‘. . . It is even barrener than that of yesterday since no flowers grow amongst it, but the road is good: despite of that we were like to have lost one of our pack-horses, who taking fright at something set off at score galloping furiously, the red-painted Icelandic boxes bounding about on all his sides; we all thought he would damage himself seriously, till at last one of the boxes got one end unhooked and trailing on the ground, stopped him; of course the lid flew open, and our candles and spare boots and a few other things strewed the soil of Iceland: it doesn’t sound very funny to tell of but amused us very much at the time to the extent of setting us into inextinguishable laughter; and in fact I remember still the odd incongruous look of the thing in the face of the horrible black mountains of the waste . . .’ (IJ p 79).