Kipling’s poem about the lure of the exotic east, On The Road To Mandalay, is tremendously evocative but sitting here in Mandalay, I wish he’d done his homework instead of sitting scribbling in The Strand Hotel in Rangoon.
Being 700 miles up the Ayeyarwady River from the coast, there is no bay between it and China over which “the sun comes up like thunder”. And being on the eastern bank of the river, which is some half a mile across at this point, it is the sunsets which are particularly splendid.
Ah well. His prose still knocks mine into a cocked hat!