over an Arab village, what appeared to be, but a closely built cluster of sandstone houses. The only shade in that sun-baked region would be that afforded by the buildings - perhaps the only reason why the streets were so narrow.
The coast at last, the deep rich blue of the Mediterranean, what a contrast, what beauty after the miles of "Scorched Earth". We landed at a place near the coast, & were taken to our billets by bus. We became acquainted with Algiers money for the first time. The only money I saw was paper money, Algerian and Moroccan - two hundred francs = £1 pound.
The place was not bad, but the billets were. They had no place for us, so we lay on the floor between other beds in a large tent. We made our own beds, merely by putting our blankets on the floor, and easily made. That was all that could be said in defence of such sleeping billets and went out to find Mac. Mac had been a grand pal at Port Ellen, and we spent some time this evening talking over our old adventures - if the tameness of life on a Western Island can be called adventures. At the mess, I had some Madeira Wine, quite a good wine, but lack of local currency kept me off.
Lights were being put out, sleep was falling upon the camp - so we decided to call it a day.
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