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

Passing down a narrow street of steps we came upon an old house whose wide outer court tempted us to enter. Exploring, we found ourselves in an olive oil factory. In the inner chamber a patient mule, his eyes blindfolded by having miniature straw baskets tied over them, was walking sedately round, supplying the force that crushed the olives, and from the press the oil was gushing in streams that went to fill the vats underneath the floor.

On the outside wall of the post office a caged bird was singing cheerily. Next door was the prison, but that cage was empty. The barred window of its cell opened breast-high on the street, but spiders had, undisturbed, woven webs across its bars, and the key stood in the door. Evidently malefactors are scarce in the quaint hill-town.

Leaving the crooked streets, we strolled up the side of the torrente, which flowed amidst orange orchards and by the sides of picturesque houses. Pomegranate-trees, their dainty foliage flecked with autumnal gold, had rooted in the high banks by the water, and the unplucked rose-red fruit had already supplied many a luxurious meal for the birds. Were I a bird I would elect to build my nest at Fornalutx, for there I would be sure to find an abundance of good food. Figs bursting with ripeness hung on the trees, and all around were oranges, and vines, and yet more oranges.

Far up the precipitous hill-path, at a point so high that it afforded a glorious view of Sóller, we came upon a farm-house known to our friends.

The occupants, greeting us kindly, took us into the most curious kitchen imaginable. Goatskins covered the ceiling, and in the centre was a place where seats encircled a charcoal brazier – a Majorcan "cosy corner," where the household could sit and snugly toast their toes, when storms blew snell about the mountains and rain obscured the valley.

The garden space in front of the farm-house had been turned into a great bower by a huge vine that, trained along a trellis, cast over it a pleasant shade.

It was late in the season – the last day of November – yet a few glorious clusters of grapes, the berries all golden and pink and wearing a bloom unmarred by touch of hand, hung heavy from its branches. Here another instance of native generosity awaited us, for the housewife, resolutely refusing recompense, sent us away laden with bunches. As we descended to where the carriage waited we must have presented something of the appearance of the returning spies that Moses had sent out to view the land of Canaan.

The sun had set when we reached Fornalutx. Looking up from the crooked street towards the hills we saw the peak of the Puig Mayor stand out against the darkening eastern sky, sublime, magnificent, bathed in a flood of roseate light. It was a fitting climax to a day of quiet delights.

We had entered Sóller wet and weary on Saturday night, knowing no one within many miles. When, on Wednesday afternoon, the diligence bound for Palma called at the Marina to pick us up, people of four different nationalities assembled round the coach door to bid us "God-speed."

We would fain have lingered amid the oranges and palms of Sóller, but time was flying and we had much to see elsewhere.

The diligence was full – so full that there would hardly have been space for an added thimble. It was our first experience of a Majorcan diligence, and we were interested to see how pleasantly the already closely packed passengers squeezed together to make room for new-comers, and to note how quietly they all sat, without fidgeting, with scarcely a change of position, during a drive that lasted over four hours.

The window in front and those at the sides were shut, and remained so throughout the journey. Fortunately our seats were by the door, and through its big window, which we kept open, we had a splendid view.

The highroad from Sóller to Palma is, I verily believe, one of the most curious ever made. Immediately after leaving the town it has to ascend 1,500 feet, which exploit it accomplishes by zigzagging at acute angles to the summit. That done, it zigzags down the other side.

The progress uphill was necessarily slow, so slow indeed, that the driver, who had traversed that road daily for thirty years, left his sure-footed mules to guide themselves, and trotted along behind the coach smoking the eternal cigarette. And, while we revelled in the ever-varying views afforded by the constant change of direction, our fellow travellers gently dozed, with the exception of a round-eyed little girl, who, oppressed by the glory of her first hat and the excitement of her first journey, kept wide-awake.

Up we went, every moment revealing some fresh effect of light and shadow in the enchanting mountains, past where the embryonic workings of the new light railway scarred the hillside. Up we went and up, catching little glimpses of the town nestling far beneath in its cradle of mountains, and seeing the last flash of sunset illumine their crests. As we mounted slowly the somnolence of our fellow passengers became more profound, and a portly father who was seated beside the little girl, to her evident alarm, lurched farther and farther in her direction, threatening altogether to efface her. The Man was on the point of going to the rescue, but the coach having reached the old carven cross that marks the summit, a sudden and vivifying change came over our manner of progress. The driver remounted the box beside the two motionless old women, whose black-shrouded figures we had seen silhouetted against the light, and off we set, at a pace that atoned for our crawl uphill.

The more rapid motion wrought a transformation on our companions. All the slumberers awoke. The portly gentleman, simultaneously opening eyes and mouth, gazed down in astonishment at the child, as though during his doze she had materialized out of nothing. Lively expressions lit up the blank faces. The little old man in the corner began softly chanting one of the quaint native songs, that to me always sound like improvisations.

It was already dusk when we stopped to change our three hardy mules at a wayside fonda: and the lights of Palma were sparkling through the December darkness when we drew up at the city gate for the consumero's inspection.

During our days of absence the gay little city seemed to have decided that winter had come. The soldiers had donned their heavy coats, and men were going about muffled in great cloaks: but leaves were still thick on the plane-trees in the Borne, and to us the air seemed still soft and pleasant.

A few minutes later we were entering the Casa Tranquila with that feeling of absolute contentment that return to one's own home alone can afford.

X

ANDRAITX

A happy fortune more than good guiding led us to Andraitx. The Boy, painting at the port of Palma had seen the diligence, stuffed within with country folks and top-heavy without with their bundles, start with a gay jingle of bells for that little-known town, and was seized with a desire to visit it.

Somewhat precipitately we engaged our seats in the following day's coach, and then proceeded to make inquiries about the place. Nobody, it seemed, had a good word to say of it, perhaps because no one went there. Baedeker scorned even to mention its name. There was only an inferior fonda, one informant said. There was no fonda at all, amended another.

The diligence left Palma at two o'clock, and the fee for the 30 kilometros – over 20 miles – was two pesetas. Taking only a light suit-case, we locked the doors of the Casa Tranquila that glorious December afternoon, and walking down, reached in good time the little back-street café whence the coach started.

Several passengers were already in waiting – a pleasant-faced old man and his comely wife in native dress, sundry peasant women muffled in shawls, one or two men whom the mistress of the café was serving with lunch. A little pile of luggage – bundles tied in brilliant kerchiefs, and market baskets – littered the floor. As we waited, more passengers arrived and more. We were glad our places had been secured.

At five minutes before two the mail-bag appeared; and at ten minutes past, the diligence rattled down the narrow cobbled street and pulled up at the door of the café. It was a cumbrous and yet cramped vehicle lined with clean striped cotton.

The slender mail-bag having been deposited in a hollow seat, the Man and I hopped briskly in and secured the places on either side of the door, which had a wide window, arguing away our consciences' accusation of selfishness by the excuse that we were probably the only passengers to whom the scenery would be new. Then the nice old country couple came in, followed by a huge matron with a little son; and a pretty young girl took the seat next to me. An old dame, who, in spite of the heat, was muffled into a living mummy, mounted beside the Boy on the box. The country women were packed into a hooded cart that was waiting to receive the overflow, the driver got up in front, and we were ready to start. It was already half an hour after starting-time, but we delayed until a nice little boy, attended by two juvenile shop-lads clad in overalls of check cotton, appeared to join us. As fitting preparation for his four-hour journey in the stuffy interior of the coach, careful relatives had enveloped the urchin in a heavy top-coat and wound a thick muffler round his neck. He was hauled into the coach, his luggage, which consisted of two large round bundles neatly tied in gaily striped handkerchiefs, went to swell the mound on the top, and off we set at last, only to halt at the bottom of the street to admit a woman of such appalling dimensions that she seemed to prove what the Boy declares is the Majorcan rule with regard to diligences – that they first fill them quite full, and then add a couple of the fattest people procurable.

Clambering ponderously in she subsided with a flop between the other massive matron and the pretty girl. "Caramba!" exclaimed the pretty girl, and the journey began in earnest.

Palma was brilliant in sunshine. Looking back as we crawled up the heights towards the Terreno, it glowed like a jewel in the strong sunlight. The sea was a vivid azure. Beyond the opposite shores of the bay the distant isle of Cabrera showed distinctly.

As the road wound onwards in and out, we got glimpses of fairy-like inlets of the sea, of beautiful caves and tiny bays all sparkling in the sunshine. As we passed the hotel at Cas Catalá a German waiter appeared to get the newspaper from our driver, and we felt glad that our journey ended in a place where German waiters were unknown.

Turning from the sea, the road passed among rocky slopes crowned with pines and olives. Amid the stones we caught sight of rosy heath and of great clumps of lavender rich in purple blossom. It was on this beautiful sloping country-side that the first great battle was fought between the troops of King Jaime and the hosts of the Moorish Amir. The fighting was severe; and, though the victory was his, the chroniclers of the period tell how the brave young King of Aragon wept when he learned of the loss of two nobles, brothers, who had been boon companions of his own. A tapestry in one of the chambers of the Casa Consistorial at Palma gives a pictorial rendering of the scene. And under a large pine by the wayside, nearly half-way between the capital and Andraitx, is a monument – a simple iron cross set on a stone pedestal – commemorating the valour of the Spaniards who lost their lives to help to free the Christians.

When the way was uphill, and the coach lumbered slowly along, slumber crept over the passengers. When we again reached the level and the pace quickened, everybody awoke, and conversation became general; at least, as far as the native element was concerned. The Man and I yearned for a knowledge of Majorcan when the two plump ladies, whose tongues were their only active members, took turn about in relating what were evidently incidents of dramatic interest.

Once or twice, when the road ascended some specially steep slope in zigzags, the coach stopped, and most of us got out and, crossing the hill by a short cut – we followed those who knew the way – rejoined it on the farther side. Needless to mention, the only two dames whose absence would have made any appreciable lessening in the weight remained fixtures.

The two points of difference between Majorcan and British travellers that we had noticed on the drive from Sóller again impressed us. One was their quiet demeanour. They were not restless, they never fidgeted. They sat quite still, their hands placidly folded – except when a little gesticulation was necessary to adorn a tale. The second, which was even more unlike the British of the same class, was that though the journey was one of about four hours' duration they had made no provision for it. Even the small boy, or the little child, had not so much as a sweet or a biscuit to break the monotony.

When, half-way, we stopped to change horses, the old man, who had been pleasantly interested in the feminine gossip, stepped lightly out, and returning with a large tin mug of water, handed it round. It was the pretty girl who, when it came to her turn to drink, gracefully declined the privilege in favour of me, saying, with a wave of her hand, "Ah, no! The señora first."

The way was wild and romantic. Only at long intervals was there a house even by the road-side. Just at dusk we passed several open carts crowded with young olive-gatherers returning from work – a gay band, shouting and singing. After that the night appeared to fall suddenly upon the earth, and the new moon, a bright star poised above her, shone in the sky.

A second diligence, starting from some other point, had joined us; and as we moved slowly along in company, the two lumbering heavily-laden coaches and the covered van, the little procession had something of the aspect of a party of emigrants travelling in quest of a new home.

When the mysterious beauty of the half-lights had vanished, and the night gathered, we began to wonder why we had left the Casa Tranquila, where we had been so comfortable. We had no special reason for coming to Andraitx; there was no attraction to draw us thither. And even now we did not know if there was any place where we might sleep.

Just before we entered the town the coach stopped a moment and the Boy came round to the door.

"I've been consulting the driver," he said. "He recommends a place where he says we'll get the best cooking in Andraitx."

"Is it an inn?" we asked.

"No, I don't think it's exactly an inn, but the man has been a cook. His house is at this end of the town. The driver says he'll stop there if we like. Will that do?"

It was quite dark now. We were cramped and tired, and the refuge that wasn't exactly an inn was at least near. We agreed that it would do.

Three minutes later the diligence drew up in front of an open door, through which the light from a good oil lamp streamed into the blackness of the street.

"This seems to be the place," said the Boy. "But it's a shop!"

There was no opportunity for hesitation. Our luggage was already on the pavement. Turning to a tall, bearded man in a white apron who appeared in the doorway, we asked if he had accommodation.

Yes, he had room, he replied; would we enter? – and, following him, we found ourselves in a wide, airy shop. On one side were shelves filled with delicacies. On the other were three great wine barrels. And on the floor stood the usual assortment of hampers and open baskets containing fruits and vegetables.

At the back of the shop, sandwiched between it and the kitchen, was a neat little dining-room. And when we had been ushered in there the Boy, as our spokesman, proceeded, after the custom of the country, to ask terms – "What would be the charge for board and lodging, wine included, a day?"

Our host hesitated. He was an exceptionally nice-looking man and spoke beautiful Spanish.

"The terms? That would depend upon what one had. He could make any terms that suited, from one peseta and a half a day. But for four pesetas —then he could do us really well."

A bargain was quickly struck. We were to pay three pesetas and a half a day, wine and the little breakfast included; and our first meal was to be served as soon as it could be prepared.

After a short stroll through the dark streets, and not a little conjecture concerning immediate happenings, we returned to our lodging. The glass doors of the little dining-room opened on to the shop, its window looked to the kitchen, where our host was already busy over the stove. The sound of quick footsteps overhead suggested that rooms were being prepared for our reception. Her parents being engaged, the shop had been left in charge of the daughter of the house, a pretty, dark-eyed child of seven years old.

She made a charming little picture, as she sat amongst the scarlet pimientos and the yellow lemons waiting for custom. And when a younger child, carrying a quart bottle, entered to buy a pennyworth of wine, the business-like way in which she placed the funnel in the bottle, and filling the measure from the barrel poured it in without spilling a drop, delighted us. As also did the accustomed way in which she dropped the penny into the table-drawer that served as till.

Before we had time to grow impatient our hostess, looking like an adult copy of her child, appearing, spread the table neatly with clean linen and shining crystal, then set before us a dish of rolls, one of olives, and small plates of spiced sausage and ham. Then the host entered carrying a bottle of a good brand of imported claret that he had taken from his shelves, and a syphon of seltzer.

We were nibbling at the appetizers, trying to restrain ourselves from making a meal of them, when an excellent soup was served.

"If I could choose, I know what I'd have next – a big fat omelet," the Boy said, as he finished his plate of soup. And on the thought, as though in answer to his wish, the landlord entered bearing a fine opulent omelet stuffed with green peas. When we had eaten that, he was waiting to replace it with a dish of delicately browned veal cutlets, savoury potatoes fried in butter, and more green peas. A sweet course is so rarely served in Majorca that it was a pleasant surprise to find the cutlets followed by a mould of the native preserve, membrillo (quince) jelly, and pastry turn-overs. The dessert consisted of a pyramid of mandarin oranges cut with stems and leaves. It was a surprisingly complete meal to be served on an hour's notice in the back shop of a little unknown out-of-the-world town.

The rooms allotted to us comprised the whole floor above. The salon, which was to the front, had two handsome wardrobes – wardrobes would seem to be as often placed in sitting-rooms as in bedrooms in Majorca – a chest of drawers, several comfortable chairs. The beds, with their lace-trimmed and monogrammed linen, were perfection. As we fell asleep we blessed the happy chance that had led us to so much more comfortable quarters than we had anticipated finding.

Breakfast, of French chocolate and hot buttered rolls, served to confirm the good impression of the previous night.

The ambition of my infancy – to keep a little shop – threatened to return as, from the stronghold of our neat little dining-room, we watched the life of the shop, a portion of whose trade appeared to consist of barter. First a woman entered with a basket of glowing sun-kissed pomegranates which she exchanged for macaroni and other groceries. She was quickly followed by a man who had a hamper of lemons and a bag of the scarlet waxen pods of the sweet pepper to dispose of.

While the chocolate was still in process of consumption our host, courteously solicitous respecting our comfort of the night, waited on us, his tall, slender form begirt with an apron of spotless purity, on which was also embroidered the family monogram.

From our concerns the conversation naturally passed to his, and with the simple friendliness of the Majorcan he told us his life-story. Told how, like most of the Andraitx lads, he had early left home to seek his fortune, but while most of his companions had become sailors, he had chosen to make cooking his profession. A course of years passed as a chef in Havanna and other places had gained him the nest-egg he desired. Returning to his native town while still a comparatively young man, he had taken this shop, married to his liking, and settled down in comfort.

There was neither sun nor wind. The air was calm and cool. It was a splendid day for exploring a new locality. But Andraitx was still a sealed letter to us. We did not even know what to look for.

When we arrived on the previous night the town had been shrouded in darkness. So it was a charming surprise after we had mounted the commonplace street to find that in situation Andraitx resembled a miniature Sóller. Hills, some crowned by windmills, enclosed it on every side. Passing through the market square we climbed the eminence on which perched the quaint old church, and looking back, saw the town lying in the hollow beneath us; and to the north-west, its mouth guarded by sentinel hills, the wide inlet of the sea that marked the port.

Within the church, gloom and silence held possession. A little distance off was the walled cemetery. Leaving an environment that threatened to depress us, we scrambled down the farther side of the rocky incline, and, finding a path, followed it.

The path, chosen at random, passed in front of Son Mas, a quaint old building whose tower bore signs of great antiquity. The place was evidently now in use as a farm-house, and the tenant, seeing us pause to look in through the wide gateway, came out and cordially invited us to enter.

He was a fine specimen of the handsome, robust sons of that gracious soil. His sun-tanned skin and workaday garb seemed at variance with his courteous dignity of manner, which admirably became the resident of so ancient a mansion. He appeared to feel a special pride in his surroundings and did not scamp the showing. Through the wide courtyard, and up the central staircase that led to the balconies, and through the deserted rooms he escorted us.

The tall square tower that now formed part of the house, he told us, had in older times been used as a place of refuge by the Christians during the attacks of the piratical Moors who infested the coast – a stronghold to which they fled when news reached them that the heathen marauders had entered the port and were advancing towards the town. Would we like to see it?

Would we not! Following our leader, we passed along more corridors and over floors aslant with age, till he stopped before the entrance to what was probably the smallest winding stair ever devised for the passage of human beings.

Up that very stair, our guide assured us, had the Christians fled to seek safety in the tower. And as we timorously mounted the narrow steps we agreed that the Andraitx early Christians must have been the leanest of mankind. For one plump Christian in a hurry would assuredly have brought destruction on all the rest by sticking in the first bend of that pitch-dark winding staircase.

We emerged, dusty and breathless, into a square room whose window framed a magnificent view over the town and the wide fruitful valley to the shining waters of the port beyond.

In one of the walls was a groined cavity that had been a shrine. And close beside it was the now walled-up doorway that, when the tower stood apart, had been connected by a drawbridge with the main building.

On the dusty floor in a corner lay some curious earthenware retorts of a primitive date. The vessels had been found in an old cabinet in company with a quantity of unknown drugs – presumably the stock of some long-dead alchemist. Scientific men, hearing of the discovery, had hastened to carry off the chemicals, the farmer told us, leaving the earthenware behind.

All the acquisitive Briton in us yearned to possess one of the quaint retorts. It was only the thought of their bulky brittleness that conquered the covetous feeling.

From the room more pigmy steps wound upwards to a roofed mirador, but, as the inner walls of the staircase were broken away in great gaps, only the Boy was daring enough to ascend.

Returning, he reported a low roof that sloped down to battlemented walls pierced with loop-holes through which arrows and boiling water were wont to shower down on the besiegers. On one occasion the captain of the Moors was killed with scalding water thrown from the tower. To the present day the incident affords matter for intense satisfaction at Andraitx.