One or two wells I saw, jealously guarded: the water they yield is not really fit for drinking, and people who can afford it purchase water which comes from a distance in earthenware jars.

One of these jars I had found in my bedroom; its secure corking much puzzled me until I made inquiries.

The river Esaro is all but useless for any purpose, and as no other stream flows in the neighbourhood, Cotrone's washerwomen take their work down to the beach; even during the gale I saw them washing there in pools which they had made to hold the sea water; now and then one of them ventured into the surf, wading with legs of limitless nudity and plunging linen as the waves broke about her.
It was unfortunate that I brought no letter of introduction to Cotrone; I should much have liked to visit one of the better houses.

Well-to-do people live here, and I was told that, in fine weather, "at least half a dozen" private carriages might be seen making the fashionable drive on the Strada Regina Margherita.

But it is not easy to imagine luxury or refinement in these dreary, close-packed streets.