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

XVII
STORM-BOUND

The Man had declared his fixed intention of taking ship for Palma that night, no matter what weather conditions should prevail. So it was with unfeigned relief I learned at breakfast that, owing to the violence of the tempest, the mail steamer we expected to travel in had been unable to leave Barcelona.

The wind still continuing high, there was some doubt as to how long we would be held prisoners. But even if the steamer direct to Palma was not able to run, we might return by the shorter sea route by which we had come, landing at the Port of Alcudia, and, after a night passed at our comfortable fonda there, taking diligence and train back to Palma.

A return trip in the steady little Monte Toro would have been a pleasure, but when we made inquiry at the shipping-office in the harbour we learned that the Monte Toro had already been laid aside for cleaning and that the Vicente Sanz had been deputed to take up her running.

The young clerk of the shipping company, who was muffled over the ears by the upturned collar of his astrakhan-trimmed top-coat and had his cap's chin-string in active service, shook a dubious head over the prospect of the Isla de Menorca being able to cross from Spain, not only on that night but for many nights to come. The prevalent wind, according to him, often raged for considerable periods. Once for two months, he solemnly declared, no mails had been able to reach Minorca.

We devoutly hoped he lied. Still, in case a grain of truth might lurk at the bottom of his gloomy prognostications, we decided to have a look at the cabin accommodation of the Vicente Sanz, which was lying a few yards away.

The black and grimy Vicente Sanz looked what she was – a cargo-boat that had been hastily adapted to the passenger service. One glance at her build was enough to convince even a tyro that as a roller she would be unequalled. Right aft over the screw a few cramped four-berth cabins formed the first-class accommodation, while the sailors' bunks in the forecastle head had been fitted up as second-class.

We fled the Vicente Sanz, convinced that only dire necessity would compel us to voyage in her.

The few people we encountered in the streets were huddled in cloaks and shawls, and the custom of muffling the lower part of the face gave the women something of an Eastern appearance. Perhaps it was due to the chilling effect of the weather, but to us foreigners the Minorcans appeared to lack the gracious charm of the Majorcans. Though we saw plenty of pretty faces, the girls of Mahón did not appear so universally attractive as those of Palma. The conditions of life are harder, the climate more severe, and the hard water used may have a bad effect on the complexions. There was no distinctive native dress either, and we missed it.

The blood of many nations mingles in Minorcan veins – Vandal, Carthaginian, Moorish, Spanish, British and French. Port Mahón was originally called after Mago, the youngest son of Hamilcar, brother of Hannibal. The passage of time is responsible for the corruption of Portus Magonis into Port Mahón.

The island, which is about the size of the Isle of Wight, has known many rulers. For several hundred years the Romans held it. About the ninth century it lapsed into the hands of the Moors, who possessed it until in the thirteenth century King Jaime, the Conquistador of Majorca, demanded and received its capitulation. Two hundred years later, Barbarossa, the pirate chief, having entered the harbour by stratagem, besieged Mahón and captured it. Early in the eighteenth century the British took Minorca and held it for fifty years, until Admiral Byng allowed the French to capture it – a "misconduct" for which, after eight months of close arrest, he was shot.

To her social and commercial advantage Minorca was restored to Britain at the peace of 1763, only to be seized by France and Spain while Britain was engrossed by the American War. Watching the opportunity, Britain retaliated at the time of the French Revolution by retaking Minorca, which remained hers until, by the conditions of the peace of Amiens, the island was ceded to Spain.

"Well," said the Man, as a fierce gust blew us into the portal of the Fonda Central, "when I saw this place I felt grieved that the British had ever given it up to Spain, but I must confess that at this moment I'd gladly hand it over to any nation that would take a gift of it!"

In the afternoon the wind, though still turbulent, had moderated a little. We let it blow us out to San Luis, along a fine level and absolutely straight road that in summer, when the trees are in leaf, must be charming.

San Luis has all the outward semblance of a French village. Even the church looked French, and was light and airy, in striking contrast to the sombre church interiors of Majorca. The streets of the village were broad, and the roads leading to it were planted on either side with trees.

The whole atmosphere was so reminiscent of Northern France that it was no surprise on entering the general shop to be greeted in French by the young man in charge. He, as he confessed, had secretly been studying the language for some months, and he was evidently spoiling to try his new acquirement upon foreigners of any nationality. The French, which he spoke very fairly, but which speedily lapsed into Spanish, naturally recalled our first impression of the place, and we remarked upon it.

A bright small boy, who with his father was in the shop, explained matters. San Luis was a French village, he said. It was named after the French king and had been built during the French occupation of the island. The site had been laid out and the church designed by French architects.

For the moment we had forgotten that the French flag had flown over Minorca, but the boy's words brought back something we had read of the fête Madame de Pompadour gave at the Hermitage of Compiègne, where the Court happened to be when the news arrived of the taking of Port Mahón. A royal fête, when fountains flowed wine, and ribbons and sword-knots à la Mahón were distributed to the guests.

While buying sweets in the shop, we noticed a glass jar of the black sticks of Spanish liquorice beloved of our childhood. And on a shelf was a row of genuine English cottage-loaves.

The wind had obligingly blown us on our feet out the three miles to San Luis, but we wisely drove back. Sitting snugly inside the closed carriage, watching the storm-harried crops and shrubs bend before the wind, while the sun beat warmly upon us, we agreed that, if one could only travel about in a glass-sided box during gales, life in Minorca would be fine. We fully realized the necessity for the houses being built of slabs of stone nearly twice as thick as those used in the sister island.

In Minorca, somehow, we did not feel quite so much aliens as we did at first in Majorca. The greatest prosperity the island had known had been under British government, and the native mind seemed to cherish a kindly feeling towards our nation. It was curious that while in Palma we were always supposed to be French, in Mahón we were at once recognized as English.

A few English words have been absorbed into the Minorcan language, as people seemed proud to tell us. But the only examples we gathered were "stop," "please," and "nuncle."

In the harbour, over the door of a small tavern that bore no other sign, we saw suspended a bit of a shrub. Remembering the white wand at the door of the change-house in the clachan of Aberfoyle, we wondered if that symbol also had drifted across the seas.

It was with something of the sensation of marooned sailors that on Friday night we fell asleep, to awake to changed conditions. The sun shone from a clear blue sky. The sting had disappeared from the wind, and the air was comparatively mild and calm.

When we descended to breakfast, the young man upon whose fragmentary accomplishment the Hotel Central founded its claim to put "English Spoken" on its cards hastened to greet us with the welcome news: "The sheep 'as arrive."

Going down to the harbour, we found ocular evidence that the report was true. The Isla de Menorca had arrived and would sail for Palma at 7 o'clock that evening. Our friend of the shipping office was silent and despondent. The weather had disappointed him by declining to act up to his gloomy anticipations.

Going, under his escort, to look over the ship, we found her a great, broad, tubby boat. At small tables placed on trestles on deck the crew were seated at breakfast, tall bottles of wine before them.

The first saloon accommodation was gay in red plush. That was its only recommendation, for it was woefully cramped in point of space, and the cabins were placed directly over the screw. The second saloon, which was amidships, occupied far more room. The steward suggested the probability of my having the large and cheerful ladies' cabin to myself. On the previous night's journey from Barcelona there had been only one lady passenger. Greatly daring, we hinted that in the event of no other señora arriving, we three might share it.

When we had parted from our escort, leaving him, we felt assured, inwardly deploring the comparative calm, and ghoulishly hoping for a sudden change of weather, the Man went off to finish his much interrupted sketch; while the Boy and I walked up to the market-square, from which – Minorca having no railways – a constant succession of more or less ramshackle vehicles acting as diligences left for the towns and villages round about.

Accosting the driver of the nearest, we asked its destination.

"Villa Carlos."

"And the charge?"

"Fifteen centimos each."

"When will the carriage start?"

The driver made the motion of the hands that takes the place of the Frenchman's shrug of the shoulders.

"When it is full," he replied, and we got in. A polite Spaniard joined us. A little delay, and he was followed by a girl with a market basket. The driver, after gazing to east and west, and north and south, without discovering sign of any additional passengers, mounted the box-seat, which he shared with two big sacks of potatoes, and at last we started.

Having jolted up a long long street of white houses, several of whose owners were busy with brush and whitewash pail effacing any traces of the storm, we rattled out over two miles of glaringly white road. Villa Carlos is a white town of small houses grouped about a big square of barracks on the top of a cliff, near the mouth of the harbour.

The situation is exposed, and as the wind, though childlike and bland compared to the icy blasts of the preceding days, was by no means asleep, we found our way down to sea-level, and rested on a stone bench in the shelter of a great wall close by where the water curves into the little bay of Cala Fonts.

The sea was purring at our feet. Between the fortress above us and that on the opposite shore, sail-boats, like winged things, skimmed past. Producing an unexpected box of pastels, the Boy began to make a rapid sketch of the pigmy harbour with its blue water and the half circle of houses that outlined its rocky coast.

It was amusing to sit there and try to picture the appearance of the various fleets that must have sailed by on victory bent. When Barbarossa, the pirate chief, flying Christian banners to deceive the guardians of the forts, steered his eleven galleys up the harbour, he must have passed the very spot where we sat.

Although the scene was tranquil, there was a constant movement of life. Two women carrying sacks and small picks came and foraged among the rocks for tufts of grass or other green stuff. A military water-cart drawn by a white mule, whose harness was resplendent with scarlet tassels, moved by, attended by a party of soldiers in white fatigue uniforms, their bare feet thrust into sandals.

During a temporary stillness I caught the sound of a soft little crooning voice that harmonized sweetly with the murmur of the sea. It seemed to come from quite near, but there was no one in sight. Advancing to the edge of the bank, I looked down. On a ledge of the rock a few feet beneath, a little boy attired in sketchy garments sat fishing, and as he fished he crooned softly to himself, after the habit of contented children all the world over.

His piscatorial implements were even more rudimentary than was his clothing. They consisted of a few inches of rod and a shred of string. His bait was a skinny hermit crab that he had scraped out of some crevice of the rock. A poor bait doubtless, but I can assure you the catch was even poorer. Still, perched on his ledge in the warm sunshine, Enrique fished hopefully and was happy.

It was so delightful to be out of the wind that we would gladly have lingered. But the hour when the Man and luncheon would be awaiting us was near. Returning to the barrack square, which was melodious with the strains of a waltz played by an unseen military band, we got into a conveyance that was on the point of starting.

A young corporal of Engineers quickly followed us, saluting as he entered. He was a good-looking, reddish-fair man, a native of the island, and an admirable example of the educated conscript. Hearing that we were British, he called to another corporal of the corps who was playing with a dog near, and who, on being introduced by his friend, spoke to us in surprisingly good English. Not only so, but he understood perfectly when spoken to, a much rarer accomplishment in a foreign language. He said he had been learning our language for ten months only, and without leaving Minorca.

I don't know who his instructor had been; there are said to be no English residents in Mahón, yet the soldier certainly spoke good colloquial English. As we parted he amused us by saluting and saying "Well, so-long!"

Another corporal having got into the conveyance – whose only flooring seemed to be a sagging mat – we started for Mahón. He, like the first, was a specialist in signalling and telegraphy. Both of these men struck us as taking their soldiering really seriously. They had each served two years in Madrid to learn their business thoroughly, and now had charge of telegraph stations on opposite sides of the harbour from each other.

On one happy possession Minorca must be most heartily congratulated. She has a most excellent British Vice-Consul. When we called on him at his house in the Calle Rosario (just off the picturesque Calle de San Roque), which was not until the last afternoon of our stay at Mahón, his reception of us was so cordial that we sincerely regretted not having called sooner.

Señor Bartolomé Escudero has many qualifications for the post he holds, and not least among them is a perfect knowledge of the language of the country he represents. Not only does the señor speak English, but it is his hobby to teach it to others who show a desire to learn.

It was no surprise to hear that on his visit to Minorca the late King Edward had made his Consul a Member of the Victorian Order.

From the bustle of departure in the hotel we judged that some of the comerciantes might be our fellow-travellers on the Isla de Menorca. But when we went on board and, having taken up a position on the promenade deck, were watching the passengers arrive, it was something of a surprise to see all of them appear. The little man with the long trousers; the bald man who performed surprising feats with wine-flasks, drinking with the slender spout held far from his lips in a way that held us fascinated spectators until he chose to set it down; the beautiful being who, we were convinced, could travel in nothing less refined than perfumery; the man who always, even at table, wore the latest thing in smart caps, and whom we had seen coming out of a sombrero shop – all were there. Not even the gentleman who, during our voyage together on the Monte Toro, had used a dust-coat as a dressing-gown was awanting.

There was little stir on the quay. The departure of a mail boat from Mahón does not cause so much commotion as does a like event at Palma, where the long breakwater is a favourite promenade, and where everybody who has a letter to post seems to delight in rushing on board with it at the last possible moment.

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.