The little valley down which we went had one unique quality: it was extremely narrow and its sides were bare, but all along its tortuous bottom there was a thin continuous line of bright green willows. This also was a rarity, like the ancient junipers and the soft grass of Himis Shupa. But even though a rarity, this thin string of willows winding its way down the valley and, as it were, caressed by the murmur of the little stream, could not efface our memory of the picturesque beauty of the fields of the Timosgam Valley, laid out in terrace below terrace and all green with the first sprouting of the crops, sprinkled with flowering apricot-trees and close groups of houses, each of which, with its jutting balconies—the ‘rabsalș–and tiny windows, the big terraces at the ends, and the fluttering of banners and pennons, formed a complete picture in its grove of willows and poplars. Here there was the thin twisting line of little trees and then, on both sides, a desert of rock. Soon the latter became universal, as the valley was joined by a much smaller valley opening on one side; it became entirely rock, with little narrow windings, so that it looked all the time as though it were completely blocked. Miss Kalau wondered what in the world could be the objective of my programme, and where we could be going. But there is no use in being impatient, in this country where every day brings a surprise. A few more turns—the Yellow Lama still pranced along in front of us, now appearing, now disappearing in the windings of the narrow gorge—and then, suddenly, Rigzon, amazing, incredibly theatrical, like all these Tibetan gompa.