advance, we others lagging a little behind, until we felt like birds
seeking some mountain aerie; till looking down we saw nothing but a
steeply shelving forest of tree tops, or looking up caught a glimpse
of mist-obscured crags.
The path wound about along narrow ledges and up crazy, almost
obliterated steps, until with the suddenness of a surprise the track
branched off to a ledge on the right, and we saw, set in the face of
the solid rock, a little wicket gate.
It was so long since the gate had been opened that it necessitated a
strong effort on the part of Fernando's broad shoulders before it
would consent to open.
Within, the unexpected awaited us. Set in the wall of the cave
facing the door was an old bas-relief carving that had evidently
marked the place of the altar before which the saint had been wont
to worship. The passing of the centuries has gradually blurred the
outlines of the carving: still we could see the form of the Virgin
and Child, and the worshipping figure of an angel. Behind the group
was a background of palms.
The wall still held a faint trace of fresco, and from the side hung
the socket--in the shape of a bird--for an antique lamp.
There was something so attractive, and even homely, in the cave,
that we required no great effort of imagination to fancy Lull
choosing it as his hermitage, and escaping thither when he yearned
for a space to be free from the society of the thirteen monks who so
soon had tired of their task.
That raised ledge might have served for a couch; this stone seemed
the right height for a seat; a small window hewn in the side
admitted sufficient light did the recluse wish to study. In the wall
was a natural basin, which to this day, except when long-continued
drought has dried up all the watercourses, holds a supply of fresh
water.
It seemed to us that Lull had chosen an ideal place of seclusion in
the rock-dwelling set far up in the pure air, where no sound save
the twitter of bird or the far-off murmur of the sea could break the
solemnity of his thoughts.
Everything about the cave bespoke its antiquity. The trees that
fronted the entrance were hoary with age and fringed with lichen.
And on the hill-side above, amidst moss-grown trees and blooming
heath, a tall cross had been erected in memory of the recluse whose
haven it once had been.
There was yet another cave that Fernando had promised to show us;
one of worldly, not of religious uses this time. It was the place
where in not very remote ages smugglers concealed the contraband
goods that they had succeeded in landing on the coast below. So,
leaving the cell of Ramon Lull, we followed our guide, clambering
higher and yet higher, and speedily getting into the dim twilight of
forests that might have existed since the beginning of the world, so
venerable were they, so thickly mossed and festooned with grey-green
lichen.
The signs of foliage were of the scantiest. Many trees revealed no
more than half a dozen leaves set at the extreme tips of the
lichen-furred branches. And all about was a huddled waste of
stones--the debris that collects at the base of great mountains. In
these gloomy recesses where daylight never enters there was no
indication of life--no flutter of startled bird, not even a
scurrying beetle. All was still and weird.
On hastened the light-footed Fernando, and on we followed more
ponderously, marvelling how he knew his way where we could see no
trace of a path. Suddenly branching off to the right, over the rough
rocks, he preceded us to where, low down amongst a tumbled heap of
boulders, a slight crevice showed. Smiling, he glanced back at us,
then bent down and disappeared. Close on his heels the Boy followed.
And both had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving us gaping
at the mouth of the exaggerated rabbit burrow that had seemingly
swallowed them up. We, wisely, did not attempt to enter. The
prospect of a rough scramble did not tempt us.
On his return to the surface the Boy described the interior of the
cave as both wide and lofty. But I must confess the idea of the
smugglers conveying their illicit cargoes from the beach all that
distance up the steep mountain-side to store it in a cavern that was
on the way to nowhere seemed absurd. It assuredly was inaccessible.
And it spoke well for the vigilance of the carbineers that the
_contrabandistas_ could find no more convenient place of
concealment.
But had Majorca not been free from the bandit plague, what a
glorious place that would have been for brigands in which to keep
prisoned the rich foreigners they were holding for ransom!
In some such unattainable holes and crannies of the heights must the
mountain Moors have existed during the two years that passed before
their chief surrendered to the Conquistador.
Just beyond the smugglers' cave were the fragmentary remains of a
monastery, so old and long deserted that the lichen-fringed trees
had rooted as deeply within the ruined walls of its chambers as
without in the forest.
Still further we went, keeping close on the heels of our untiring
leader, for the track sloped downwards now and the going was easier.
Once more we were in the region of trees that seemed alive, not
merely fossilized and moss-grown.
Like a born guide, Fernando had reserved the most charming part of
the excursion to the last. All unexpectedly he brought us to where,
on an outjutting pinnacle of rock, the Archduke had erected a
chapel. From the stone seats placed round its base we had an
enchanting and yet more comprehensive view than ever before of the
scene that, from whatever point we chanced to see it, never failed
to give us a fresh thrill of delight.
And wasn't I glad to sit down!
We had felt so much at home at the Hospederia and so enthralled with
this new world of steeps and silences that, when the last of our
three days had come, we felt sincerely sorry to leave it.
In torrid summer weather, when the southern plains of the island lie
baking in the sun, it would be impossible to imagine a more charming
way of escape from the heat than to rest under the shades of leafy
Miramar, or to sit at ease in one of the cunningly placed
_miradors_ "looking lazy at the sea" and the everlasting hills.
But the law is inexorable. When his three days' free lodging has
come to an end each guest must move on to make room for others. A
wise provision; for, had it not been so ruled, the first travellers
who filled these beds and ate at these tables would never have left
the Hospederia--they would have been there yet!
Our next stopping-place was to be Soller, a town that is envalleyed
amid the highest mountains in the island. Soller is ten miles
distant from Miramar, and the question was how we were to get
transported thither. At the Hospederia we were quite out of the way
of traffic. Not even a diligence lumbered by.
Fernando, coming to our rescue, offered to negotiate with a farmer
for the use of a cart. It was the ploughing season, the busiest time
of the year for both men and mules, but he succeeded in arranging
that we could have the loan of a conveyance of some kind at two
o'clock that afternoon for ten pesetas.
The morning had been wet. Happily not with the drenching, torrential
rain of these latitudes, but with an insinuating moisture
reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands. Disregarding it, we made the
most of the few hours at our disposal, seeking, and finding, fresh
walks and wonders in our surroundings.
One thing I remember that specially interested us in the terraced
olive plantations of Miramar, was the method of throwing a little
stone bridge from one walled terrace to another across the bed of
the river. There was no water in the channel, the bed was dry and
mossy. As we looked up at the succession of bridgelets, each flanked
on either side by short flights of stone steps, it seemed to typify
the extreme of the elaborate and painstaking system of culture that
prevails all over the island.
With appetites sharpened by the famed air of Miramar we had lunched
off goats' milk, the toasted remains of our half cartwheel of rye
bread, and something I had confidently expected would prove to be
an omelet, but which turned out to be something entirely different.
It was eatable, however, even delectable, and we devoured it to the
last yellow fragment, then waited the arrival of our carriage.
It came at last. And as it drew up in front of the Hospederia we
looked first at it, then at each other, in silent dismay.
In place of the roomy farm cart drawn by mules that we had expected
to see, the conveyance was one of the gaily painted, two-wheeled
cockleshells in which Majorcan farmers go a-junketing. It would have
been an admirable vehicle for two people. Viewed as a means of
carrying four with luggage, it at first sight seemed absolutely
impracticable.
"Oh, it's all right; I'll walk," said the Boy, regardless of the
fact that ten long miles of wet road lay between us and the Hotel
Marina at Soller.
Our luggage was as little as a party of three could be expected to
require during a week's expedition, comprising as it did only one
large portmanteau, a suit-case, some sketching materials, and a
couple of rugs. Yet compared with the size of the conveyance it
appeared of enormous dimensions.
Nothing daunted by the overwhelming bulk of his prospective load,
the driver put the suit-case under the seat, propped the big
portmanteau up on it, and invited me to get in. That done, allowing
a modicum of space for himself, the carriage was full.
Obviously that plan would not do. Again we looked at each other in
despair. Fortunately the driver was a man of resource. Hauling out
the big bag, he wrapped it in a sail-like canvas cover, and,
producing fragments of rope from all his pockets, proceeded to tie
it on at the back of the cart. Running into the house, Netta brought
more rope for its better security. With the load hanging behind, it
seemed as though the tiny vehicle were already overweighted; but its
capacity for endurance proved greater than we anticipated. The Man
got in, the Boy got in, the driver also mounted. All three were
jammed into a narrow seat for two. I was squeezed in somewhere at
the back, and at last our journey began.
As we drove on the feeling of insecurity lessened; we forgot to
expect the cart to tip up. Our mule proved himself a good goer, and
we early learned to adapt ourselves to conditions--to lean forwards
going uphill, to incline backwards when the way led downwards.
Though the mist still blurred the mountains the coast scenery was
magnificent. The road, which lay half-way between sea and
mountain-top, was bordered on either side by olive plantations.
About three miles from the Hospederia it curved inwards into the
most beautiful valley I had ever seen.
[Illustration: A Tight Fit]
Houses that looked like nests, so thickly were they surrounded by
luxuriant foliage, were scattered about the lower parts of the hills
that on three sides rose steeply; on the fourth the land declined
gently to the Mediterranean.
Here there were no jealous walls to hedge in the gardens. Oranges,
lemons, and figs in full fruitage overhung the highway. Tall palms
rose overhead, and down by a fountain women were washing. It was the
village of Deya, a sleepy nest seven miles from even a diligence,
but, even seen through a blur of rain, a place of exquisite beauty.
"We must come back here."
"Yes, we'll come back----"
"And stay a month," we agreed, as we had done about so many charming
spots that we had got just a glimpse of, and as we were fated to do
about so many more before our sojourn in these lovely isles came to
a close.
We would gladly have lingered to explore the beauties of Deya, but
the delay at starting had already encroached on the November
afternoon, and the greater portion of our journey was yet to come.
So the men, who had got down to walk through the village, remounted,
and once more, huddled up together, off we joggled, out of the
lovely valley and along a cliff-road where, among the grey-green
olive-trees, girls in skirts of vivid scarlet were gathering the
fallen fruit.
It was five o'clock and dusk was already falling when we descended
the zigzag road leading into Soller and, passing a picturesque old
cross, turned into a modern-looking street planted on either side
with trees.
"What I want to see now," I said, deliberately shutting my eyes to
the scenery, "is a hotel with electric light, and a good fire, and
German waiters, and French cookery."
"Don't be hateful," retorted the Boy. "But it doesn't matter; you
won't see it. My only fear is that they won't be able to take us
in."
The rain, which was now falling more heavily, had sent the townsfolk
indoors. The only wayfarer in sight was a venerable gentleman who,
as he sat astride a panniered donkey, protected himself from the
rain with a large umbrella.
Turning with a final jolt, we drew up in front of the Hotel Marina,
whose wide glass doors opened hospitably to receive us.
There was no question of lack of room, fortunately, but the
dinner-hour was yet two hours ahead, and even the satisfaction
derived from the omelet (which wasn't really an omelet) was already
a vague memory. But we are people of resource. While I boiled the
unfailing tea-kettle the men foraged, returning with provender in
the shape of crisply toasted _bizcochos_ and _cocas_, and we had a
cosy tea that enabled us to possess our bodies in patience until the
dinner-hour.
The waiter who served us was German, the cookery revealed more than
a suspicion of French influence, the electric light was brilliant,
and there was a cheery fire. But even the Boy did not complain.
IX
SOLLER
Though a longer acquaintance reveals many charming and wholly
Majorcan characteristics, at first sight Soller resembles a Swiss
town, so closely do the high mountains encircle it. The likeness is
emphasized when, as occasionally happens in winter, the double crest
of the Puig Major is tipped with snow.
With the exception of Palma, Soller was the only Balearic town in
which we had slept. Half unconsciously we found ourselves putting
them in comparison, to discover that while each is, after its own
fashion, delightful, they are entirely dissimilar.
Palma, "compactly built together," stands, crowded a little, within
its city walls, its feet lapped by the sea, a fertile plain behind
it, while Soller stretches itself at ease among its hills, with
abundant elbow-room, in a fruitful orange grove. Water is a precious
thing in Palma, where drinking-water in quaint Moorish stone jars is
hawked through the streets, while a striking and refreshing feature
of Soller is the abundance of running water. It flowed--a little
sluggishly perhaps, for the rains had not yet come--over the stony
bed of the _torrente_; it gushed unchecked from the street
fountains; it ran along cunningly contrived stone conduits and
turned mills.
[Illustration: Soller]
There are no rivers in Majorca. The beds of the _torrentes_ that
ought to be rivers are often so dry that they resemble rough
sun-baked roads. It was so many weeks since we had seen even a
thread of running water that the sound of its flow was music in our
ears. As a full and free supply of pure water is essential to the
well-being of a town, one easily understands how Soller has the
advantage of Palma in health conditions. The absorbent soil of
Soller ensures freedom from rheumatism, and the old people remain
hale and hearty to the close of lives that in many cases come within
nodding distance of a century.
Perhaps it was owing to the absence of the military, or the want of
a railway--though Soller has one in the making--or of the close
vicinity of a port, but to our cursory view Soller appeared less
gay, and its people seemed to lack the irresponsible smiling
light-heartedness of Palma folks.
There were architectural differences also. To enter one of the
better-class houses in the larger city one crosses a _patio_, or
open courtyard, and having ascended a stair, knocks at a door; while
in Soller one steps directly from the street into a large hall, on
either side of which, close to the wall, are set a long row of
chairs all of similar design. Here visitors are received, and, as
far as we could judge, penetrate no further.
Soller has few of the flat roof-tops or windows that are so
prominent a feature of the old Moorish capital, but Soller has more
chimneys; in the stillness of early morning the faint blue haze of
wood fires overhangs the town.
Our first day at Soller opened dull and grey. Much rain had fallen
in the night. The streets were damp, the mountains mist-shrouded.
The Boy and I felt depressed and cross. The Man, who had already
discerned picturesque possibilities in the unique situation of the
place, put a sketch-book in his pocket and went off in search of a
typical subject. The Boy and I prowled about the narrow streets,
allowing ourselves to be annoyed at everything--at the mud, at the
Sunday crowds, and at the way they stared at us.
In the square before the church was a busy little market. At the
corner of the square, near where one gets a lovely view of the
_torrente_ overhung by the balconies of crooked old houses, some of
the ramshackle vehicles that convey marketers to and from the port
of Soller were waiting.
"Let's go and have a look at the port," proposed the Boy. "Those
people look at us as if we were wild beasts. And it will be better
than hanging about here in the mud."
The shower that had been threatening all the morning was beginning
to fall, so I agreed. Selecting the coach that seemed on the point
of starting, we took our seats. A young couple, an old couple, and
half a dozen market baskets overflowing with greenstuff, shared the
interior with us. Three more people and several more baskets mounted
to the box, and, just as the rain began to patter heavily on the
canvas roof, we drove off, glad to have secured the temporary
shelter.
The way from Soller to its port seems to lie through an orange
grove, so closely is it flanked on either side with gardens full of
the shining leaves and golden fruit. It was sad to learn that a
blight had attacked the crop in the lower part of the valley, and to
see in one orchard a heap of trees, plucked up by the roots with the
fruit still thick on the branches, waiting to be burnt.
As we drove slowly along we met many country people townwards bent
to mass or market. Long usage in sunshine and shadow had streaked
the original hue of their great cotton umbrellas with broad lines of
lighter tint--lines that until one guessed the cause looked like
elaborately decorative stripes.
By the time we had reached the entrance to the landlocked harbour
the rain had ceased. Fitful gleams of sunshine broke through the
clouds, and the air was soft and pleasant.
Except from one point of view the natural harbour resembled a quiet
inland lake. There was no sign of the near proximity of the sea. To
the left rose a bold headland crowned by a lighthouse. To the right
was a long sweep of bay lined at the farther end by a row of houses,
before which small craft lay at anchor. Swart fishermen in red caps
and yellow boots lounged by the doors of the cafes.
Just beyond the houses the steamer _Villa de Soller_, that makes
periodical trips between the port, Barcelona and Cette, was loading
boxes of the oranges for which the district is famed. Farther on was
a second lighthouse.
Climbing the steps that rose steeply between the two rows of houses,
we reached the summit of the rocky promontory. Rusty cannon, their
work long over, lay at rest in front of the old chapel that crowns
the eminence. Before us lay the placid land-encircled sheet of
water, behind us was a wall. Glancing over, we discovered, to our
surprise and pleasure, that instead of the country landscape we had
somehow expected to see, the ground fell sheer down to where the
purple-blue Mediterranean ceaselessly surged beneath.
The unexpected transition from the peaceful inland lake surrounded
by mist-flecked mountains to a precipitous coast was curiously
interesting. A moment earlier, with the moisture-laden air blowing
softly in our faces, we could have imagined ourselves in the heart
of the Scots Highlands. Now, by the mere turning of a head, we were
gazing across a great tideless sea.
A capacious coach, in which we chanced to be the only passengers,
conveyed us back to Soller and deposited us at the door of the Hotel
Marina, where the Man, who had spent the morning sketching on a
mountain-slope, was waiting to join us at luncheon.
The town was busy when, later in the day, we made a tour of
inspection, finding fresh interest at every turn. A row of bananas
rich in pod, a group of quaint old-world houses, a great palm
rearing its stately head, its thick clusters of orange-red fruit
stems heavily beaded with shining yellow fruit.
There was leisure in the air. It was evidently the visiting hour. In
the entrance halls, in full view of the passing public, comely dames
sat chatting all in a row, like the pretty maids in the garden of
Mary-Mary-Quite-Contrary.
To us it always seemed odd to see the gossipers seated side by side
in a formal line--a position that one would imagine was not
conducive to the exchange of confidences.
The suggestion of French influence in the architecture of certain of
the newer houses was explained by the fact that when natives of
Soller leave the island to seek their fortune they rarely go further
than France--an easy journey with the _Villa de Soller_ sailing at
frequent intervals from the port to Cette. And when the exiles
return--as they invariably do, for the emigrant Majorcan's sole
desire is to make money that he may settle in his own country--they
naturally import some of the ideas and tastes of the nation with
which they have sojourned.
French influence, too, was noticeable in the way the women dressed
their hair. In many instances, particularly among the younger women,
the pigtail and the _rebozillo_, or head-handkerchief, had given
place to an elaborately dressed coiffure.
All night the full moon had illumined a sleepy world. When I looked
out at six o'clock it was still visible, though the light of the
hidden sun was already flushing with roseate tints the highest
mountain-tops. Over the valley the azure smoke of wood fires lay
softly, and the sweet, sickly fragrance of steaming chocolate was in
the air.
The valley was still partly in shadow when after breakfast the Man
went out to resume work. Leaving the Boy to his own devices, I went
with him.
The country immediately surrounding Soller is so full of roads all
beautiful, and paths all picturesque, that it is often difficult,
even for those who know the district well, to find the way they look
for. After a little winding in and out of the twisted streets we
came upon the expected road--a track leading upwards towards the
olive terraces.
From the steep slope where we sat it was curious to watch the
progress of the sun as it rose over the mountain-tops to note how,
as it climbed higher, the shadows shortened, the moist streets
dried, the chill vanished from the atmosphere, and new shadows crept
over the sunlit sides of the surrounding hills.
Beneath us ran the _torrente_, and from the roads on either side of
its banks came the sound of wayfarers entering or leaving the town.
The air was full of cheerful sounds, of the rattle of wheels, or the
tinkle of bells and the bleat of lambs as a flock was driven by. The
atmosphere was so clear that we caught the swift musical note of a
church clock, and the sound of a gunshot reverberated among the
hills like a peal of thunder.
The few passers-by gave us kindly greeting. Two old women returning
from market, a bevy of young girls on their way to gather the fallen
olives, an old couple trotting briskly beside their panniered
donkey--all had time to smile and wish us "Good-day."
As the sun became stronger I rose and wandered on, up the steep,
cobbled road, past the gardens where the oranges hung golden,
looking for wild flowers. Even in the days of late November one
rarely looks in vain for wild flowers in Majorca; and this morning,
strolling along by the runnels of water, where the delicate
maidenhair fern grew in profusion, I saw twining about the ivy
berries in the hedge a lovely creeper that was new to me.