The Fortunate Isles: Life and Travel in Majorca, Minorca and Iviza

Many young men have to leave Minorca to seek their fortune elsewhere. I wonder if they return to that rocky island as they love to do to fertile Majorca.

Just as the siren blew the first warning, a fine well-built young Minorcan hastened up the long gangway. A male friend helped him to carry his substantial trunk, and three girls followed closely. They had barely time to bid him farewell – one with a lingering embrace, the others with a warm handshake, before the gangway was withdrawn and water was widening between the exile and his native land.

For a little space he allowed his feelings to govern him, and with quivering shoulders wept unrestrainedly into his handkerchief in the intervals of waving it. Then, when the boat had rounded the horn of the bay and the beautiful city was out of sight, he put away his handkerchief, lit a cigarette, and resolutely turned his face towards the land of promise.

There were no first-class passengers at all. Our commercial friends, taking possession of the after-deck, formed themselves into an impromptu concert party, the little man acting as conductor, as with admirable voices they sang popular choruses.

Two ladies had come on board; but the steward, taking our hint of the morning, had given them a small cabin to themselves, as doubtless they preferred, and had reserved the whole of the large ladies' cabin for us. So once again we knew the luxury of travelling second-class on a Balearic Island steamer!

The voyage was pleasantly uneventful, and not rough enough to disturb us. We awoke to find ourselves entering Palma harbour, and to see the lovely land bathed in the warm glow of sunrise.

Soon we were in a carruaje, waving farewell to the comerciantes as in a band they walked towards their hotel. A few minutes later we had reached Son Españolet, had passed the house of our friend the Consul with its flagstaff and gaily painted shields, and were back again under the homely roof of the Casa Tranquila.

XVIII

ALARÓ

The shutters of the Casa windows had been left open that the growing light might awaken us in time to catch the morning train to Alaró, where we had planned to spend the day with two friends from England.

Looking out while it was yet dark, we were conscious of a lowering sky. The pocket barometer had fallen two points, and for the first time in many weeks we felt that the downpour which appeared to be threatening would be unwelcome.

While we dressed, the rain began to fall sulkily. It had been agreed that if the morning opened wet the expedition would be deferred, and having had experience of the thoroughness of Majorcan rain, I was half inclined to take a gloomy view of the situation and stay at home. But the others pooh-poohed my fears and off we set.

The optimists proved to be right. When we entered the station at Palma the rain had ceased, and the sun shone out on the Squire and the Lady, who were in the act of alighting from the Grand Hotel omnibus.

The town of Alaró, which lies close to the base of the northern range of mountains, is connected by a light railway with the main line at Consell. Horses drag the single carriage up the slight gradient to Alaró; it returns by the force of its own impetus. At Consell the funny conveyance with its tandem horses was waiting to receive the passengers. It had probably begun its career of usefulness by being a tram-car in some other part of the world. Now a partition divided the interior into first and second classes.

Disregarding the suggestion of the driver, who followed to remind us that first-class was inside, we mounted to the top, where two long lines of seats were set back to back.

Our progress towards the still invisible town was slow. The efforts of the driver to induce the leading horse to put on speed by throwing stones at him happily proved unavailing. With something of the smooth motion of a boat on a canal we glided on through fields of lush grain in whose midst olives grew luxuriantly. The threatening clouds had vanished, the sun was warm, the play of light and shade on the mountains was glorious, and there was not a soul in sight. The deliberate mode of progress through the lovely country was so delightful that when the line ended abruptly where the town began we all felt sorry. We agreed that we would have been content to glide thus slowly onwards for hours.

But on alighting we found our interest in the surroundings for the time being subdued by a stronger and more insistent interest in food. Our seven o'clock breakfast had been necessarily scrappy and hurried, and our first concern was to find an inn.

The civil guard who had been awaiting the arrival of our car was at hand. Applied to for direction, he not only recommended a fonda, but in person escorted us there.

The fonda, which was close at hand, looked clean and inviting; but its mistress, overwhelmed by this sudden intrusion of five ravenous and unintelligible foreigners, eyed us dubiously. She did not know a word of Spanish, and her husband – who was evidently the linguist of the family – was at Inca market. As she gazed blankly at us her children, from the eldest – a pretty girl in a red frock – to the baby, clustered about her, their faces reflecting the bewilderment expressed in hers.

The fact that the youngsters looked round and rosy and that they all held little branches of mandarin oranges hinted that we had come to the right place for food. Hunger has a universal language. The landlady's blank expression gradually gave place to one of intelligence. Before we left her she had promised to have a meal ready at ten o'clock; and comforting ourselves with that assurance, we went out to stroll about until the half hour of waiting had passed.

Wandering through the streets of the little town and peeping in at the open doors with the unblushing effrontery peculiar to the Briton abroad, we were rewarded by glimpses of many quaint interiors. In one, beside an unclassable machine, a heap of the thick fleshy leaves of the chumbera (cactus) was lying.

The owner of the house, a man toothless and shrivelled, but endowed with that aspect and air of juvenility that seems the heritage of age in Majorca, cordially invited us in. He had no knowledge of Spanish, but he had what was far more valuable – a keen intelligence.

Indulging our curiosity as to the nature of the odd machine, he ran off to return with a handful of macaroni; then darting into the machine house, he reappeared with a perforated bowl of burnished copper, and by signs proceeded to explain the process of pressing the paste through.

"But the chumberas?" somebody asked. "Were they the food of the mule who drove the machine?"

The old man shook his head. Evidently the motive power was not supplied by a member of the ass tribe. Returning to pantomime, he raised his hands to his head and protruded his fore-fingers after the manner of horns; then indicating to us to follow, ran out into the street, where we found him pointing down into an adjacent cellar, in whose depths two sleek grey oxen were placidly chewing the cud. So it was the oxen who turned the machine that made the macaroni, and it was the prickly foliage of the chumberas that their jaws were patiently munching.

The little town that nestles out of sight at the foot of the great range of hills is an enterprising one. Through the open front of a building in another street we caught sight of a fine dynamo; and being invited to enter, found ourselves in the presence of the electric plant of the town. As the grey-bearded superintendent told us, Alaró was the first town on the island to have electric light installed. Manacor was the second.

"And Palma?" we asked.

The superintendent shrugged his shoulders. Evidently the capital city had been a bad third.

The half hour of waiting had passed quickly, and even in the passing were we conscious that the landlady of the fonda was exerting herself on our behalf. For while we were gazing at the oxen the red-frocked eldest girl had hastened by carrying a big dish of fish.

On the marble-topped table of the dining-room was a huge black sausage, a pyramid of rolls, a decanter of red wine, siphons of soda-water, and a plate of a pickled plant that was new to us all, even to the Squire and the Lady, who had a wide experience of many countries.

We were in danger of making a meal of the sausage, when the little girl brought in a dish of the omelets that every Majorcan housewife makes to perfection.

The pickle had proved delicious, but all our little waitress could tell us was that it came from the sea. And we had almost reconciled ourselves to the idea that we were eating seaweed when the explanation (which proved to be correct) that we might be eating samphire occurred to us. In England in Shakespeare's time, and on the Continent to this day, the tender young shoots of samphire, which grows on rocks by the ocean, are gathered, sprinkled with salt, and then preserved in vinegar.

A dish of crisp fried fish followed the omelets. Then came a second dish of fish, then an abundance of very sweet mandarin oranges, freshly cut, with long stems and plenty of their green leaves.

The moment of repletion having arrived, the men lit their pipes, and for a space we lazed. But a few minutes of indolence sufficed. Calling for our hostess, we asked for the bill. She was prepared for the question, and had the amount at the tip of her tongue – eight pesetas.

Leaving our wraps in her care, we separated: the Squire and the Boy to climb the mountain called the Castle of Alaró, the Man to find a subject for his brush, and the Lady and I to prowl about and enjoy ourselves in a feminine way.

Our prowl first led through a part of the town where at the open doors women, and little boys with aprons tied about their thin waists, were busy making boots. I wonder how it is that the sight of a small boy at work always makes me sad. I think it is the thought of the immensity of the task he has to accomplish before his labour ends.

Once clear of the town, we sauntered along a path that crossed a field, and ended at a fine old mansion overlooking an orange grove. The trees were heavy with fruit, and the air was perfumed with the fragrance of the blossoms that starred the glossy foliage. A giant bougainvillea draped a complete wall with a mantle of royal purple.

The front windows were closely shuttered. Except for three dogs the place might have been deserted. But on making our way round to the back we found ourselves in the midst of the bevy of people – caretakers, gardeners, labourers, and their families – who live about and in a big country house.

The wife of the caretaker, supported by her half-dozen children and an old dame who was presumably their grandmother, advanced to the wide doorway of the kitchen to greet us. From the vicinity of the stables and outhouses men and lads gathered, and stood a silent group, attentive to our attempts at Spanish conversation, which attempts, it must be admitted, were puerile.

We were merely asking if we might have the privilege of seeing over the house, but we failed to make our meaning clear. Calling her little dark-eyed chica, who was evidently the educated member of the family, the mother conjured her to translate; but the chica, for the first time removing her eyes from the Lady's hat and flowing veil, only blushed and hung her pretty head.

At our wits' end, we were reduced to helpless laughter, when comprehension suddenly flashed upon the mother.

"Si, si, señoras," she said, and trotted briskly off, with us close upon her heels and the children and the grandmother bringing up the rear, across the spacious kitchen, along a passage, and up a stair so dark that we had to grope our way.

Passing quickly from one room to another, she threw open the jealously closed shutters of the windows, admitting the light. The house was one of the many delightfully unpretentious country seats to which Majorcan aristocrats migrate during the hot weather. Everything was arranged for the sake of coolness. There were no carpets or curtains. The tiled floors and lofty raftered ceilings of the large airy rooms made it an ideal summer residence. The windows and balconies afforded beautiful and varied views towards the romantic mountains, across the fragrant orange groves, or over the far-stretching fertile plains.

The noble family, we gathered, had other homes: one at Palma, and yet another at Madrid, but still they liked to return to the house that nestled so close to the great frowning mountains.

When we left she sent the pretty dark-eyed chica to show us the path through the orange groves, and dispatched the eldest son hotfoot after to pick us a gift of oranges from the trees whose fruit was sweetest.

Neither the Lady nor I was inclined for much exertion. Climbing a little way up the hill, we sat down in the shade of an olive-tree and ate oranges and gossiped.

At our feet the ground slipped down into the valley, to rise on the farther side in the mountains, on whose crest we could see the remains of the towered battlements above which, in the seventeenth century, the two heroes Cabritt and Bassa kept the Majorcan flag flying, after the remainder of the island had surrendered to the usurper Alphonso IV of Aragon.

We scanned the hill-side in vain for any trace of the climbers. And while we lingered the clouds began again to gather, and scarves of mist hid the summit. The air had turned a little chilly, and we were passing the mansion on our way back to the town when we noticed a charming loggia that was built over a barn in which men seemed to be crushing olives.

Climbing the few steps that led to the open-sided loggia, we found it furnished with a couple of rush-bottomed chairs. Carrying them to the front of the balcony over which the gorgeous bougainvillea ran riot, we sat, under the row of bottle gourds that hung up to dry, looking across the wealth of rich purple blossom in which the bees were busy, and over the orange grove towards the luxuriant plain.

A shower at length drove us back to the shelter of the dining-room at the fonda, where the big logs that burned on the open hearth glowed a welcome. There the Squire and the Boy joined us, wet from the rain that had caught them when half-way down the mountain, but by no means weary. They described the path as having been a zigzag mule-track all the way. It was rough walking, but presented no difficulty whatever.

Near the foot of the precipitous part of the climb they had passed the first of the fourteen stations of the Cross, the final one being at the Chapel of Our Lady of the Refuge on the summit of the mountain. Each station was marked with an iron cross set in a rough cairn of stones, and each exhibited a pictorial tile representing the incident commemorated.

The rough mule-track had ended at the towered gateway, which was in fine preservation. Just within was a piece of smooth turf shaded by trees. The remainder of the narrow crest of the mountain was rocky and tumbled. Round the less precipitous sides were the remains of battlements and watch-towers. The side farthest from the plain was naturally so steep and impossible of assault as to need no artificial defence.

The views from the mountain-top they had found magnificent, and worthy of a much harder climb. To the north the great mountainous range that culminates in the double peaks of the Puig Mayor had barred the prospect; otherwise most of the island had lain open before them. Inca, Binisalem, Muró, and other cities of the plain were visible, and the bays of Pollensa, Alcudia, and Palma. The hills beyond Artá, the hill behind Lluchmayor, Cabo Blanco, and the outlying island of Cabrera were all distinctly seen.

The point that struck the climbers as curious was that, though all lay so clearly before them, the height prevented their being able to distinguish any sign of life or to hear any sound from below. The effect was almost as though the lovely land on which they looked had been deserted.

When they turned their attention to their immediate surroundings, the only sentient creatures they discovered were a small boy who was in charge of the chapel, a great eagle that soared overhead, and a few hens that clucked and scraped the barren ground outside the building that had once been the abode of some hermit monks, but which was now an hospederia in the care of the boy's parents.

In the little chapel was a beautiful statue of the Virgin, while the sacristy held a sad relic in the form of two rib-bones of the brave defenders of the Castle of Alaró, who, after having been starved into surrender, were cruelly burned to death.

The chapel, perched up among the mist-wreaths and mountain eagles, was very small; so small that a large covered veranda had been added to the front for the shelter of the pilgrims who flock thither in order to obtain the forty days' absolution gained by the attainment of its summit. Just beyond the veranda is a sheer drop down. The prospect to be obtained from the out-jutting rock our climbers described as awesome.

They were half-way down on the return journey before the mist that had been floating about caught them in its clammy embrace. The ascent had occupied about two hours, the descent nearly one.

Bidding our hostess farewell, we went up the street to a café for afternoon coffee.

It was an unlucky hour. The schools had just closed for the day, and though the café was only a dozen paces from the fonda, we reached it with a train of children in close attendance.

Our demands for coffee with milk and cakes and enciamadas caused a flutter in the breast of the comely mistress of the café. Summoning her daughter Catalina – who was just seventeen and even more than usually attractive – from the corner where she was making pillow-lace, the mother thrust a large decanter into one hand, a big basket into the other, and dispatched her for supplies. Then she fanned the charcoal stove, placed a tall wine-glass, in which were two pieces of sugar and a spoon, before each of us, and retired behind the little bar to await the return of Catalina.

As we too waited, our attention was attracted to the window nearest our table, to find a row of small girls' heads, the eyes gazing fixedly on us, lining the bottom of the lower panes. As the moments passed the numbers increased. Girls with babies in their arms augmented the back row. Taller girls peeped furtively from the sides, and when caught affected to be engaged in reprimanding the curiosity of their juniors. Two little girls, who had arrived too late to secure any place, in desperation opened the café door and peeped in. Needless to say, their boldness was rewarded with ignominious expulsion.

It was with something of the sensation of menagerie animals when awaiting the meal that people have paid extra to see them consume that we looked for the return of Catalina.

It came at last, and in the twinkling of an eye the milk was emptied from the decanter into a tin pannikin and set on the fire; and the contents of her basket – which proved to be neither enciamadas nor cakes but rather limp bizcochos– were heaped on a dish on the table before us.

The children who had been so lucky as to secure front places to see the lions fed got good value. We were all thirsty; the coffee-pot was kept busy, the pile of bizcochos steadily diminished. When we had finished and went over to where Catalina had modestly resumed her lace weaving, the spectators changed their window the better to accommodate their desires to the altered conditions. When we said good-bye and left they accompanied us – babies and all. One gipsy-looking child ran in front, glancing back at us. The rest trotted in our wake, making occasional momentary delays to call round corners and into doorways for their friends to come and see the wild beasts.

When the circus, as the Squire called it, had reached the outskirts of the town, many of our adherents fell away. But a staunch band of eight or ten remained faithful, and not only escorted us on our walk and back to the car station, but whiled away the time by chanting and performing dances for our better entertainment, one male infant, known phonetically as Tomeow, gravely turning a succession of somersaults before us, and we wondered if the religious dances that are annually performed in the church on the feast of San Roch, the patron saint of the town, which occurs on the 16th of August, accounted for their rudimentary knowledge of the art.

Constant to the last, they formed a semicircle about us while we awaited the departure of the train, which took the place of the tram-car in which we had arrived, and listened wide-eared as we chatted with a corporal of the Civil Guard.

"The children of Alaró seem good," remarked the Lady, who has the gift of saying graceful things.

"Good – perhaps," allowed the corporal, frowning disapprovingly at our satellites, "but curious!"

There was no possible repetition of our delightful canalboat cruise of the morning. Night had fallen when we began the return journey in one of the smallest railway carriages in existence.

When we reached Palma rain was falling, and the view from the carriage window, of a wet platform with the lamplight falling on dripping umbrellas, vividly recalled the moist far-off land of our birth.

But a few hours later, when we left the Grand Hotel, where we had dined, the stars were shining above the dimly lit mediæval streets. Palma was herself again.

XIX

THE DRAGON CAVES AND MANACOR

Majorca has two groups of stalactite caves that are reputed to rank among the finest in Europe – the Dragon Caves at Manacor, and the Caves of Artá which are near the most easterly point of the island and far from a railway.

Life at the Casa Tranquila was so pleasant that none of us really wished to leave it; yet a sense of duty urged that these sights must not be ignored. At first we thought of visiting one or other of the series of subterranean wonders, but opinion seemed so equally divided as to which was the finer that, in perplexity, we finally decided to see both and judge for ourselves.

The weather favoured our reluctant departure. The sun had just risen into a cloudless blue sky when the bells of Bartolomé's chariot jingled at the door, and with the crumbs of a hasty breakfast still clinging to our lips we hurried stationwards to catch the morning train for Manacor.

We had spoken of going first to Artá, and a day or two later returning to Manacor and the Dragon Caves; but on the journey we made a chance acquaintance that had the effect of changing our plans. Two Englishmen, arrived that morning from Barcelona and giving five days to a rapid survey of the island, were going to the Dragon Caves. It was quickly arranged that we should view them in their congenial company.

As a place to stay at in Manacor our Majorcan friends had recommended the Fonda Feminias, and there we went on arrival, to eat an early lunch and secure rooms for our return.

The fonda, which has an architecture peculiarly its own, is situated right in the centre of the town. The large loggia, off which most of the sleeping apartments open directly, overlooks the fine church that is the pride of Manacor. My room, which was on the floor beneath, had a nice little sitting-room attached. I mention this specially because a lack of sitting-rooms is usually the weak point of Balearic fondas. The charge, arranged on arrival, was four pesetas a day, including the little breakfast.

Lunch was quickly served in a large dining-room that was as quaintly original as the rest of the house. It had ten doors, four corner cupboards, and no windows. Light was admitted through two small cupolas in the roof.

No time was lost. When we had eaten, a carriage was waiting to convey us to the caves. Just at the moment of starting a man, appearing from nowhere, silently seated himself on the box. He turned out to be the guide for the caves, an indispensable individual.

The road to the coast, for one that was neither particularly steep nor crooked, was amazingly uncomfortable to drive over. Cruel patches of the sharp stones with which the roads are mended scarred the way. We bounced here, and bounced there; now surmounting an acclivity and catching a glimpse of the blue sea, now dipping into a hollow. It was a gratuitously bad road; evil alike for driving, walking, or cycling over.