We stopped at the picturesque fishing-village of Janicho, on its rock island.

Its houses cluster on a little terrace near the bottom of the hill, which rises behind it as a fine background.
Steps of rock lead up the stony slope from the water's edge to the houses.

In every yard mattings are laid, upon which little white fish are drying.

As they walk through the streets or stand talking together, the men are ever tatting at nets; long lines of net-cord are reeled out for many yards along the wayside; hundreds of feet of seines are hung out in the sun to dry.

The houses, with their pretty red tiling, are irregularly clustered along narrow winding streets.