31 January 1854

Late this afternoon, I was strolling along the Promenade of the Eastern Harbour – as I have been doing every day for a week. Despite the multitude of flies, the unspeakable diseases, and the insolent beggars, at least it is a little cooler than in my hotel.

To escape the misery of the English winter, I have spent the last few months in Egypt, visiting Cairo, the pyramids, and Philae, and have completed around 150 water-colours of these sights. I now face the prospect of returning to London to arrange the sale of these paintings, which should keep me in funds for the next few months. Yet I find myself strangely reluctant to return.

My enforced stay in Alexandria is making me uneasy. This city is ravaged by every disease known to man, but particularly the purple plague, the tertian ague, typhoidoxical dropsy, and (worst of all) the sputter-speckled strobulus. All are equally fatal. Had I confined myself to my hotel I should have gone mad, but had I ventured onto the streets, I should soon have caught some delirious disease. And had I returned to London, with its miserable fogs, I should go down with one of the dizzyses that invariably afflict me in the English winter – not to mention my petty malady, which usually stays at bay while I travel.

In the meantime, I patiently wait for my ship to leave. I have booked a passage on a new paddle-steamer, the SS Indus. I am interested to try this new form of transport, which should return me to London in little more than a week. But its engine is "out of order," I am told. Repairs are necessary to the steam-cylinder, and the Egyptians are having no success.

To help pass the time, I have been taking daily lessons in juggling, a pastime that has always fascinated me. I am making little progress, I confess, but now and again I am able to keep two balls in the air at once. Since the lessons are conducted on the street, my tutor and I are always surrounded by an amused crowd.

As I sauntered down the quayside, practising juggling movements with my hands, trying to ignore the foetid odours, I heard a voice behind me. "Excuse me, sir!" it said, in Greek. I turned around. A spiky man was running at me, waving his fingers as if playing a highly ticklish fish-piano.

"What is it that you desire of me?" I answered sternly, in Greek - a language I can speak without much difficulty. I expected the wretch would ask me for money.

"I want to help you, sir," he said.

"To help me?" I echoed, incredulous.

"I understand you are waiting for the steamship."

"That is correct," I admitted.

"It will never depart. Dervishes have stolen its steam, and are selling it to laundries."

I laughed aloud.

"And you, sir, are an artist. You like to make pictures of rocks, I see. Yesterday morning I noticed you behind the military hospital at Cape Ras el Tin, drawing the rock of Abou Bakr."

I could scarcely deny this.

"My name is Damitry," the man added. Though at least he did not try to shake my hand, he thrust his ratty face below mine, and breathed at me, overpowering me with the smell of cloves (which some believe to be an antidote to the pinkish pig fever). "I am from the Isle of Batrony," he explained. "I wish to return there, It has the most magnificent scenery in the entire world - unlike this flat hole."

While I pondered the flatness of holes, Damitry offered to escort me to the Isle of Batrony, and to show me its scenic wonders. But could I trust him? He seemed to have too many fingers, and his hair was oiled up in the shape of a question mark.

"That is a very generous offer," I said drily.

"You would pay my fare, naturally," he replied. "As well as a retainer."

"An extremely ample one, no doubt," I said sarcastically.

"Two piastres per day," he said.

I laughed aloud.

"And of course," he went on, "you must learn Batronian. I shall be your phrase-master, at an additional fee of thirty paras a lesson."

I laughed heartily, and bade the scoundrel on his way, pointing out that my course of juggling was still unfinished.

1 February

Today news came from the shipping company that the Indus will be delayed at least another week - and that the suggested alternative is to ride a camel to Tunis, thence a leaky boat to Malta, followed by a sedan-chair ... and so on.

I found a month-old Illustrated London News. The English winter, it said, has been the harshest in living memory. Beggars are turning to icicles on the streets, the sky has frozen over, and the hospitals are so full that the sick are heaped up under the beds.

Strolling on the Promenade for the hundredth time, I remembered the sadness that always shades me in London, and I recalled Damitry’s idea. I imagined the fabled Isle of Batrony - formerly known as Limbo - where the unbaptized await the second coming of Our Lord. Though I am a keen reader of travellers’ books, I have never heard of anybody who had visited there. A few years ago I published the journal of my travels in Albania, and that sold very well. My publisher assured me that its excellent sales were due largely to public interest in the exotic east. How much more exotic is Limbo!

No sooner had I thought about Damitry’s idea than he was by my side, his sly eyes darting around like a lizard’s tongue.

"You agree?" he said.

I admitted cautiously that I was interested.

After lengthy negotiations, I have agreed to buy Damitry a ticket to Constantinople on the brigantine Jampoodle. In return, he will tutor me in Batronian. He will be half-way to his home, and in Constantinople I shall renew my acquaintance with the friends I made in my previous visit in ‘48, and shall decide whether to go on to Batrony.