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

On the following morning, which was Sunday, the weekly market was held at Pollensa. Very early, while it was yet hardly light, the little bustle of street traffic awoke me, and, looking from the window, I got a misty view of panniered donkeys and of rustic conveyances which vague shadowy figures were unloading.

When we had breakfasted we went out and, within a few steps of our inn, found ourselves in the most picturesque market-place we had ever seen.

I do not know what may be the leading article of Pollensa market at other seasons, but on this January day the outstanding feature was cabbages – of tremendous proportions. Piled in heaps and hillocks on the ground, they fairly dominated the market. Other wares there were no doubt, but the things that impressed us were the number and size of these giant vegetables and a feeling of wonder as to where the people would come from to buy them. As the morning wore on, the mounds sensibly diminished in height; but at that early hour the stacks of cabbages towered so high that sometimes only the heads of the vendors were visible above them.

In the raised portion of the market-square women occupied the stone benches, their stock of home-grown fruits and of the finer vegetables exhibited in baskets before them.

It was the scarce time for grapes. The field-produce was long over, and only garden bunches were still to be had. But without any attempt at bargaining we bought two pounds of delicious grapes for sixpence-farthing, and large golden oranges were offered us at twopence a dozen.

The town was so full of strange and picturesque figures that every moment brought fresh entertainment. At the feria into which we strayed at Inca we had thought ourselves lucky in seeing one old man attired in the curious colsons en bufer, as the voluminous zouave-like pantaloons of bright blue cotton are called. Here in Pollensa wearers of the delightfully odd old-world dress abounded. And it seemed as though they took a special pride in the quaintness of their garb, so particular were they about the set of their neckties, so trim about the ankles, so careful as to the fit of the low black shoes that went so well with the costume.

The women of Pollensa, though less extraordinary of aspect, were also a pleasure to behold, for with scarcely an exception they wore the becoming native dress, and their heads were neatly covered with either the pretty white muslin head-dress or with handkerchiefs of gaily coloured silk.

It was somewhat disconcerting to realize, as we did quite suddenly, that it was really we who were the oddities, and that in the eyes of the crowd, at whom we were gazing so curiously, I was a ludicrous object because I wore a hat!

It was really quite an ordinary travelling-hat, but finding that the fact of a woman wearing a hat at all attracted undue attention from these unsophisticated folks, I hastened back to the fonda and changed it for a chiffon scarf worn mantilla-fashion. That done, I found I could pass almost unnoticed.

Majorca boasts many picturesque old towns, but probably Pollensa is the most picturesque of all. It is a beautiful antique: a town made for the painter. Its warm golden-brown houses have baked in the hot southern sunshine until they seem ready to crumble to pieces. It is by no means a rich town. Most of the dwellings appeared to belong to the poorer classes. As the Man said – "It is a city of slums – but what adorable slums!"

The streets were all turnings, and every turn brought a subject ready for the brush. Here was a grand old cross, there a curious fountain, yonder an ancient stone washing-trough. And round every corner, that market-morning, came the quaint old men in their broad-brimmed felt hats and baggy breeches, unconsciously adding the note of human interest that completed the pictures.

Pollensa is essentially a town of hills. Mountains closely girdle it round. To the Calvario, which is perched on a height in the midst of the town, one ascends by countless wide, low steps, the town ascending also. For on one side houses struggle half-way up the steep incline, while cactus plants, the edges of their thick, fleshy leaves heavily ruched by blood-red fruit, hedge the other. On the rocky slope beyond is a thick growth of palmettos, the dwarf palms whose inner stems the natives eat and from whose dried fronds baskets are made.

To the dwellers in these sky-parlours the broad steps play the part of an extra sitting-room. As we climbed slowly up that hot morning, we trod closely upon many domestic scenes, but none of the actors therein objected to the intrusion. Fathers were happily employing their Sunday leisure in nursing their babies; and mothers, with the requisites placed for all the world to see, were washing their children's faces, tying up their locks with ribbon, and performing other niceties of the toilet that usually take place in the sanctity of the home. One old woman, sitting full in the sun, was reciting her prayers in a loud voice. Her occupation, however, did not appear in the slightest to detract from her interest in the passing of us forasteros.

The open doors of the little chapel that perched amidst its guardian cypresses on the summit spoke a wordless welcome; and we entered, to find ourselves in a beautiful sanctuary.

Above the altar was a very old carved tableau which represented Christ suspended on a heavy wooden cross, with Mary, kneeling, caressing His wounded feet. On the ceiling were various curious and evidently antique emblems of the Redemption.

On either side of the altar was a recess devoted to the display of votive offerings. Many of them were akin to those exhibited in other churches, though one case was filled with tiny flat silver figures – miniature men in trousers and tiny women in petticoats. But on the wall of the chamber to the right was an offering that aroused both our interest and our curiosity.

Suspended in a tall, narrow glass case, hung a pleat of dark brown hair, tied simply after the local fashion with a knot and ends of black ribbon. It was a pigtail such as was worn by most of the women in the town; but a pigtail of such unusual length and thickness that it might quite laudably have been the pride of its owner's heart.

Beneath was a card bearing the following inscription, written large in a fair, round hand: —

Promesa

de Francisca

30 Noviembre 1902

Pollensa

Now who was Francisca? And why did she promise to cut off her beautiful hair? Was it to avert the fatal issue of some illness of her own? Or was it because her lover was ill, or in danger by land or sea? Or was Francisca merely afraid that he might prove faithless?

Whatever the nature of the terror Francisca dreaded, it was happily averted. The presence of the severed tresses assured us of that. But it was a particularly fine pigtail, and the sight of it tempted one to wonder what the feeling of Juan, or Pedro, or Miguel was when he first saw his sweetheart with closely cropped locks, and found that she had shorn off her glory for his sake. It is to be trusted that Francisca's hair was not her only beauty.

From the terraced slope of the Calvario one gets a magnificent view of the town. Looking down on the tiled roofs, all tawny-brown with the passing of centuries, it is easy to realize the great age of Pollensa. The city itself occupies but a circumscribed area, so narrow are the streets, so huddled together the houses. There is scarcely room for a green leaf to sprout between them. But where the town ends abruptly the real country begins, and in the parts that are not closely flanked by hills the ancient town is girdled by a belt of almond-trees. And all about it the fertile ground is cut up into small holdings, each with its little yellow-brown dwelling-house.

On every side, as far as the eye can reach, rise mountains, a glimpse of blue sea showing here and there between their rocky crags. Above one side of the town towers an isolated peak, from whose crest a magnificent panoramic view of half of the island of Majorca, and even a distant glimpse of Minorca, can be obtained.

A superbly situated building that was once the Convent of Nuestra Señora del Puig (Our Lady of the Peak) crowns the top of the height. It was so named because of a marvellous image of the Virgin discovered by the nuns who were in residence there. In olden days, when the building was in the possession of the Church, the Convent of Our Lady of the Peak supported an hospederia for the shelter of pilgrims; and now that the holy sisterhood has removed to Palma, the authorities of Pollensa continue to uphold their hospitable custom, and every traveller who mounts the steep – rather a stiff climb, by the way – is welcome to free lodging with fire, oil, olives, and goat's cheese for three nights and days at the expense of the town.

As we looked from the Calvario where we were standing across the valley to the noble pile of the old convent, and thought how sublime the sunrises and sunsets would be, viewed from Our Lady of the Peak, I registered a vow to make a pilgrimage thither some day. The Man chose to be pleasantly sarcastic regarding the fulfilment of the intention. He cherishes a perhaps not altogether unfounded belief that I wish to revisit every place I have seen in Majorca. But we shall see…

As we passed back through the market-square, the business of buying and selling was still in progress. In every quarter of the town, down back alleys, mounting up the steps towards the Calvario, in the farthest-out streets, we had met women carrying home the Brobdingnagian cabbages. Dinners were already cooking over the little fires of almond shells, and the odour of boiling cabbage came from many earthenware cooking-pots, yet the piles seemed scarcely diminished.

The cattle-market – a matter of a score or two of piglings, half a dozen sheep, a few horses – was held in the square before our fonda, and while it lasted the interest of the wearers of the colsons en bufer centred there, though, as far as we could judge from our balcony, they took no active part in the trafficking. They had all brown, weather-beaten, shrewd old faces, and all gave the impression of leading lives of extreme respectability. It was impossible to imagine any one of them falling foul of the law.

As the Boy said, "It would be a comic sight to see the old beggars flying from Justice in bags like these!"

Since our arrival on the previous noon, the personality of our landlord had greatly puzzled us. At first sight he had appeared youngish, stout, clean-shaven, and slightly surly in manner, and at intervals he still presented the same characteristics. But there were other times when he surprised us by seeming rather older, slightly greyer, and decidedly more gracious of bearing. The simple solution of the little mystery came when we chanced to see him in both aspects at once; and learned that we had two hosts – father and son – who, even when seen in company, so strongly resembled each other that we christened them the two Dromios.

In the afternoon we set off on the prowl, with the Town Hall – in which a native guide-book declared there was a collection of antique armour – as our objective.

The Town Hall, which in common with so many important Balearic buildings was originally a convent, occupies a commanding position at the head of a steep street. Reaching it, we found an open doorway, but no sign of any custodian.

We entered and wandered along empty passages and up a great staircase so old that the stone steps were worn down, and the lower balustrades had fallen quite away.

Still in quest of the collection of ancient armour, we had strayed as far as an upper and seemingly deserted corridor, our footsteps echoing loudly on the tiled floors. We were about to retrace our steps when a door at the end of the passage opened, and a gentleman appeared.

To our gratification he accepted our explanation of the intrusion, and courteously invited us to enter his house to see the views from his windows; for as official telegraphist to the town, he occupied a handsome suite of rooms in the old building.

His wife, too, showed no surprise at having three outlandish foreigners thus rudely disturb her Sabbath peace. She received us most graciously, and, having invited us to be seated, entered into conversation with the Man.

"We were from England, then?"

"Yes, but for the winter we were resident at Palma."

"Palma. So we lived in Palma?" Before her husband's translation to Pollensa a few months earlier, the señora explained, they also had lived in Palma. "In what part of Palma did we reside?"

"Well, not exactly in the town – just beyond the walls, at Son Españolet."

"At Son Españolet!" The señora confessed to having had a summer residence in Son Españolet.

"Our house is in the Calle de Mas – Number 23."

"In the Calle de Mas! Caramba! What a coincidence!" The señora's summer home had also been in the Calle de Mas – Number 26.

With this unexpected interest between us, we were soon all chatting away volubly, though, I fear, not always intelligibly. And when we bade the señora "Adios" to resume our quest, the señor kindly accompanied us.

With his aid we succeeded in unearthing an old woman who kept the keys that opened the treasures of the town.

One most interesting chamber held the records of Pollensa for many hundreds of years – from the earliest archives that were inscribed on parchment now brown with age, to the smart morocco-bound chronicles of the day before yesterday. The arms of the city – the three cypresses, the silver star, and the cock with a claw in the air, that had already become familiar to us – were there also.

Among the old cross-bows and halberds were the huge blunderbusses that, in accordance with an old custom, are still fired off yearly. And with them were specimens of a much older form of offensive weapon in the shape of huge rounded stones that in olden times had been hurled from the battlements of the Castillo del Rey, aimed at the skulls of attacking enemies.

Articles that were specially interesting, because in use to the present day, were the big earthenware water-jugs from which are drawn by lot the young men whom Pollensa annually contributes to the Majorcan army. There must be anxious hearts, both inside and outside of the old building, on that morning in early February when the lads whose turn has come go up to draw from the narrow mouths of the Moorish jars the numbers that are to decide their manner of life for the next three years.

In the Council Chamber was a large painting by a native artist of Juan Mas, the townsman to whom belongs the honour of having first delivered Pollensa from the Moors.

Juan must either have been a malade imaginaire, or one whose spirit was stronger than his body; for, as the story goes, he was sick abed when the Moors reached the town, and leaping from his couch, without taking time to change his night-garb, he led the people on to victory. The artist shows the hero in what was presumably the sleeping-suit of the period – loose white breeches and a shirt.

We were back at the fonda taking tea when a sound of chanting voices in the street beneath drew us to the windows in time to see a religious procession passing slowly beneath. Priests in rich vestments, carrying banners, walked in front; behind in a double line came a long succession of females of all classes – women with rebozillos and pigtails, ladies with mantillas. A band of little girls and nuns brought up the rear; and, still singing, the company passed on, and entered the adjacent church.

XV
THE PORT OF ALCUDIA

On being consulted respecting a conveyance that would take us to Alcudia, the younger Dromio had suggested the possibility of hiring one from a friend of his own. The distance was twelve kilometros, the cost would be about six or seven pesetas. So next morning, when we were ready to start, quite a smart trap awaited us.

It was after the fashion of the penitential gig in which we had journeyed from the Hospederia at Miramar to Sóller, but it was twice as large. The owner, who drove, had dressed for the occasion. He wore a sportive cap of green and gold tartan plush, a well-starched white shirt that was lavishly sprinkled with black spots as big as sixpences (no collar, of course), and he was smoking a cigar.

Bidding farewell to the two Dromios, who shook us by the hands with seeming regret and craved the favour of a recommendation to our friends, we drove away through the sweet morning air. The lovely road curved about the foot of the hill crowned by the old Convent of Our Lady of the Peak, and past many little holdings – one-acre-and-a-goat sort of places – towards the sea. The road was dry, but there was no dust, and the January sun shone warmly from a cloudless sky.

When we had reached the broad Roman road that led directly to the old walled city of Alcudia, our way led between countless ranks of great fig-trees – their spreading branches now bare and grey. So many were they, and so wide an area did they cover, that, if we had not seen figs growing in profusion at other parts of the island, we could almost have believed that all the figs in Palma came from Alcudia.

Our driver was a genial man who had emigrated and made his money in Buenos Ayres, and while still young had been able to follow the worthy native custom and return with his savings to his native district, where he was now comfortably settled, farming his own bit of land and driving his own pony-trap.

When we asked his advice as to where we might stay at Alcudia, he said there were two hotels at the port, which is a mile beyond the old city. The Hotel Miramar was the larger. But the proprietors of the Fonda Marina were friends of his own. They were very nice people. He could heartily recommend them. And here I may say that one of the many nice features of the Majorcans is that they are almost invariably on friendly terms with each other. If a shopkeeper happens to be out of the commodity a buyer wants, he will put himself out of his way to direct the customer to a brother vendor.

Alcudia is a curiously old city – far older even than Palma, they claim. It has a distinct inner wall – Moorish – and many substantial traces of an outer one – Roman. Entering by the gate of San Sebastian – near which a much-chipped wooden figure of the saint is sheltered in a netting-protected niche in the wall – we drove through the corkscrewy streets and out by a gate on the farther side.

Before coming we had decided not to stay in the ancient city. Its sanitary condition was supposed to be doubtful, and we had failed to hear of an inn there. But when we had driven through the picturesque Roman gateway and past the antique cross beyond, we looked back, and the place seemed so enticingly old-world, so like a habitation out of another century than ours, that we felt sorry we had made no real endeavour to find a lodging within its walls. However, the recollection that we would have to start about 3 a.m. in a small boat to get on board the Minorca steamer reconciled us to the prospect of living as close as possible to the harbour.

The Fonda Marina was an attractive-looking new house built at the very edge of the bay. As we drove up, the host and hostess, recognizing our driver, hastened out to welcome him. Before marrying and settling down as hotel-keepers, the husband had been a steward on South American steamers, and the wife had been cook to the former proprietors of the fonda. Both were pleasant, frank country folk, and terms were quickly arranged.

"We would like to stay here till the boat for Minorca calls to-morrow night. Can you take us for three pesetas a day?" we asked.

"For three pesetas each?" the host inquired dubiously, as though he thought we had suggested his accepting that sum for the trio. "If for three pesetas each– yes, surely."

So, to the evident satisfaction of everybody concerned, the easy bargain was concluded.

The Fonda Marina was particularly bright and airy. Its windows overlooked the great Bay of Alcudia, from which, in olden times, expeditions were wont to sail for Africa and the Levant. These were the days when the kings of Spain built whole fleets from wood grown in Majorcan forests.

There was a drawing-room whose three windows each commanded a totally different point of view. It had a good balcony, and was lit by home-made acetylene gas. Our rooms, which were clean and comfortable, faced seawards. With a very long rod one might almost have fished from their windows. A more enticing summer residence could hardly be imagined.

Our hostess had promised that in a few minutes luncheon would be ready. And it was with lively curiosity that we awaited its appearance. The two Dromios had entertained us for the same sum; and we were interested to see how the catering of the Fonda Marina would compare with that of their caravansary.

Seating ourselves in one of the large halls downstairs, we waited the turn of events. The mistress of the house had disappeared into the kitchen, whence frizzling sounds expressive of hurried cooking smote cheerily upon our expectant ears.

Presently a slim, dark-eyed young maid, Consuelo by name, hastened out bearing an armful of plates which she proceeded to set at intervals round a large baize-covered table near us. Then she added thick glass tumblers, a tall jug of water, and a large rye loaf.

"I say," said the Boy, "there are six plates. We're evidently expected to dine with the family. That'll be fun."

But his hopes of a treat were disappointed by Consuelo reappearing to invite us into a neat little dining-room whose existence we had not suspected. There we found a table nicely spread for three, with the elaborately monogrammed linen one sees in every Majorcan home, good cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and a siphon of soda-water.

When we had taken our places our host himself placed before us a large dish of arroz– the excellent native stew of rice mixed with anything savoury in the form of fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable that happens to be at hand.

Fried fish followed – fresh out of the sea, and so delicious of flavour that we were inclined to question whether those caught in the bay of Pollensa could possibly be better.

While we were eating it, the hostess came in to ask what we would have next – whether we would prefer an omelet or cutlets. We unanimously chose omelet, and in a hand-clap one, hot and buoyant, was on the table. Oranges and apples and black coffee completed the menu.

During the meal, the solicitude of the family to see that we lacked nothing that would conduce to our comfort was almost embarrassing. The door of our dining-room stood open, and although the host and Consuelo, who served us, did not actually remain in the room they were continually passing the door with anxious eyes turned on our proceedings. And when a dish was removed the señora would come in person to inquire if it had been to our liking.

The climax came when the only child of the house – Cristobal, a dear brat of five – in his desire to see the eccentric strangers eat, crept stealthily up the staircase and stationed himself on his knees just opposite the open door of the dining-room, gazing down through the banisters at us.

This ingenious little manœuvre was discovered by his father. There ensued a sound resembling applause, and young hopeful was borne off, howling, to be comforted in the kitchen.

Immediately after luncheon the Man walked back towards Alcudia to sketch the view of the sea-gate of the old city, that had struck him when we drove through. And, left to our devices, the Boy and I went boating.

A jolly, flat-bottomed punt belonging to the fonda was moored close at hand, and just across the blue and silver water lay an enticing stretch of lovely white sand. Behind it rose a bank of low shrubs overtopped by tall pines whose foliage had been so cropped that at a little distance they bore a striking resemblance to cocoanut palms. Beyond the flat expanse of land rose a line of mountains that glowed warm heliotrope and pink in the strong sunshine.

The still water was so clear that we could see every grain of the sand, every spray of seaweed, beneath. And as we drifted over the lagoon we felt as though the intervening decade had slipped back and that we were once again on the coral strand of the Pacific Islands.

I had heard that beautiful and, sometimes, very rare shells were to be found in the Bay of Alcudia. So, getting the Boy to put me on shore, I wandered along by the edge of the water looking for them. But my quest proved of little avail. Shells there were, it is true, but they were very small, very fragile, and almost colourless; most, indeed, were pure white and nearly transparent. I have gathered shells in many parts of the world, and I confess I was disappointed. Still, it was the only point on which Alcudia did not far exceed any expectations I had formed of it. The comparative failure of my search must have been owing to the long continuance of calm weather. As the Mediterranean is almost tideless, it is only after a storm that wave-borne treasures are usually to be found washed up on her beaches.

Perhaps I may not have looked in the right spot, though I did wander a long way round the shore in the direction of the Albufera – the tract of marshy land where rice is cultivated. So far, that I was glad when the Boy, by skilful navigation, succeeded in avoiding the many sandbanks and could run the punt in and, picking me up, row me over to the fonda.

The Man was awaiting our return, and after taking a cup of tea we walked eastwards along the coast towards an old Moorish tower that we had seen from the distance.

The sun had set. It was in the mysterious half-light of the gloaming that we mounted the steps leading to the door and found it open at a touch. Within all was darkness. The flame of a match revealed chambers showing that the tower had evidently been a home as well as a place of defence. One had evidently been the living-room of the Moorish tenants, for almost half the floor-space was occupied by the wide chimney-corner, where a host might have gathered round the blazing logs. I never see an ancient dwelling without experiencing a keen desire to know what manner of folks were the first to kindle a fire on the deserted hearth.

Feeling our way up the worn stairway, we reached a floor with more empty and silent apartments. Two or three broken steps led to a cunning opening placed exactly over the front entrance. Besiegers essaying to storm the door must have fallen easy victims to the alert watchers above; and that wide hearth had room to heat an amazing lot of water. At either side of the opening were embrasures into which the defender of the fortress might dart after he had aimed his missile – scalding water, arrows, heavy stones, or whatever the fashion of his time in projectiles chanced to be.

Mounting yet higher, we found ourselves standing in the open air, on a flat circular roof overlooking the wide bay. On one side of the roof were two chambers and a draw-well.

The view from the top of this ancient Moorish tower was grand. The sun had long set, but the sky still held a thousand glorious hues that were reflected in the sea. No craft moved on the surface of the water, and not a living being was in sight on land. The whole lovely world seemed to belong to us. Allured by the romantic beauty of the spot, we lingered until the colour had faded and the sky had become so dark that we had to stumble our way fonda-wards over the rough field-track, vowing to return on the morrow to see the place by daylight.

Supper was waiting when we got indoors – half-a-dozen fried eggs served with fried potatoes, cutlets, cauliflower and cheese. A home-made sausage, a mould of membrillo jelly, fruit and coffee – an outré combination perhaps, but it was all very tempting and nicely cooked, and we enjoyed it.

Another of our charming Balearic days had ended. And so, as Pepys would say, to bed.

Our wonderful luck in weather continued. We awoke to yet another perfect morning. Immediately after breakfast the Man set off to sketch one of the countless curious antique Moorish wells – known as norias– used for the irrigation of the crops: wells whose chains of earthenware jars are worked by the motive power supplied by mules that, yoked to a long shaft, keep walking in a circle. The mule needs no guide, as the rein, which is tied to the beam overhead, at intervals gives a gentle tug in the required direction.

It was oddly pathetic to see the patient brutes, their eyes blindfolded by having straw saucers fastened over them plodding steadfastly round and round, while from the ceaseless filling and emptying of the chain of jars the water gushed in a miniature waterfall into the trenches dug between the long lines of growing vegetables. In this fertile plain near the sea, the crop at this mid-winter season appeared to consist mainly of cabbages and cauliflowers. And when we saw those grown at Alcudia we knew where the mammoth cabbages that had dominated Pollensa market had been reared.

The Boy had gone alone to do a sketch on the roof of the Moorish tower that had interested us on the previous night. As he sat working, there came a sound of steps ascending the crumbling stairs; and to his pleasure three pretty Majorcan girls appeared, come to fill their earthen water-jars at the old draw-well on the roof, a well that even after the lapse of hundreds of years still continued to yield an abundant supply of pure water. The girls were exactly the figures required to complete the sketch. So to their gratification and his own benefit the Boy put them in.

In the afternoon, the Man and I walked the easy mile to Alcudia, and wandered about the quaint old town, climbing both the inner and the outer walls, wishing we knew more of its history, and lamenting that our limitations of language kept us ignorant of the meaning of these extensive and variant lines of fortifications. So we made no exhaustive inquiries, but prowled about and drew our own rough conclusions as to the relative values of the Roman and Moorish manner of building and defence.