gather about the Pollensa _fondas_--there were no so-called
hotels--was that they were reputed to be bad. But when the coach
stopped, and we had alighted, and were standing with our luggage on
the cobble-stones, wondering in what direction to turn for a
lodging, a young man, plump, clean-shaven, bare-headed, appearing
from nowhere, begged breathlessly to recommend his _fonda_.
Following him through crooked ways we reached the hostelry, which
was in a little square near the market-place. Mounting a steep
stair, we entered a large lavishly windowed room furnished with many
round tables and chairs. It had a little bar and looked to the
square; behind it was a dining-room.
The Boy, who was our spokesman, following the expected procedure,
inquired the terms per day.
"Six pesetas." Our host, following an equally expected procedure
when arranging with foreigners, had quoted his top price.
"No," said the Boy, whom experience had taught wisdom. "Three
pesetas; that is enough. Can you not do it for that?"
The landlord waved his hands. "That depends on what you have," he
replied, quite reasonably. "Three pesetas--yes, if you will be
content with soup and one other dish at dinner and at supper."
"And is the little breakfast included?"
"Yes, senor. Coffee and milk."
So it was decided. Three pesetas a day was to be the price. And it
was with a feeling of keen curiosity as to what our host would
provide for the money that we awaited the appearance of the first
meal, which was to be served immediately. Senor Calafill at Andraitx
had given us the perfection of French cookery, the best of wines, at
three and a half pesetas. But his house was less pretentious, being
a shop only and not a _fonda_.
Our hostess, a nice, bright little woman who wore her hair in a
pigtail and the _rebozillo_, bustled in and began laying the
marble-topped table with fresh napkins, good cutlery, rolls, a
bottle of wine, and a syphon of soda-water. Then she added a dish of
fruit, and running off to the kitchen returned with the soup--a good
thick Majorcan soup, full of rice and sweet peppers and chopped
meat. The second course was a large dish of fish served with fried
potatoes. Then we had, as a fruit course, apples and mandarin
oranges. The fare might not be lavish, but it was assuredly all we
required.
Our rooms, which were the best the house afforded, were small but
clean, and during our stay proved quite free from mosquitoes.
When we discussed how we would spend the afternoon, the Boy and I
hotly advocated walking to the port of Pollensa. A traveller from an
inland town who had shared the box-seat of the diligence with the
Boy had spoken enthusiastically of its beauty. His family was
accustomed to spend the hot months there. The fishing, he said, was
splendid, the fish being of much finer quality than those taken in
the neighbouring bay of Alcudia.
"A salmonetta caught in the bay of Pollensa _is_ a salmonetta," he
had declared emphatically.
The Man wisely objected to the expedition. The port, he reminded us,
was seven kilometros (nearly five miles) away, and that was too far
to go and return comfortably in the short winter afternoon. Besides,
when we had come to see a curious old town, why not stay to look at
it?
But from my bedroom window I had caught an enchanting glimpse of the
port--a segment of blue water hemmed in by steep rocky mountains. It
seemed so near that I flouted the idea of the five miles, and the
afternoon being a glorious one we finally agreed to go.
As we passed along an outlying street an old man, who stood outside
his house superintending the drying of a great tray of macaroni,
wished us "Good day."
In returning his greeting the Man added a remark on the beauty of
the weather, which indeed to us seemed perfect.
"No. This weather is not good. It is bad," the old man said
severely. "It is rain that is needed. The country suffers. No,
senor. This weather is bad, not good."
The way was a relic of the Roman occupation: a splendid wide level
road that, except for a curve where it left the town, stretched like
a broad ruled line between us and the blue sea. It could not really
be so far as seven kilometros, I assured my vigilant conscience,
which was inclined to remonstrate. It looked no distance at all.
So we went on our wilful way, journeying gaily between the thorny
hedges of aloes--one up among the rocks on the hill-side was in
bloom--and beside the little farms that bordered either side of the
road.
The road was long--quite five miles--but there was always something
interesting at hand, and the enticing strip of blue water drew us
onward. The hills on the opposite side of the bay had already caught
the rays of the setting sun, and looked like a bit of some
dream-world.
The port of Pollensa had a quaint semicircle of houses, divided in
the middle by the road we had come, which ended only on the bit of
wharf that ran out into the spacious well-sheltered bay, where the
British fleet had often found commodious anchorage. Save for a few
local _falucas_ it was now empty.
In the little enclosed yards in front of the fisher-houses men and
girls were at work weaving from bright yellow strips of bamboo the
tall, beehive-looking lobster-traps in local use. Behind the houses,
on the left side of the bay, rose a precipitous hill. In front,
between the houses and the water, was a line of fig-trees. Along
towards the seaward point were some small charmingly situated
summer residences.
When we turned our faces townwards the sun had already set; and
though we walked smartly, the way that in the going had seemed short
appeared to lengthen as the shadows crept over the hills and
darkness encircled us.
Pollensa lies, a close huddle of old sun-dried houses, in a narrow
curved valley between high mountains. Until you are close upon it,
it is almost entirely hidden, and that was probably the intention
with which it was originally planned. During the last mile or two of
the return journey, when the shades had fallen and we went on and on
without apparently getting any nearer our habitation, my opinion of
the distance that divided the port from the town became considerably
modified. Still, we were only pleasantly tired when the first of the
town lights appeared, and we found our way to the _fonda_ through
the twisted streets, past many well-lit barbers' shops where, in
full view of the public gaze, men were being shaved or sitting in
patient rows resignedly awaiting turns that, to judge from the large
number of customers and the paucity of barbers, would necessarily be
a long time in coming.
Supper was ready to serve, and the moment the meal was over I went
upstairs to bed--to sleep soon and sweetly, in spite of the fact
that conversation in the bar-room beneath sounded surprisingly
distinct--about as loud, indeed, as though the owners of the voices
were talking at my ear. Morning brought explanation of the
phenomenon--one of the flooring tiles just at the head of the bed
was missing, and through the gap thus left the noise of the unseen
talkers entered the room as through a speaking-tube.
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.
[Illustration: The Main Street of Pollensa]
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
Senora 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 senora 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
Espanolet."
"At Son Espanolet!" The senora confessed to having had a summer
residence in Son Espanolet.
"Our house is in the Calle de Mas--Number 23."
"In the Calle de Mas! Caramba! What a coincidence!" The senora'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 senora "Adios" to resume our quest, the senor 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 Soller, 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.
[Illustration: The Roman Gateway, Alcudia]
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.