We decided to go up to the two bridges built by the officers, land there, and then walk down to the cemetery and join the boat there. Unfortunately, it looked as though it was going to rain, and I was tempted very much to cut the bridges, and land straight at the cemetery, but Tawi had set his mind on the other scheme, and up to the bend of the river where the bridges were, we went. The paths from the old camp down to the river, up which we used to haul bamboos, wood, water, everything – were still there and being used by peasants; and it would anyhow have been easy to have recognised the camp’s site from seeing the familiar palms and mango trees on the opposite bank. The whole river looked completely unchanged.

The landing at the far bridge was made quite easily, but we had to scramble up some loose limestone cliffs, and then we found ourselves on a bit of embankment just between the two bridges. We walked in the direction of the camp, the sky getting more and more overcast. The railroad was in a shocking state, a great number of the sleepers being quite rotten and eaten away, and most of the pegs seemed to be loose. I picked one up as a souvenir of our doubtful handiwork. The first of the officers’ bridges was still up, rather rickety, and I hated walking across it just as I had always hated walking across those damned Nip bridges. I thought it would have been so very funny had I slipped and broken my neck on that particular occasion. I photographed the bridge, the two cuttings of Taramoto, and then we walked along the track, passing the old Piccadilly on our left, till we slid down the right hand bank and walked to where the camp once was.