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In what so land thou comest,

Observe their customs and that people’s laws …

Mansoul, p. 72

Doughty must have been well aware as his ferry sailed serenely into Cartagena that Spain was being torn apart by civil war. When he was travelling in North Africa, part of the country at least was firmly under the control of the French troops; here, there was no unchallenged power to enforce order.

When Doughty arrived, the Italian nobleman who had finally been prevailed upon to accept the crown as King Amadeus had been on the throne for three years, in the place of Queen Isabella, who had been driven out in the so-called ‘Glorious Revolution’ of September 1868. But there was barely a pause in the political chaos, with republicans and royalist Carlists savaging each other in a whole series of confrontations, reverses and political about-turns.

Only a year later Amadeus himself would be dethroned in his turn. It was a time of ferment; and yet, except for the occasional petulant complaint of trains held up by gangs of armed men, Doughty let it pass him by, just as he had the aftermath of the convulsions in France. He had a straightforward, unimaginative physical courage: he was apparently undaunted – and indeed uninterested – by the very real dangers posed by the wandering bands of partisans and militias.

Traces of the Arab world he had left behind on the other side of the Mediterranean were still all about him: the cultures of Christianity and Islam, of Europe and North Africa, the Spanish and the Arabs, had touched each other in Spain over the centuries, and left their mark. There was the architecture left behind by the Moors, and a whole range of Spanish customs and words that were clearly derived from the Arabic. Local peasants wore a kerchief wound around their heads, he noticed – a hakis, virtually the same word as the Arab harki. The villages, with their walls built of baked mud bricks, their houses furnished only with mats spread upon the floor, could have been plucked from the North African landscape of the Maghreb; many of the names of the people could equally well be Arabic as Spanish.

This mingling of the two civilizations, he found later, was a source of continual fascination to the educated townsmen of Arabia. Following their arrival in Gibraltar in 711 the Arabs played a leading role in the life and culture of southern Spain for over 700 years, and although it was nearly four centuries since they had finally been expelled, the legends and tales of Muslim Spain were still current in the coffee houses of the oasis towns.

In Arabia such knowledge would prove an effective way for Doughty to establish friendly relations with the people he met. Here in Spain, it seemed to tie together his interest in language with the great scientific movements of the day. If biological species had evolved gradually over the centuries, if geology and landscape were the products of imperceptible change, so too were language and the day-to-day culture of common men. It was the sort of living archaeology that he loved, laying bare the ancient roots of words and habits alike – even if the final similarity between the two cultures which he jotted down wryly in his notebook, remembering his long hours in the Arab caravan of North Africa, was the ‘drawling, insupportable singing’!

His grasp of the political turmoil of the present remained rudimentary; but, with his books still safely in storage, Doughty the observer was waking up to his surroundings, responding more enthusiastically to the people he met.

On his way to Gibraltar, for instance, he paused in Málaga – ‘a large, uncheerful seatown, without any good streets’. There, he took an interest in the civil strife only when he met a republican gran carabinero who gripped him with his description of the conflict that had engulfed the town just a few weeks before. Forty-five people had been killed in the street-fighting between republicans and Carlists – reason enough, perhaps, in Málaga as in Paris, to wipe any cheerful smile off the face of the town.

The soldier had four or five musket balls still lodged in his body, and he was on the way for treatment in the relative peace of Gibraltar. The excitement is almost audible as Doughty hurriedly jots down what his expansive new friend has told him.

He said that if he had the opportunity, he would cut the king in pieces with his knife! That the Italians were a people of fiddlers, and that the king was chosen by 150 men only. That all Andalucia was Republican, that all the paysants were méchants, and that in time of any trouble, they would sally from their houses, and kill any person they might find of the opposite party.

The gran carabinero, all moustache-twirling braggadocio, may sound like a character from an opera, with his loud-mouthed and one-dimensional political analysis – but Doughty does at least take a lively interest in what he has to say about the troubles.

Earlier in his travels, the people he met seem often to have drifted through his diaries half-noticed, like extras on a film-set; now, as he gets more deeply involved in his journeying, the characters come increasingly alive under his more focused gaze.

Over the next few weeks he travelled to and fro across southern Spain, peering slightly wistfully, as a would-be naval officer, at the big artillery pieces which loomed threateningly from the fortified galleries of Gibraltar, searching for Phoenician ruins in Cadiz, jotting down revolutionary slogans from the walls of Seville, and muttering tetchily all the while about his personal discomfort: gnats and crudely executed religious oil paintings in Seville, and another ‘night of purgatory in the diligence’ on the roads through the mountains of the Santa Morena – everything, it seemed, was designed for his irritation.

He arrived in Lisbon on 19 March after another fifteen-hour train journey. The life of a poor wanderer was beginning to pall, and he planned to spend some time in the Portuguese capital gathering his strength and throwing himself with more enthusiasm, at least for a while, into the role of middle-class traveller. He spent sixteen days there, staying at the English-run Barnards Hotel, drawing more funds from home, and meeting fellow travellers and a few compatriots who lived in the city. ‘The banker introduced me to the Gremio, an admirable club … which was immediately opposite,’ he noted. This, perhaps, was more the sort of life that his relatives in Suffolk would have envisaged – although there is still no suggestion that he might resume the studies which had enjoyed such all-consuming importance only a few months before.

He needed the rest because his health was failing – just as the travelling was about to get even more wearing. ‘Two long nights and a day’ in a stagecoach took him to Toledo, and on to Madrid, where he rested for another week. ‘Thence by the night mail 16 hours to Valencia – a journey almost too great for me, being now full of weakness and with a terrible bronchitis, but I trust nearly the last.’

This, perhaps, was the moment he was referring to years later, when he confessed he had been tempted to end his travelling and return home; or maybe he was looking forward to a longer rest in Italy. In any case, there were more hardships to come before he left Spain.

He set off early in the morning for Barcelona, where he hoped to find a ferry out of Spain. But the civil wars were still raging around him, sometimes dangerously close, with the counter-revolutionary Carlist movement mounting a running guerrilla campaign against the liberal and republican forces. For all their Catholicism and dislike of foreigners, and however exciting a character he had found his gran carabinero republican, Doughty might have been expected to feel some sympathy for the arch-traditionalists of the Carlist movement; what troubled him, though, was the disruption of his travel plans rather than the politics or the physical danger. The whole region was ‘infested by assassins, Carlists’, but personal safety never seems to have been a great concern of Doughty’s – not on the slopes of Vesuvius, not in North Africa, not in his later travels in Arabia, and not here either. ‘At Tarragona, we were compelled to halt. Half the distance from there to Barcelona, they occupy the way, having fired upon the train the previous evening, and threatening the lives of the engine drivers if they conducted trains. For this, the traffic is at a stand.’

And, with Barcelona now completely cut off from the landward side, at a stand it continued for three days. Doughty was stuck in the port of Tarragona. The only way past the surrounding Carlists was by sea, and late on the Sunday evening he embarked on a little schooner for the brief run down the coast.

In Barcelona a ship was in port, about to set out for France, and in less than twenty-four hours he was on board. Two nights in Marseilles were spent sleeping under the stars before he found a passage on to Naples, from where he had now decided – his health apparently no longer giving him trouble – to travel on to Greece. ‘The morning of the second day, we cast anchor in the Bay of Naples, a good passage and a fair wind.’

There are four brief lines in his diary noting that he spent some time in the Pension Guidotti, that he climbed Vesuvius again, that he visited the ruins at Herculaneum, and that he spent two or three days on the nearby island of Ischia; but there, abruptly, his own account ends.

With all its infuriating gaps, and with all the obvious limitations of notes scribbled briefly in a traveller’s spare moments, the diary is practically the only clue there is to how the bland, conventional twenty-seven-year-old young man who had left for Holland three years before could develop into the acute observer who would later write the Travels in Arabia Deserta. Although we know from occasional mentions in the diary that he wrote lengthy and descriptive letters home – he refers, for example, to accounts of Madrid and a great bullfight he witnessed there – hardly any of them survive.

That is not an accident: Doughty had throughout his life a passionate sense of his own privacy, and was never a friend to biography. Personal enquiries were answered tersely, if more or less accurately. Almost all his letters home were burned, according to his wife – and after his death she herself carefully destroyed those he had written later to her,¹ while Doughty himself replied with horror to an apparently harmless request for a picture of himself for a book on Arabian travel. ‘I have not such a photograph in the world. I may be allowed to say it would be rather contrary to my perhaps now old-fashioned ideas to see a portrait of myself, a private person, in a published book.’²

It is another dimension of his loneliness, the desire for privacy stretching beyond his immediate surroundings. For all its shortcomings, and often despite Doughty himself, the diary offers a rare first-hand, contemporaneous account of three formative years of the life of this determinedly ‘private person’.

It is often little more than a collection of jottings, much like the notebooks he later filled as he wandered through the Arabian desert, with words repeated, sentences unfinished, and judgements half-formed – and yet it still shows the first stirrings of his own writing style, with its incisive, familiar images, its occasional pomposities, and its striving for a proper, judicious scientific detachment.

For the next three and a half years, following his travels is a matter of picking up snippets from letters which were often written years afterwards, references in his later works, grudging notes of his memories in old age. Not until he sets off into the Arabian desert with the Hadj caravan and begins once again to keep a detailed notebook will there be so precise a record of the growth of the writer’s mind.

In the spring and summer of 1873 he based himself in Athens, ‘gypsying’ around the countryside, as he put it – staying at lodging houses or occasionally sleeping under the stars.

A few memories from those days surfaced later as vivid markers in his writings. In The Dawn in Britain, for example, he would describe how the Gauls, in their ill-fated assault on Delphi, were led through the mountains above the Oracle by Thracian guides until they reached the

… parting of two ways, from the cliff-steeps,

Where, of some antique hero, shines white tomb.³

The aching cold of the lonely mountain wanderer is remembered in Doughty’s description of the Gauls encamped on the inhospitable Greek hillside as the snow begins to fall.

Brennus and few lords with him, founden hath

Uncertain shelter, the wild eaves of craigs;

Whereunder, hunger-starved, when fallen this night,

And without fire, they daze, with stiffened joints … ⁴

He was alone, travelling light, and still without most of his books. The passionate devotion to his ‘studies’ was now firmly behind him; his priority the ruins on the ground rather than the words on the page.

On the other side of the Bosphorus the archaeologist J. T. Wood showed him how those ruins could be brought to life. At the ancient Greek site of Ephesus, Wood was painstakingly revealing the remains of the Temple of Artemis. Doughty was spellbound: the history of Ephesus itself formed an imaginative bridge between his own various interests. The temple linked it with the sites of ancient Greece he had just been visiting; there was the Christian foundation of St Paul to involve his sense of religious history, and the story of the destruction of the city by the Goths in the third century to excite his interest as a student of the tribes of northern Europe.

Stone by stone, the temple was emerging from the ground. Wood, standing with his wife in the middle of the excavation, and sketching out on a sheet of The Times possible designs and elevations of the way it might once have looked, readily rebuilt it in his imagination for his fascinated guest.

Doughty’s earlier experiences at Hoxne had hardly prepared him for anything like this. The diggings had been going on for ten years already, and he had never seen work on such a scale before. It was a foretaste of the imposing ruins he would see over the next few months and years.

Having reached Ephesus, on the Asian side of the Aegean, his taste for archaeology fired by Wood, he must have thought it would be as easy to go on towards the Holy Land as to go back towards Europe. After all, England held few attractions for a thirty-one-year-old scholar of uncertain expectations – no home, no close family ties, no career, and only the uninviting prospect of a slightly shabby and threadbare life of genteel poverty.

He described himself later as ‘interested in all that pertains to Biblical research’,⁵ and it would have been very like Doughty to want to be able to place the books of the Old and New Testaments in a physical context for himself. But he was still not planning any extensive journeys among the Arabs: his taste of Islamic culture in North Africa and Spain remained just another element in the general experience of his travelling.

On he went, towards the Promised Land. Years later, he sketched out an itinerary for his wife – Latakia, Tripoli, Beirut, Sidon, Tyre and Acre, the route of scores of tramp steamers carrying freight and passengers from port to port. At Sidon and Tyre he collected some Roman mosaic tiles, later presented to the Ashmolean Museum at Oxford – but it seems likely that Doughty abandoned his ‘gypsying’ at least for a while to travel by sea. From Acre, though, he told his wife that he set out on foot again, on the slow journey to Jerusalem. Now he was travelling along roads he had read about and been told about since his infancy, through a landscape where the place-names rang with the sounds and rhythms of the Authorized Version.

But the only brief glimpses of Doughty coming face to face with the realities of the traditions he had drunk in so avidly come through occasional references written down years later in Travels in Arabia Deserta. As he set out with the Hadj the following year on his way south to Medain Salih, for instance, his attention was drawn to the devout Persian pilgrims just starting their journey.

These men, often red-bearded and red dye-beards, of a gentle behaviour, much resemble, in another religion, the Muscovite Easter pilgrims to Jerusalem. And these likewise lay up devoutly of their slender thrift for many years before, that they may once weary their lives in this great religious voyage … ⁶

It is easy to picture the tall, retiring Doughty, red-bearded himself, watching intently from a distance as the Russian Christians arrived in the narrow streets of Jerusalem, amazed at their fanaticism and yet admiring their devoutness. Their great voyage was over; his was yet to begin.

Doughty’s travels during the next two and a half years took him through Gaza to Egypt, from where he struck out into the Sinai peninsula on a three-month expedition, before making his way back north towards Damascus.

With Bedouin guides, I wandered on through most of that vast mountainous labyrinthine solitude of rainless valleys, with their sand-wind burnished rocks and stones, and in some of them, often strangely-scribbled Nabataean cliff inscriptions – the names, the saws, the salutations of ancient wayfarers.⁷

In Europe he had been a man alone, travelling through a landscape and a cultural environment that were often well-known, but which did not engage his imagination. Here, paradoxically, the strangeness and unfamiliarity of the desert brought him a new sense of fellowship. The man who found human society so hard to deal with felt himself one with a small and select band of travellers, their ‘names, saws, and salutations’ passed down to him over the centuries.

It was a crucial time, bringing together his studies of geology, of language, and of the people of the region. The formation of the landscape, the development of words, the derivation of names and the roots of a popular culture could all be seen more starkly and clearly in this unchanging world than had been the case in Europe.

While Doughty notes occasional Roman remains in Jerash and Amman, and finds echoes of Greek tradition in the Nabataean carvings,⁸ he is moving all the time deeper into an unknown world, a culture whose roots were neither Greek nor Roman. But there was one ever-present link. The Bible, which he carried with him both in his pack and in his head, provided him with a constant reference point, a textbook of how the region had been centuries before. There is clear delight in the Travels whenever he manages to relate the ruins or the landscapes he found to the stories of the Old Testament, like the carved stone water-tanks he saw around Hebron and the Dead Sea – where King Uzziah was said to have ‘built towers in the desert and digged many wells’ for his cattle.⁹

Sometimes, the bland censoriousness of the young man who had left Belgium shows through: he can show the petulance of any traveller disappointed by what he sees, with a bad-tempered and contemptuous belief that the world and the people have degenerated, that the buildings he finds are monuments to a long-past golden age beyond the reach of ‘these squalid Arabs’. There was often a wry contrast between the lush poetic beauty of the ancient verses and the everyday reality of the present. In Hesban, for instance, he came upon the ruins of the biblical city of Heshbon – the same place that the poet of the Song of Solomon had seen before him. There … is a torrent-bed and pits, no more those fish-pools as the eyes of love, cisterns of the doves of Heshbon, but cattle-ponds of noisome standing water.’¹⁰

The poetry, evidently, had seeped away over the centuries. Now, his imagination was fired by the links between past and present – the continuity imposed by the lives of the people on ruins which seemed to speak only of mortality.

The thread was often personal, like the carvings of Sinai which seemed to be addressed to him as one of a small band of desert travellers. Or it could be linguistic – he wondered, for instance, whether the ruins of Lejun, ‘a four-square limestone-built walled town’ in the desert, could be all that was left of an outlying Roman military station, with its name a corruption of the Latin legio. But there is, crucially, an introduction for Doughty to the unchanging nature of nomad life, a sense that while buildings may crumble, human life goes on: at the same broken-down walls and arches of Lejun, he saw a small Arab encampment.

Beduin booths were pitched in the waste outside the walls; the sun was setting and the camels wandered in of themselves over the desert, the housewives of the tents milked their small cattle. By the ruins of a city of stone they received me, in the eternity of the poor nomad tents, with a kind hospitality.¹¹

It is the tents, not the stone walls, that achieve immortality. One of the first things he notices later, when he reaches the ruins of Medain Salih, is the way that the stones lining the well, still used by the travelling Arabs, are scored by the ropes of generations of beduin, hauling up their water. ‘Who’, he asks, ‘may look upon the like without emotion?’

His search for ancient remains was almost obsessive: the Arabs, he said impatiently, were ‘too supine and rude’ to work out how many ruins there were, but in two days’ riding near the town of Kerak he claimed to have visited about forty separate sites. There were disappointments, of course – sites with carvings and inscriptions that he was unable to find, and others that he decided were not worth the visit – but it was among these ruins that he began to form his views of the Semitic culture and the Semitic people.

These travels also helped, incidentally, in forming his estimate of the value of oral evidence: some stories, like some sites, were worth more than others. At the Roman site of Jerash, he was told, there was the grave of the Islamic prophet Hud – who, he added tartly, ‘lies buried in more places in Arabia’. There was the now-sanctified Alexander the Great, whose body was to be found – ‘if you will believe them’ – under a heap of stones at Rabbath Moab; and at Kerak he was shown the sepulchre of Noah – ‘who is, notwithstanding buried, at great length, in other places’. Later, as he travelled through Arabia, he was to hear stories of the miracles he was supposed to have performed himself, lifting huge boulders with a single touch of his fingers – ‘and yet at such times I was sleeping, encamped with the Aarab,^* nearly half a mile distant …’¹²

But it was not only old wives’ tales about famous graves that aroused Doughty’s scepticism. Travelling around the Holy Land was further undermining the foundations of his belief, which had already been so dangerously chipped away by his scientific studies. Everywhere, he saw the impossibility of accepting much that he had read for years in his Bible.

He liked to use the Bible as a historical guide, and he was not afraid to test its assertions against science and logic. His own slow progress across the desert set him thinking about the exodus of the Jews from Egypt – two and a half million people, six million camels and seven million cattle. When he asked whether even the whole of Sinai, the worst pasture in the world, could have kept them alive, it was no more than the sort of question that scientists had already started asking of the Scriptures – but Doughty’s presence there in the desert lent it a new point and strength. On all sides, his religion was under attack.

He saw, too, the frequent gulf between faith and human kindness, and the way that religious fanaticism could actually shrivel up ordinary, decent humanity. The man whose faith had already been shaken by his studies in libraries and laboratories was now seeing it put under further strain by his own experience in the world.

There was little enough emotional support from the Greek Christians who lived among the Arabs – a ‘lickdish peasant priest’ at Kerak and his congregation, for instance, among whom Doughty found no evidence of sanctity or a Christian life. ‘To the stronger Muslims I would sooner resort, who are of frank mind and, more than the other, fortified with the Arabian virtues,’ he commented.¹³ It was a telling condemnation from a man who was later to be criticized for his unbending attitude towards the faith of his Muslim hosts.

But he had no illusions about the generosity and humanity of the devout Muslims either. Later, when he set off with the Hadj, he would see a dying beggar by the wayside, ignored by the passing pilgrims, but then picked up and helped by one of Doughty’s own servants, ‘a valiant outlaw, no holy-tongue man, but of human deeds’.¹⁴ In another bitter moment, he exploded: ‘Religion is a promise of good things to come, to poor folk, and many among them are half-destitute persons. Oh what contempt in religions of the human reason!’¹⁵

In both comments he was speaking specifically about Islam, ‘the dreadful-faced harpy of their religion’ – but his choice of words is significant. It was not only Islam, but religion as a whole, that seemed to have failed.

His quarrel, in fact, was with neither Islam nor Christianity, but with the rigidity of both; his respect, then as always, for the relation between the individual and God. The Hadj might be, as he suggested, a cruel deception practised on the guileless pilgrims; perhaps there was nothing but contempt due to the more ostentatiously devout among them and their ‘loathsome washings’. But their patience, their determination, their religious stamina, could only impress him. ‘There are very few who faint: the Semitic nature, weak and quick metal, is also of a wonderful temper and longsuffering in God,’ he wrote.¹⁶

For the first time in his travels his interests started to encompass the welfare and the day-to-day life of the people among whom he was living. Where before he showed no interest in the politics of the countries through which he was travelling, he now noticed indignantly the debilitating effect of the incompetence, inefficiency and corruption of the tottering Ottoman empire. ‘The name of the Sultan’s government is a band of robbers,’ he wrote.¹⁷

At least some of the barren land, he suggested, could be reclaimed for crops, much as the Arabs ploughed the soil around their villages to eke out a scanty living. Towns and villages, deserted for centuries, might easily be reoccupied: in the ruined city of Umm Jemal he walked through narrow streets and courts choked with giant weeds, his sandals soft on the basalt slabs underfoot. The stone-built houses still had their roofs and walls intact; only the people were missing. ‘The “old desolate places” are not heaps and ruins, but carcases which might return to be inhabited under a better government: perhaps thus outlying, they were forsaken in the Mohammedan decay of Syria, for the fear of the Beduins,’ he wrote, with a touching faith in the power of strong government.¹⁸ It was, he said, only the lack of such strength and determination that stood in the way: the impoverished Ottoman empire was unable even to pay the wages of its soldiers, or to repair the roads and bridges which were falling into ruin.

The European powers, of course, were only too anxious to make what profit they could from the Ottoman empire. For several decades would-be entrepreneurs had cast a greedy eye on the underdeveloped Ottoman wastes: the historian Sir Edward Creasy was only one voice among many when he predicted, ‘With improved internal government, European capital will be poured into Turkey, and will enrich the land where it is employed … the busy hum of European industry will increase and find innumerable echoes …’¹⁹ That was the optimistic prediction of the 1850s; what had happened in fact was that heavy borrowing and spending in European markets had bankrupted the empire by the mid 1870s.

But while Doughty was a fervent patriot and a dedicated nationalist, he was never an imperialist. He had little interest in the growth of empire for its own sake, and none of the exaggerated estimation of many empire-builders of the abilities of his countrymen. He for one saw little prospect of wealth for either side in talk of western settlers taking over the land. There was, he said, no reason to suppose that the first generation of European settlers would be any more successful than the Arabs in tilling the desert, while succeeding generations would be moulded by the environment in which they lived. ‘Were not the sending of such colonists to Syria, as the giving of poor men beds to lie on, in which others had died of the pestilence?’²⁰

As word of his wandering spread, Doughty was becoming something of a legend among the Arabs: a European Christian traveller, with an unaccountable interest in unregarded ruins and old carvings, and an insatiable appetite for anything fellow-travellers, villagers or wanderers on the road could tell him about their life. The Arabs with whom he travelled told him that the region had hardly been seen by Europeans, despite its moderate climate and plentiful water; if he encountered occasional suspicion and hostility, he appears to have been treated much of the time with a sort of amused acceptance. Mohammed Aly, later to be his unpredictable host at Medain Salih, was one of a number of people whom he met during this period; so too was Mohammed Said, the Kurdish pasha who was in charge of the Hadj caravan which Doughty eventually joined. The latter, Doughty boasted, had ‘known me a traveller in the lands beyond Jordan, and took me for a well-affected man that did nothing covertly’.²¹ It was to prove a useful, as well as a creditable, reputation.

In Sinai he found a naked country, its rocky mountains camouflaged by neither vegetation nor soil, and the memory stayed with him through his life, to surface in his last years, in the poem Mansoul.

An austere soil is that …

Whose bald, sun-bleached, gaunt untrod mountain rocks

Stand, like some bone-work of a former earth … ²²

The memory is geological in its scale, and there is also a sense of a lost, disappeared world – a sense that is reinforced by the few mysterious traces of human life.

Doughty was on a lonely track south of Suez, heading for an old Greek Christian monastery, when he saw what seemed to be a strange stone cottage, its doorway blocked up with rocks and brushwood. An ageing Arab camel-driver barred his way. ‘I would have removed some sticks to look in, but the old Beduin cameleer made signs with the hand … that men lay therein, stark upon their backs with closed eyes, and with the other, he stopped his nostrils …’²³

His curiosity had taken him to the doorway of a bedu burial chamber, one of dozens of round, stone-built huts he found huddled together in little groups in the most barren and secluded parts of the region.

Later he described them as ‘mosquito huts’, supposedly built by the former inhabitants of Sinai for protection through the night from swarms of insects. In reality, neither he nor the Arabs who were travelling with him had any idea of their original purpose, their age, or who had built them, but they caught his imagination as unchanged remnants of a distant past. ‘They could easily have been in existence for just a few years, or even a few centuries. I have a conjecture they could have been the huts of immigrants who had spread out across the entire Egyptian stretches of desert since the time of Antonius …’²⁴ As the bones of the landscape were naked to the eye, so too were the rare marks of man – not buried or ruined, not needing reconstruction like the buildings at Ephesus, but simply left behind on a barren landscape, among the

Inhuman silent solitude of sharp dust;

Wind-burnished stones and rocks.²⁵

And the feeling that nothing changed was reflected, too, in the few people who scratched a meagre living in Sinai. They lived along the Red Sea coast as they had done for centuries. Neither the lush imaginations of the Victorian orientalists nor even the poverty he had seen himself in North Africa can have prepared Doughty for this glimpse of timeless Arab hardship. ‘These people had neither clothing nor a roof for protection: in the main they live miserably from the food which they can fish or gather from along the shore. The Arabs rightly put down their dark skin colour to their perpetual hunger and nakedness.’²⁶

Even in the grim hierarchy of suffering that Arab life represented. these nomadic fishermen must have been near the bottom. Later, as he travelled with the bedu tribesmen, Doughty would focus upon the life and the culture that could lie behind hardship; here, no doubt still feeling himself to be the detached European traveller studying a strange and savage people, he saw no further than their grinding poverty.

It was here in Sinai that his search for the roots of humanity really began. The landscape, the mysterious buildings, even the people themselves, showed little sign of having been changed by the centuries: here for the first time he could see the perspective that his travels would offer of the origins of human life. The search for the distant history of Arabia, he believed, would help to supply an answer to the question which Isaiah had posed in the Bible, and which rang in his mind: ‘What was that old human kindred which inhabited the land so long before the Semitic race? Does not the word of Isaiah come to our hearts concerning them? … “What was the rock whence ye were hewn, and the hole of the pit whence ye were digged?’”²⁷

Most of his notes from Sinai deal with the geology and the structure of the region: to an even greater extent than elsewhere on his travels, this was a land where history could be read in the rocks and stones, and picked up from the occasional ruins of human habitation. But that history was clear, the links between past and present undisguised. Within this bare, forgotten and cruel land could be found not only the ancient soul of Arabia, but also the first clues to the origins of human civilization.

In the spring of 1875 Doughty left Sinai, apparently without much regret, making his way north through the complex system of wadis and granite cliffs towards Aqaba and on through the biblical land of Edom to Damascus. With him were an Egyptian and a bedu guide, fellow-travellers on a journey where every encounter with the tribesmen could mean either mortal danger, or the warmest of welcomes.

The town of Maan,²⁸ which was their first destination, lay at the edge of a desolate plain, covered with flints and stones, with no shelter from the wind or the beating sun. Here, in a dip in the ground, they waited nervously until nightfall before setting out across the open country to the town. His two companions, more alive to the dangers of the route than Doughty was, warned that any passing group of nomads might now be a threat: their only safety lay in hiding until dusk. It was midnight before they arrived at the town. ‘The place lay all silent in the night. We rode in at the ruinous open gateway and passed the inner gate, likewise open, to the suk: there we found benches of clay and spread our carpets upon them, to lodge in the street.’²⁹ Doughty’s plan now was to travel on to Petra, the Nabataean city which had been made famous by the young Swiss explorer Johann Ludwig Burckhardt³⁰ more than sixty years before. This, surely, would be the climax of his painstaking studies of ruined settlements and inscriptions. ‘I had then no other intention than to see Petra. I could speak very little Arabic, not having before studied the history of those countries,’ he wrote later.³¹

The ancient rock city was only five hours’ ride away, and he set off eagerly, past another ruined site, long stripped of its white marble pavements by the rich traders of Damascus, and on through the outlying cornfields of Maan – fields where the desert met the sown, in Gertrude Bell’s later phrase, and where the farmers had no choice but to offer half their crops to the bedu as a bribe for an untroubled life.

How would the local Arabs react to the arrival of this mysterious red-bearded European, riding a mule and wearing an Ottoman-style red tarboosh, who demanded to see the ancient sites that they still treated with a degree of near-religious respect? At first the tribesmen at the village of Eljy demanded money to let him through to the ruins; then he was treated with suspicion as a possible spy, and finally entertained to a meal of mutton boiled in buttermilk. The meal, as Doughty was to discover later, was significant: once he had been entertained to food and drink by the tribesmen, once he had shared their ‘bread and salt’, he was protected by the laws of hospitality.

The track down to the monuments, he noted with an English country gentleman’s fine sense of bathos, ran though ‘limestone downs and coombs … like the country about Bath’; but from there, among the red sandstone cliffs, he could make out the palatial columns and cornices of the Nabataean city. Burckhardt must have been faced with the same intriguing panorama when he scrambled over the track years before.

At closer quarters it was a world of contradictions: grandiose two-storey facades which fronted nothing but plain, uncarved caves, hacked out of the rock face; a town where the houses had vanished and only the empty tombs in the rock remained.

It was initially courage, resourcefulness and good luck that had brought Burckhardt there; then learning and intelligence that made him realize that the ruins were indeed those of the fabled city of Petra. He had been alerted to their existence in the Wadi Mousa by the casual talk of local people, as he travelled south towards Maan and, disguised as a Muslim traveller from India, he had decided to risk his life by trying to see them for himself. It was much the same decision as Doughty would have taken – except that Burckhardt had his disguise and a story he had concocted about a vow to sacrifice a goat at the nearby Tomb of Aaron to explain his presence. Doughty made no pretences: he simply told the curious, occasionally hostile villagers that he wanted to see the ruins.

Perhaps it was the red tarboosh that persuaded the Arabs to let him through: despite its crumbling power, the Ottoman empire still wielded considerable influence in the region, and the hat may have reinforced Doughty’s own claim to have powerful friends. However vehemently the villagers protested their independence, they would have been unwilling to try to outface the authority of the Dowla, the Ottoman government. But, after a night spent in caves in the rocky face on the outskirts of Petra, there were still other locals to stand in the way: one group of four with a gun grabbed the bridle of Doughty’s mule, and refused to let him through unless they were given money; another goatherd, looking after his flocks with his wife, warned him to keep off the mountain slopes, for fear of attack. Fifty armed men, the Arab warned, would not be enough to protect him against the angry villagers if he tried to climb out of the valley.

In the valley-bottom, though, they found the long, deep cleft through the rocks known as the Siq, a natural passage-way through groves of wild olives to the carvings – and at the end of it, the Khasneh, the so-called Treasure House of the Pharaoh, the most perfect of the monuments. It was no disappointment: its ‘sculptured columns and cornices are pure lines of a crystalline beauty without blemish, whereupon the golden sun looks from above, and Nature has painted that sand-rock ruddy with iron-rust’.³²

Ignoring the villagers’ warnings, they climbed out of the valley to the cold mountainside, and found a place to stay for the night in a bedu encampment, where they were entertained with music and singing (enough, said Doughty ungratefully, to ‘move our yawning or laughter’) before spending another day at the monuments. Leaving his mule at the Treasure House, Doughty set off with another local guide to explore the carvings and inscriptions until, as the sun set, the anxious young Arab urged him to leave. It was not clear whether he was more afraid of the marauding bedu or of the angry spirits of Petra. His plan was to spend the night back at his own village, where Doughty had been entertained three nights before – but when the villagers there heard the sound of the mule’s hoofs on the rocky track, they poured out of their houses to drive them away. No unbeliever should enter the place, they shouted – and the man who had tried to bring him was reviled as ‘Abu Nasrany’, father of Christians. They were forced back up into the hills, back to the bedu encampment they had left earlier.

Doughty did not seem to care what happened to his guide. For him, the attack by the villagers was little more than an exciting interlude, an introduction to the unpredictable hostility of the tribesmen. But the visit to Petra had given a fresh dimension to his travels. While the mosquito huts of Sinai spoke of a primitive people struggling to survive, these grandiose carvings – reduced now to ‘night-stalls of the nomads’ flocks and blackened with the herdsmen’s fires’³³ – were the remnants of a long-vanished prosperous race of builders, traders and merchants. It was there, in the shadows of ‘that wild abysmal place which is desolate Petra’,³⁴ that Doughty’s dreams of discovering another civilization were born.

During the long nights on the mountainside above Petra the villagers had let slip details of just such another civilization. There were, they said, similar sites further south down the Hadj road, on the way to Mecca. It was the first mention Doughty had heard of a second Petra – and it had come to him in much the same casual way as had Burckhardt’s initial information about the first one. At first the villagers were unwilling to talk about the sites, particularly to a curious European Christian, but they assumed that Doughty had arrived from the south, and must already know about them.

There were several separate sites, known as Medain Salih – the cities of Salih, a Muslim prophet, who was said to have destroyed them and their inhabitants because of their wickedness. Each one was hewn from the solid rock like Petra. Doughty’s immediate thought was that he might be the first European to document those remains.

And in Maan there was more to be learned: a secretary named Mahmud – ‘a literate person who had been there oftentimes’ – told him about the inscriptions and the carved birds on the massive stone facades. ‘With those words, Mahmud was the father of my painful travels in Arabia,’ he noted later.³⁵

The cities were well within the reach of a determined traveller – some ten days’ travel, according to the people whom Doughty asked. He wanted to set off south at once to see whether the stories he had heard were accurate – attracted, initially at least, by the possibility that the ruined cities might be connected with the stories of the Old Testament. ‘I mused at that time it would be some wonder of Moses’ Beduish nation [of] Midian,’ he wrote some years later. ‘For those inscriptions which might yield fruit to our Biblical studies, I thought it not too much to adventure my life.’³⁶

Other stories of the Arabian hinterland that may well have been intended to warn him off simply increased his fascination – stories of a cruel and powerful prince, who ruled over his desert kingdom as both tyrant and lawgiver. ‘All the next land of wilderness was ruled by one Ibn Rashid, a mighty prince of Beduin blood, who lorded it over the tribes … I thought I had as lief see his Beduin court, and visit some new David or Robin Hood, as come threading these months past all the horrid mountain mass of Sinai,’ he said later.³⁷ Here, surely, there would be more to fire his imagination than he had found in Europe.

But his first attempts to join the pilgrimage that might start his journey there were rebuffed: the Ottoman governor of Maan, well aware that he might be held responsible if anything were to happen to this headstrong European in the harsh country of the desert bedu, forbade townsmen and travellers alike to help him find a way down the Pilgrim Road.

The only way of reaching Medain Salih, the governor said, would be to accompany the Hadj caravan from Damascus – a suggestion which was clearly a way of fobbing off this importunate Christian.

The governor’s caution was understandable: from his point of view, it was the worst possible time to have a European Christian who claimed the highest political connections setting out on such a dangerous and unpredictable venture. Within the past few months tension had been growing throughout the Ottomans’ Balkan possessions, and both the Russian Tsar and the western powers were making threatening noises about the need to protect the Sultan’s non-Muslim subjects from the excesses of their masters.

In Constantinople Sultan Abdul Aziz was clinging to power by anxiously playing off Russians against Europeans. Allowing Doughty to wander through the wilder corners of the empire would risk demonstrating how feeble was the Sultan’s grasp on the extremities of his dominions – and if he were to come to harm, it might provoke an anti-Ottoman cause célèbre in the West. Any provincial governor who caused such a diplomatic disaster merely to oblige an eccentric traveller with a penchant for ancient inscriptions would surely attract the unwelcome attentions of the Sultan’s stranglers.

So Doughty spent twenty frustrating days in Maan, becoming well known in the streets and coffee houses, as he tried to glean more information about the monuments of Medain Salih. He also took to wandering through the flint beds just outside the tumbledown clay wall around the town, where he found traces of still earlier inhabitants than those of Petra. Lying near the surface, to his astonishment, were seven flint tools, chipped to a sharp edge. It was a tribute to Doughty’s own powers of observation, sharpened at the archaeological site of Hoxne all those years before, that he recognized them. They were another imaginative link with people from centuries before. ‘We must suppose them of rational, that is an human labour. But what was that old human kindred which inhabited the land so long before the Semitic race?’³⁸

They were, indeed, from long before the Semitic race, some of them dating back to Lower Palaeolithic times, hundreds of thousands of years before the appearance of modern man. Forty years later Doughty presented the axes, amongst other trophies, to Oxford University’s Ashmolean Museum – and along with them, incidentally, his own clumsy effort to copy the craftsmen of prehistory.

Today they shine dully in shades of green, brown, and grey, still fitting snugly into the palm of the hand, still sharp along the chipped edges, but each one now carrying a precise little note, in Doughty’s schoolmasterly hand, to say where it was found.

‘They were certainly a significant find – they wouldn’t have seen many pieces like this in Britain in 1915,’ says Alison Roberts, the collections manager in the museum’s Department of Antiquities. ‘Not much was known about the Palaeolithic era in Syria or the Near East at that time, and most European archaeologists would have been as excited as Doughty himself to see them. The writing on them is interesting too – it shows Doughty was a very careful, conscientious collector. A lot of people weren’t, in those days.’

When he found them, though, Doughty’s attention was fixed on Medain Salih. Everything he heard simply whetted his appetite more keenly: the cities lay close together near the pilgrim trail, about halfway between Maan and Medina, their rock chambers like those he had already seen at Petra, but bigger – and every doorway had an inscription and the figure of a falcon or an eagle, wings outspread, carved over it. However close the links with Petra, he believed there was every chance that he might find the remains of a previously unknown desert civilization.

He used all his powers of persuasion with the governor. Although the journey would be difficult and dangerous, he argued, it would not take him into the area of the two Holy Cities which were forbidden to non-Muslims on pain of death. But it was useless: the governor had clearly decided not to take the responsibility of allowing him to make the journey. He would have to travel north to Damascus and try to find more powerful backing.

So, after failing to get permission in Maan, he set off for Damascus. Eager as he was, he does not seem to have hurried on his journey.³⁹ He spent several months wandering through the countryside, adding to his collection of inscriptions and stories of the region’s biblical past. It was hard travelling, often with nothing more than a night under the stars in the shelter of a few rocks at the end of the day – but it took Doughty deep into the history of the ancient land. He found a chain of old watch-towers and fortresses stretching a hundred miles or so into the desert, each one with its own story – one was ‘a kasr of the old Yehud’, a castle of the ancient Jews; another was reported to be a palace, and a third, scattered with broken columns, and with a massive marble stairway leading from the deserted entrance hall, now no more than the den of some wild beast.

There were silent piles of stones still standing where they had been painstakingly gathered in long-abandoned fields; entire towns and villages, ruined and deserted, which seemed to date back hundreds of years.

The ruins … are built without mortar, with the uncanny natural blocks of flintstone and limestone. There are even, in several of the remains of the regular buildings, foundation walls, vaults, and round arches made of square carved stones which on appearance might have been made by Roman hands – column pieces, marble fragments, etc …⁴⁰

The villages that were still inhabited bore a striking resemblance to the ruins in their design and construction: in the past, Doughty’s guides told him, this had been a thriving farming region, which had been laid waste years before by a bedu sheikh. Myth, history, or a combination of the two, the awestruck stories told by the Arab farmers bore witness to the dread they still felt of the half-savage nomadic tribes who could descend upon them so suddenly and so brutally. Fear, too, could survive almost unchanged down the generations.

Sometimes, Doughty paid an Arab guide to accompany him on his way; where he had to, he travelled alone, trusting to his luck and his ability to talk his way out of trouble. But whenever possible he fell in with other travellers going on the same track: there were stories to be heard along the way, and some safety to be found in numbers. As he left Maan, for instance, he joined the military captain of the Hadj road and twenty or so of his peasant soldiers, on their way to Nablus. They were well enough armed to frighten off any casual groups of bedu tribesmen they might meet – but he still had to rely on his own wits rather than on the loyalty of his companions. On one occasion, threatened by a group of nomads, he resorted to a straightforward bluff, and shouted orders to the men to arrest them, as if he were a military commander. The soldiers, of course, who had anyway not been paid for nearly a year and a half, were even less likely to obey him than their own captain – but the Arabs didn’t know that, and they rode off in panic from the scruffy little troop and their guns.

It was now June, and the countryside was blooming. Doughty had reflected as he left Maan on how the land must indeed have seemed to flow with milk to the Israelites as they trekked wearily out of the wastes of Sinai. Now he found rose-laurel and rushes growing in profusion around the cattle pools, swollen with the spring rain; the grass was a yard high, and the corn growing fat. The bedu he met were turning their cattle loose on some of the richest pasture of the year, and, unpredictable as ever, they were happy to slaughter a sheep for dinner in honour of their guest.

He paused briefly in the town of Kerak, a rough settlement with a bloody history of wars and conquests, which had the air of a frontier town, where criminals and murderers could seek refuge from the stern justice of the Ottoman empire. The countryside round about was dotted with ruined forts, towers and villages, but he did not linger. It was still June when he was a good hundred miles further north, wading up to his waist in the tepid waters of Wadi Zerka, as they tumbled towards the river Jordan.

The biblical land of Gilead, through which he passed on the way to Jerash and Damascus, sounds like a paradise, ‘full of the balm-smelling pines, and the tree laurel sounding with the sobbing sweetness and the amorous wings of doves! In all paths are blissful fountains; the valley heads flow down healing to the eyes with veins of purest water’.⁴¹ For all that, though, it remained outside the law. The people, ‘uncivil and brutish, not subject to any government’, slashed and burned the woodland as if they were living in some remote rainforest: it was a grim and primitive land.

All the time, he was becoming more familiar with the Arab way St Mary’s Church, Martlesham, Suffolk: ‘The atmosphere of the simple little church, its unimpeachable, unassuming Englishness and its dignified reserve, reflect one facet of his character.’ of life and culture, even though he had yet to learn more than a smattering of the language. The wild bedu, still largely unknown and untrusted, seemed to people an uncivilized world in which they made their own law, while on the desert fringes the hard-working farmers and traders eked out a living that seemed to have been unchanged for centuries. ‘These desert men lean to the civil life, and are such yeomen perhaps as Esau was. Other of their tribesmen I have seen, which are settled in tents, earing^* the desert sand near Gaza; their plough is a sharpened stake, shod with iron, and one plough-camel draught …’⁴²

But these industrious farmers, too, could turn on him in a moment. They distrusted foreigners and particularly those who, prying into ancient ruins, might prove to be spies. A European and a Christian in a strange land, either alone or with few companions, he was an easy target either for religious bigotry or simple banditry by farmers and nomads alike – the more so when he steadfastly refused to adopt a disguise or make up stories to justify his presence.

There had been his brush with the villagers around Petra; and there had been another incident south of Wadi Zerka when Doughty, sick and weak with his long travelling, was abandoned by his guide at a bedu encampment. At first he was well enough treated: the Arabs made at least a pretence of trying to find the guide who had deserted him, and gave him food and shelter. But they were moving on, they said, and after one night they delivered him to a second encampment.

There, Doughty found only women – and when the men returned later in the day, it was to threaten him, and demand a ransom in return for letting him go. It was a gross abuse of the laws of hospitality – but Doughty was becoming more skilled in the ways of handling the nomad tribesmen. First he protested that he had been given milk to drink by the women of the tribe, and should therefore be treated as a guest; and when that failed, he suggested that the leader of the group, Sheikh Faiz, should give him his horse in return for the ransom – one gift for another.

When Faiz’s mare was brought forward, though, he looked at it in disgust, and told the sheikh it was not even good enough to accept as a present. Faiz, presumably, was not particularly popular among the tribesmen; at any rate, they took Doughty’s side, and laughed at their leader’s discomfiture. Winning support with a pointed joke and a pained expression remained one of his favourite survival techniques.

He arrived in Damascus weary and sore. His six months in the deserts, the mountains and the wadis had been a completely different experience from anything that had gone before. Physically, it had been an exhausting and draining ordeal, struggling by camel and mule over some of the most inhospitable country in the world – but, more than that, he had been more alone, more exposed, than at any time in his life.

As well as his excitement at the prospect of finding the ruins of Medain Salih, he was finding aspects of daily life and culture among the Arabs that inspired his deep and lasting respect; but, for all his occasional sense of kinship with travellers who had gone before him, it was knowledge won against a background of remoteness and fear. In Europe, after all, he had been surrounded on his travels by the comforts and reassurances of a familiar way of life: even when he slept under the stars, it was within reach of people who shared his standards and values, people with whom he might enjoy a mutual understanding. When he trekked out into the desert of North Africa, it had been a brief excursion into a foreign land – and an excursion made still under a recognizable framework of European colonial law and authority.

Doughty may have lived as a poor traveller before, but it had been in a sympathetic world. His poverty, too, had been at least partly assumed – there had been times, as in Lisbon, where he could briefly drop back into the comfortable lifestyle of an Englishman of a certain class.

Here in the Bible lands he was isolated under the arbitrary and uncertain law of a cruel and largely hostile country, and travelling always on the fringes of what appeared to be a wasteland of lawless savagery. The familiarity which his biblical knowledge might have brought to the terrain often served simply to emphasize the gulf between the magnificence of the past and the squalid meanness of the reality. Physically and emotionally, Doughty remained a man alone.

There were, of course, occasions when he had been welcomed into the Arab tents, fed and entertained. The sheikhs who had killed sheep for him to eat and brought milk for him to drink might seem approachable, even welcoming. In the desert, though, and occasionally crossing his path threateningly, were the wandering bedu. He would learn more about them later – but for now they seemed to represent the very heart of darkness.

But if Doughty’s travels had revealed how terrifying life could become without the reassurance of the rule of law, Damascus showed how frustrating the rules and restrictions of officialdom could be. Doughty had been told in Maan that the Hadj caravan might lead him to Medain Salih; but in Damascus, when he asked the Wali, the Ottoman governor of Syria, for permission to accompany the pilgrims, he was fobbed off. The Wali asked the British consul, a career diplomat and Middle East specialist named Thomas Sampson Jago, for his advice, but the consul wanted nothing to do with Doughty or his impetuous plans. ‘He had as much regard of me, would I take such dangerous ways, as of his old hat. He … told me it was his duty to take no cognisance of my Arabian journey, lest he might hear any word of blame, if I miscarried.’⁴³

The governor in Maan had refused to take responsibility; the Wali in Damascus had refused to take responsibility; and now the British consul was refusing to take responsibility. They hoped that this foolish and importunate Englishman would go away and forget his dangerous obsession with Medain Salih, but Doughty kept on pestering them. In what was no doubt another effort to brush him aside, the Wali told him that only an official firman or permit from the Sultan himself would gain him acceptance with the pilgrim train.

But the British consulate, through which he would normally have applied for such a document, had washed its hands of him: Doughty would have to find another mediator and, with barely two months to go before the pilgrims would be gathering to depart, there was no time to be lost.

He had already written to the British Association seeking support; now he would approach the Royal Geographical Society to make representations on his behalf. There were also pressing reasons to leave Damascus for a while – there had been an outbreak of cholera in the city, and the troubles of the Ottoman empire had led to rumblings of anti-Christian feeling among the Muslim population. In addition, Doughty had given his brother Henry an address in Vienna where a letter might be left for him to collect. By travelling back into Europe, he might at the same time gather welcome news from home, speed his own message to London on its way, and also avoid a disease-ridden and unfriendly city. Tired as he was, he set off through the north gate of the city, turning his back at least for a while on the Arab world.

It was another hard journey, and Doughty gives a full account of it in one of the few letters from him that have survived. Writing to his brother from the Hotel Wandl after he arrived in Vienna, he described the inhumanity shown by the Turks in the Balkans. ‘I saw all their tithes of corn rotting in the fields – the barbarous paschas will have money, and the poor wretches have none to give, and offer them in kind as usual,’ he wrote. Hundreds of miles of good land were unfilled: ‘The Bulgarians are a people of cultivators; but they have not dared hitherto to occupy the land, afraid of the ferocity of the old Turks.’⁴⁴

What he saw awakened Doughty’s passionate interest in the social and political situation around him, both now and when he returned to Damascus. The Ottoman empire, the ‘disorderly Turkish domination’, was dying on its feet around him, with what he dismissed contemptuously as ‘a handful of degenerate Turks’ uneasily maintaining their rule over some five million Slavs. There was a tense, suspicious mood, with the poverty-stricken Muslims being forcibly conscripted to put down a revolt by Slav peasants in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Doughty himself, wandering through the countryside alone and on foot, was almost picked up as a suspected spy.

Instead of the camel and mule he had relied on to travel in Sinai and up the Jordan valley, he now enjoyed the relative luxury of steamships and, at least as far as the end of the line in Bulgaria, the railway. Elsewhere, rustic horse-drawn carts without springs kept up a brisk eighty miles a day, but offered little comfort over the bumpy roads: ‘The bridges only were bad, and often broken through in more than one or two places, but it was rough work … Sometimes I thought I should have vomited my heart as we dashed at some terrible stone. I stayed at the towns to recover a little,’ he wrote to Henry, far away in the remembered comforts of Theberton Hall.

But he was back in Europe, and there was a clear sense of relief. Restless and threatening as the atmosphere might be, it was still recognizably more like home than the foreign lands he had been travelling through. ‘The aspect of the country is wholly European – it is green and northern. The houses are built a la Franca with pitched roofs and chimneys, the populations mostly Christian,’ he wrote. And when he arrived in the then Hungarian capital of Pest on the Danube, he marvelled at the palatial buildings, the wide streets and the tramways. ‘I was surprised and astonished and pleased at such a new and advanced world,’ he said: eighteen months away had clearly sharpened his appetite for the more relaxed, familiar culture of the west.

They had also sharpened his memories of Theberton. There are few signs of homesickness in his journals, but the letter from home that was waiting for him at the post office in Vienna left him thinking wistfully of the life he had left behind. The renovations had apparently restarted in Theberton Hall, and Henry told him of a garden party and ball he was planning to hold there on 13 September – the very day that his brother collected the letter on the other side of Europe. ‘I calculated the hour an hundred times to think what you ought to be then doing. How could you have got on in the old Pict. Gallery, with a floor of earth and mortar! Finally I am settled here, my limbs ache, I am so weary, and my head also,’ Doughty wrote as he sat alone in his room at the Wandl. In a man who usually appeared so dignified and controlled, it is an appealing human moment of excited nostalgia.

But 13 September 1875 was too busy a day for him to spend much time moping over Theberton and the familiar social excitements of village life. In the same post as his letter home to Theberton he sent off a more formal message to the Royal Geographical Society in London, asking not only for the society’s help in obtaining an official pass from the Ottoman authorities, but also for a grant towards the cost of the expedition. Eight years later he would sit before the members of the society to hear its president, Sir Henry Rawlinson, describe him as being ‘in the front ranks of Asiatic travellers’ after his ‘adventurous and perilous journey’;⁴⁵ however, as he hurried hopefully to the Vienna post office, he was no more than an unknown supplicant, using every means he could think of to attract Sir Henry’s favourable attention.

He detailed the journey he had already made through Sinai and north to Damascus: already, he said, ‘without resources and with great fatigue’, he had established that the Sinai peninsula had been only recently raised from the sea; he had found more than 300 ruined cities and villages scattered across the region between Maan and Kerak; and he had personally gathered several specimens of ancient flint tools on the gravel plains to the east of Petra. Doughty, a continent away from London, had no way of finding out what were the special interests of the members of the society’s council: he was at pains to cast his net as widely as he could in order to catch at least somebody’s attention.

Most urgently of all, he told them what he had heard so far of Medain Salih, and what he could hope to find there.

Here are the traces of an unknown people, of inscriptions unknown. Of what interest they are, I think it is manifest. I wish shortly to go down with the pilgrims – they are jealous of that country, where they say no Frank has set foot. I have trusted to the R Geogr Society to obtain the firman necessary … My desire is to return immediately to go with the pilgrims to the discovery of these unknown cities and inscriptions.⁴⁶

He had, he said, worked with the society’s cooperation before, and he described his expedition to Norway.

I borrowed from the Socy. at the instance of Sir Rod. Murchison, President, a theodolite with which I measured the daily motions of several Norwegian glaciers, at which time I made other observations of interest to geologists that Sir Chas. Lyell, then preparing the last ed of his Principles, spontaneously visited me to make a number of enquiries and used my assistance largely in that part of his labours …

The word ‘largely’ is something of an exaggeration: whatever help the young graduate was to the eminent Lyell in his ground-breaking study was at best peripheral. But Doughty’s anxiety to impress and his desperation are clear in every hurried line and every dropped name. At last he had found a focus for his study which might win him recognition: as he travelled to Vienna from Damascus, he must have gone over and over the tempting prospect of Medain Salih in his mind. The hardships and the threat of disease he could cope with, but to get permission to set out at all he needed help – and he believed that he deserved it.

If the society could be persuaded to act quickly, a letter of recommendation might be obtained through the embassy at Constantinople within three weeks or so – thus neatly avoiding the unenthusiastic Mr Jago in Damascus. But after five years on the road Doughty was seeking more concrete help.

The cost of the expedition is too much for a man of slender income. I have hitherto lived as a traveller with the Arabs at a small expenditure, but the results are always less than they might have been with sufficient means, added to fatigues which might have been spared in that penetrating climate, a country now ravaged by cholera …

He had, he said, already asked the British Association for a contribution of £100, but his letter might have gone astray; would the Royal Geographical Society support him with one of its grants?

He signed the letter as formally, and as graciously, as he could – ‘I am Sir, hoping at some future time I may have the pleasure to know you, your obedt. servant, Charles M. Doughty, MA, Cambridge, of Theberton Hall, Suffolk.’ After his gruelling time as a despised, homeless wanderer, it was clearly time to play once again the part of a country gentleman of standing.

He submitted a report on his wanderings in Sinai, and on his hopes from Medain Salih, for the Viennese Geographical Society.⁴⁷ He wrote knowledgeably of the topography and geology of the region: the whole peninsula, he believed, had only recently been thrust up out of the sea, a parched land that had been formed by the buffeting and erosion of long-dried-up torrents of water and retreating tides.

But his real interest was in the mysterious ‘mosquito huts’, the ruins scattered through the mountains of Edom, and, best of all, the stories he had heard of the lost cave cities of Medain Salih. Doughty described with enthusiasm the discoveries he had already made about them at second-hand, through the tales of the Arabs he had met, and was frank about the urgency with which he wanted to set off to see them for himself. ‘I don’t doubt the existence of such towns; I’ve heard about them from about a hundred people, who … all report in the same fashion. They resemble the former cliff town Petra, and are of the same ilk, as if they had been built by the same master builders …’⁴⁸

He had been continuing his investigations into the lost settlements since he left Maan. In Damascus itself, and in the towns and villages along the way, he had heard the same stories – some fifteen or sixteen towns, some in the mountains and others hidden nearby in the desert, known only to the wandering Arabs.

He had, he claimed, ‘certain evidence’ – though it can have been little more than the hearsay of other travellers – that the carvings to be found there would prove to be ancient inscriptions, similar to those he had already sketched at Petra.

Doughty must have known that his chances of getting permission in time to join that year’s pilgrimage were slim. Even if the Royal Geographical Society had replied at once, with all the influence such an august body could muster, there would barely be time for the Ottoman functionaries in Constantinople to go through the formalities – and he had already discovered in Damascus how the official talent for prevarication could eat into the days and weeks.

But neither the Royal Geographical Society nor the British Association was interested in sponsoring his journey. Much of the area he was travelling had already been studied, and the rest was due to be surveyed during the next couple of years, they noted. And there was no urgency about their deliberations: Doughty never heard from the British Association at all, and by the time the RGS considered his letter in November, he was on his way back to Damascus.