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 Mahon 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 senora 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 Mahon, 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 Mahon. 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
Mahon, his reception of us was so cordial that we sincerely
regretted not having called sooner.
Senor Bartolome 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 senor 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.
[Illustration: _Comerciantes_ in the Fonda at Mahon]
There was little stir on the quay. The departure of a mail boat from
Mahon 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 Espanolet, 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.
[Illustration: An Interior in Alaro]
XVIII
ALARO
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 Alaro,
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 Alaro, 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 Alaro; 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, Alaro 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 Alaro, 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, senoras," 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.
A shower at length drove us back to the shelter of the dining-room
at the _fonda_, where the big logs that burned on the open hearth
glowed a welcome. There the Squire and the Boy joined us, wet from
the rain that had caught them when half-way down the mountain, but
by no means weary. They described the path as having been a zigzag
mule-track all the way. It was rough walking, but presented no
difficulty whatever.
[Illustration: Alaro]