MINORCA
April was now nearly over and our holiday in the Balearics was drawing
to its close. We had seen Majorca pretty thoroughly, we had had a
charming glimpse of Iviza, and it only remained to spend a few days in
Minorca to complete our tour of the islands. For fifty pesetas two
first-class passages were secured for us on the _Isla de Menorca_,
leaving Palma on April 26th, and at half-past six that evening we went
on board, prepared to endure the eleven hours’ crossing to Port Mahon.
To the last it was doubtful whether the boat would start that night; a
high west wind was blowing, the bay was flecked with white horses, and
the clothes hung out on the housetops were clapping wildly, as if in
exultation. But start we eventually did—perhaps owing to the fact that
the Governor of the Balearics was on board, a personage of sufficient
importance to allay any apprehension on our part as to the voyage, and
indeed to act as a practical guarantee of safety, since, though the wind
and the waves may be no respecters of persons, it remains an undoubted
fact that governors of provinces get drowned far less frequently than do
obscure individuals.
At half-past five the following morning we entered the famous Minorcan
port, and steamed up it for three miles before sighting Mahon, which
occupies a commanding position on the edge of the precipitous rock walls
of the harbour. Disembarking at a little quay below the town, we
confided our valises to a porter and followed him up a steep, cobbled
street to the Hotel Bustamante, a very respectable inn in the higher
quarter, where we were promptly accommodated with rooms and board at a
_pension_ of six pesetas a day.
Seen at close quarters, Mahon is singularly uninteresting and
commonplace. If the architecture of Palma is essentially Spanish, and
that of Iviza Moorish, Mahon must be put down as painfully and typically
English. The long, straight streets of ugly houses, without balconies or
outside shutters, the dreary vistas of grey cobbles and foot pavements
recall the outskirts of one of our own manufacturing towns; there are
the same mean-looking painted street doors, the same sash windows, even
the same lace curtains inside. We were shown the exercise ground, with
its row of British-built barracks, the hideous Paséo, or Promenade,
which resembles a cinder track, and the favourite drive along the
harbour, a dismally unattractive road. The sole trace of the picturesque
that the town can lay claim to consists of one small fragment of the old
fortifications that spans a modern street—a turreted archway known as
Barbarossa’s Gate, in memory of the corsair who sacked the city in the
sixteenth century.
The inhabitants of Mahon share the general commonplaceness of their
surroundings. They have neither the dignified bearing of the Majorcans
nor their good looks; the men are not clean shaven like those of the
other islands, but wear beards, and sometimes whiskers. The style of
dress is also very inferior, and here and there we met with signs of
actual untidiness among the women—frowsy heads and ill-fitting blouses,
such as we had not set eyes on since landing in the Balearics.
Something of this lack of personal neatness may perhaps be set down to
the tempestuous winds from which Mahon suffers almost perpetually, and
which nearly tore our hats from our heads and our clothes from our backs
as we drove out towards the mouth of the harbour to visit the ruined
fortress of San Felípe. San Felípe is a strong position commanding the
approach to Port Mahon upon the southern side, and it played an
important part in the English occupation of Minorca. Twice captured by
the British and twice retaken, it fell for the second time in the year
1782, when General Murray was forced to capitulate to a combined French
and Spanish force under De Crillon, after a long and tedious siege which
the allies had hoped to avoid by the offer of a bribe of £100,000 to the
English general.
It was during this siege that the cook of the Duc de Crillon earned for
himself undying fame by inventing as an adjunct to his master’s salads
the sauce termed _Mahonnaise_—the familiar mayonnaise of all cookery
books to come.
We had hoped to find objects of pictorial as well as sentimental value
among the ruined fortifications, rock galleries, and nameless British
graves at San Felípe, of which the guide book speaks, but our hopes were
destined to be rudely dashed, for after a most uninteresting drive of a
couple of miles between untidy stone walls we were unceremoniously
stopped by a sentry, who informed us that no one was allowed to approach
the fort without a permit from the commandant of Mahon. For our
consolation he added that in any case there was nothing to be seen, as
the ruins of the old fort had been replaced by modern defence works. A
more unpicturesque scene could indeed hardly be imagined than the site
of San Felípe now presents—a bleak headland traversed by long lines of
masonry and intersecting trenches, with grass-grown embankments sloping
down to the old sea wall on the side of the harbour, from whence one
looks across to the new fortress built on the opposite peninsula.
Disappointed, we retraced our steps. It was now evident that neither
Mahon nor its immediate surroundings would produce anything that need
detain us in the town, and we decided to set out without further delay
in search of those relics of a far older occupation than that of the
British—the menhirs and dolmens of a pre-historic race.
These megalithic remains—of which there are said to be some two hundred
groups in all—are found scattered over the whole of the southern half of
the island; but the average traveller will be wise to confine himself to
those specimens only which present most perfectly the different types of
monument erected, _i.e._, the tumulus or talayót, the altar, the
enclosure of monoliths, and the megalithic dwelling. Some of the finest
specimens of all occur in the neighbourhood of Mahon itself, and can be
visited in the course of a drive extending over some four hours. Acting
on the recommendation of our very friendly host we chartered a
_galaréta_ driven by a swarthy native who knew the country thoroughly.
Our host, to our great surprise, spoke very fair English, and even our
driver could say “Yes,” which was a great advance upon anything we had
yet met with.
It is singular that although so many English customs and traditions have
survived amongst the Mahonese—who are dubbed _Inglesos_ by the rest of
the island—yet the only island to agree with ourselves in its rule of
the road should be Majorca, both Minorca and Iviza following the
opposite and continental fashion.
Mounting our _galaréta_ we bumped and crashed away over the worn paving
of the town and emerged by the Barbarossa gate into the open country.
The surroundings of Mahon are not beautiful; flat, windswept, and
practically treeless, save where a stunted olive-tree hunches its back
to the blast, the most conspicuous feature of the landscape is its
countless miles of stone walls. If we had thought Majorca stony, it was
only because we had not seen Minorca. Majorca is a land of fields
intersected by walls—Minorca a land of walls interspersed with fields.
Once off the high road one becomes involved in a labyrinth of narrow
lanes bordered by stone walls four or five feet thick, and varying in
height from six to ten feet, between which one wanders as in an
overgrown aqueduct. Every field, however small—and some of them are
patches but a few yards square—is enclosed by a prodigious rampart of
loose stones, within which cows and donkeys graze as though at the
bottom of a quarry. These walls serve a double purpose in sheltering the
crops and the animals from the wind, and in relieving the land of a
certain proportion of superabundant stone.
As may be imagined, a cross-country tramp in Minorca is attended with
considerable difficulty, and in visiting the talayóts it is essential to
have a guide who knows his way about and who can direct one through the
maze of obstacles that has to be threaded in attaining some tumulus that
rises like a landmark half a mile away. Much of the land is under wheat—
the crop much behind that of Majorca—and this has to be carefully
skirted, or waded through with an eye to the barest patches of ground;
other fields are devoted to pasture, where handsome mauve thistles
flourish abundantly in the rocky soil, in company with periwinkles,
borage, yellow daisies, white clover, and sweet alyssum. As a rule the
enclosures can be entered and quitted by the _barréras_—light wooden
barriers kept in place by blocks of stone and removed for the passage of
cattle; but occasionally we were obliged to scale the walls by means of
projecting footholds built into their sides, whereat spotted cows ceased
grazing, to gaze with mild surprise at the unusual spectacle of two
ladies performing gymnastic feats in company with a camera and tripod.
A quarter of an hour’s arduous progression brought us to the _talayót_
of Trepúco, said to be one of the largest in the island, but by no means
that in the best preservation. The Minorcan _talayóts_—a word akin to
_atalaya_, a watch-tower—consist of solid cone-shaped cairns built of
roughly dressed stone blocks, often of gigantic size. These cairns range
from thirty to sixty feet in diameter, and from twenty to thirty feet in
height; but at close quarters they are far less conspicuous objects than
might be supposed, partly owing to their general resemblance to the
stone walls surrounding them, and partly to the enveloping scrub of
lentiscus and oleaster which conceals their outline and lends them the
appearance of a natural mound. Some of them are in an extremely
dilapidated condition—others again, like the _talayót_ of Toréllo of
which a picture is given, are in almost perfect preservation. It is
supposed that they are the burial cairns of chieftains, but though
cinerary urns are said to have been found inside them in one or two
instances, this theory alone does not satisfactorily account for other
features of these curious monuments. In some of them traces of interior
chambers have been discovered, others have a sloping ramp running round
the outside as a means of ascent, and the _talayót_ of Toréllo has an
aperture like a window, on a level with the summit of the mound, the
reason of which it is impossible to guess.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ talayot _of Torello is in almost perfect preservation
... it is supposed that they are the burial cairns of
chieftains_.”
(page 148)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The upright slab of the Talato-de-Dalt must be nearly
twelve feet in height ... and surrounding it are traces of
a circle of monoliths of about the same height._”
(page 149)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Not one of these tumuli has, I believe, yet been properly examined, and
their purpose—whether sepulchre, watch-tower, refuge, or accessory to
some strange religious rite—is still a secret, though the latter
supposition finds support in the fact that where there is a _talayót_
there is in many cases an altar in its immediate vicinity. These altars
or _mésas_—tables, as the natives call them—are composed of two gigantic
slabs of dressed stone, the one imbedded in an upright position in the
ground, the other balanced horizontally upon it. The altar of Trepúco
consists of two fine monoliths, the lower one measuring nearly nine feet
in width and standing over seven feet out of the ground; but that of the
Taláto-de-Dalt far exceeds these measurements, the upright slab being
nearer twelve feet in height and proportionately wide. When the upper
stone had been laid in its horizontal position it was apparently
considered ill-balanced, and a prop has been added in the shape of a
leaning slab surmounted by a wedge. The group of monuments at this spot
is the most complete that will be found in Minorca; the tumulus itself
is in a chaotic state, but the altar is of unusual size, and surrounding
it are seen traces of a circle of monoliths of nearly the same height as
the pedestal. Just outside this enclosure is a so-called megalithic
dwelling into which one can creep on hands and knees; the walls are of
rough stone, and two short, thick pillars, about three feet high, uphold
the large slabs that form the roof. The members of the priesthood—if
such they were who tenanted these modest habitations—certainly did not
err on the side of luxury in their homes.
In few countries perhaps would the splendid monoliths of these altars
and the tempting quarries of building material provided by these
_talayóts_ have survived destruction as they have in Minorca. The very
profusion of stone, constituting not merely a drug but a curse
throughout the island, has safeguarded these old monuments more
effectually than any protection founded on sentiment could have done,
for it has simply never been worth anybody’s while to utilise them.
All the Minorcan country-folk live in excellent stone houses, as might
be supposed, and before leaving the island we had the opportunity of
visiting a solitary outlying homestead tenanted by a peasant family of a
superior class. Although we were fully prepared to find signs of homely
comfort in the dwellings of so industrious a people as the Minorcans,
yet it was a surprise to see how excellent—not to say luxurious—were the
appointments of this house. Not a room but was better furnished than
those of any _fonda_ at which we had stayed. The spacious bedrooms had
handsome bedsteads, large wardrobes—an article of furniture never seen
in Majorca—and one of them actually contained a fine toilet-table _à
l’Anglaise_, with a marble top and sets of small drawers. The daughter
of the house showed us the kitchen, the dairy—with its big white cheeses
destined for the Mahon market—and then she took us upstairs to the
attics, where hanks of homespun yarn hung from the ceiling in company
with hundreds of dried sausages and home-cured hams. In one small and
otherwise empty room were half a dozen faggots carefully propped
together in the centre of the floor within a ring of sheeps’ wool—a
scene so suggestive of sorcery that our thoughts involuntarily turned to
some magic rite connected with the mysterious cromlechs of the land. But
the girl informed us that this was a depôt for live stock destined for
the table—and pointing out myriads of snails adhering to the sticks she
assured us that they were very excellent eating when fried.
The neatness and spotlessness of the whole place it would be impossible
to exaggerate. The Minorcan housewife is popularly supposed to live with
a broom in one hand and a pail of whitewash in the other, and the
industry and morality of the islanders make them valued colonists in any
land to which they may emigrate. Early trained to habits of thrift and
diligent labour in a hard school, the peasants have no sympathy with
those who think to sit under the _mañana_ tree and yet to prosper, and
the tragic fate awaiting them is thus recorded in an ancient Minorcan
verse:
Juan and Juanita
Go to the wood;
Monday they saddle,
Tuesday they start,
Wednesday they arrive,
Thursday they cut wood,
Friday they load it up,
Saturday they set off,
Sunday they come home;
That is why they died of hunger.
* * * * *
On April 28th we left Mahon and went to Ciudadéla on the west coast, the
town which formed the capital of Minorca up to the time of the English
occupation. The two towns are connected by a splendid road that runs
through the very centre of the island; and as the distance is little
more than thirty miles the journey can easily be accomplished by
carriage in a day. We started at nine o’clock in our _galaréta_ of the
previous day; our valises were bestowed upon the front seat beside the
driver, and we ourselves climbed into the closed part of the vehicle at
the back, not sorry to be sheltered from the wind. We had an excellent
mule, both strong and active, who trotted briskly on the flat and pegged
away up the hills as though walking for a wager—a characteristic which
we observed most of the mules to share.
Leaving the town we bowled away along the great main road of the island.
Seen in the brilliant sunshine of an April morning, with a blue sky
overhead, green crops in the fields and wild flowers spangling the
wayside, even the country around Mahon becomes invested with a kind of
fictitious beauty; but what the hideous desolation must be of these
endless stone walls seen on a grey winter’s day or under the parching
drought of summer it is hardly possible to conceive.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Our valises were on the front seat beside the driver, and
we ourselves climbed into the closed part of the_ galareta _at
the back_....”
(page 152)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The prevailing tree of Minorca is the wild olive, which
turns its back to the north ... and assumes the appearance
of a crumb-brush._”
(page 153)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“When the North wind goes down the West wind is already knocking at the
door,” says a Minorcan proverb, and the few trees that grow in these
exposed regions are driven to the most ridiculous subterfuges in their
endeavours to protect their foliage from the blasts that sweep for ever
across the island. The prevailing tree is the oleaster, or wild olive,
which turns its back to the north, and with bent stem and long hair all
blown in one direction assumes as nearly as possible the appearance of
an attenuated crumb-brush. Some of the trees are absolutely ludicrous in
their contortions, and we could not help laughing at the sight of a
whole row of them growing beside a low stone wall, over which they had
flung themselves in their attempts to escape; falling on their hands and
knees, so to speak, in the next field, they had picked themselves up
again and gone on running, leaving their roots and trunks on the farther
side of the wall—quite content so long as the very tips of their
branches remained alive and out of reach of the dreaded north wind.
At the seventh kilometre stone out of Mahon our driver pulled up, and
tying the mule to a gate, he led us across a field to show us what he
called a _bonito casito_—a good little house—built by megalithic man.
At the base of a ruined _talayót_ constructed of enormous stones and
overgrown with ivy, we saw a small opening, about a yard in height,
leading into a low passage some eight feet long, at the further end of
which is a still smaller doorway, measuring only two feet six inches by
two feet. Once through this, however, one enters a palatial abode not
less than twenty feet long, seven wide, and nine high—which, although it
will hardly bear comparison in point of grandeur with the stone
dwellings built by the Minorcans nowadays for their pigs, was yet so
immeasurably superior to the modest priestly dwelling of Taláto-de-Dalt
that we concluded that we were looking upon the residence of none other
than the arch-druid or high-priest himself—and that it was through this
very doorway that the venerable personage used to emerge on all fours,
robed in full canonicals.
Of all the _talayóts_ that we examined this is the only one that
contained an inner chamber of any size, most of the so-called megalithic
dwellings consisting of small cavities or recesses that can only by a
stretch of imagination be supposed to have served as human habitations.
As one approaches the centre of the island the most conspicuous object
in the level landscape is the conical outline of Monte Toro, a mere
molehill less than twelve hundred feet in height, but raised to the
dignity of a mountain from the accident of having no rival in Minorca.
Upon its summit is seen the large convent and church of the Augustines,
a place of pilgrimage for the islanders. At noon we arrived at Mercadél,
a tidy and commonplace little village forming a half-way house between
Mahon and Ciudadéla, and here we put up for a couple of hours to rest
and have luncheon. The Governor of the Balearics who was making the tour
of Minorca in a steam diligence, arrived almost immediately after
ourselves, and from our window we could watch him being received in the
street by the local officials, between whom and the governor’s suite
there was much hat raising and clapping on the back—the latter form of
greeting being carried out mutually and simultaneously by both persons
concerned, with a peculiarly genial and happy effect. The governor’s
steam diligence overtook us again before we reached Ciudadéla, and our
mule, taking its snorting and rattling as a challenge, responded by
racing it frantically along the high road for more than a mile before he
would admit himself beaten.
On leaving Mercadél we made a _détour_ to the south by way of San
Cristobal, an hour distant, where Murray’s guide-book asserts that
certain “fine and curious _talayóts_” are to be found. Our search for
these, however, proved a wildgoose chase, for all our questioning of the
villagers produced nothing beyond four quite unimportant tumuli,
difficult of access and in no way worth visiting—our driver remarking
severely that he knew all along it would be so, since if he had not
heard of the monuments we were in quest of it was quite certain they did
not exist. In spite of this crushing observation we were not altogether
sorry to have come to San Cristobal, for the road passes through the
prettiest country we had yet seen in Minorca, undulating hills wooded
with pine and ilex, and ditches full of a handsome flowering reed not
unlike a small Pampas grass.
At Ferrerías, where we rejoined the high road, the whole soil is so
impregnated with iron that at a little distance one might have imagined
the landscape to be tinted by a Swiss _Alpenglūth_—the ruddy hillsides
and the dark red of the stone walls harmonising strikingly with the
crimson flower of a sheet of sainfoin in the foreground. The western
side of the island is in general more hilly and more timbered than the
eastern coast, some clumps of tall Aleppo pines forming picturesque
features in the scene.
When within a couple of miles of Ciudadéla our driver drew up, and
pointed out to us a large grey mass lying in a field some little
distance from the road. This was the _Nau de Tudons_, one of the most
remarkable monuments in the island, which our guide was particularly
anxious to show us; but after getting down and wrestling for a few
moments with a high field-gate he returned crestfallen to the carriage
to say that the gate was locked, and that it would, unfortunately, not
be possible for the señoras to visit the Nau, as there was no other way
of approach. Assuring him loftily that locked gates were as nothing in
our eyes we got over it, to his great astonishment, and made our way
across the fields towards a strange erection unlike any other we had
hitherto seen.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The_ Nau de Tudons _is one of the most remarkable of the
monuments in Minorca_.”
(page 156)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_A short walk brought us to the altar of Torre Trencado_....”
(page 159)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Nau de Tudons—_nau_ is the patois for boat—is composed of enormous
blocks of stone and built in the form of an upturned boat about thirty
feet in length and twelve in height. The rounded bow points to the
north, and at the base of the square stern is a so-called dwelling—a
retreat barely large enough to accommodate a human being. It is supposed
that the interior of the Nau itself served originally as a habitation,
for the centre is partially hollow and is roofed over with gigantic
slabs, most of which have now fallen in. There is something strangely
pathetic about this old monument raised by a long vanished race that has
left memorials of imperishable stone without a sign or a word to record
who the builders were or whence they came. Mysterious and lonely the Nau
stands out against the sunset sky; a couple of donkeys graze amongst
clumps of spurge and asphodel, and a stonechat chacks sharply from the
topmost slab of the roof; but the tide of human life has long receded
from the spot—never to return.
At seven o’clock we reached Ciudadéla and drew up at the Fonda Feliciano
in the Plaza Alfonso III. The sunset had cast such a glamour of crimson
and gold over the white city on the seashore that we were a little
disappointed to find it so essentially unromantic-looking at close
quarters, but any haven was welcome after seven hours’ shaking in a
_galaréta_. We found the inn to be chiefly frequented by persons of the
class—as far as we could judge—of commercial travellers, several of whom
dined at the _table d’hôte_ that evening. The fare was ample, but the
cookery far more greasy and less refined than in Majorca; the strangest
medley of eatables made its appearance on the dish sometimes—the beef
being garnished with potatoes, fat bacon, hunks of stewed cabbage,
_garbanzos_—enormous white beans—aniseed cake, and goodness knows what
besides, so that during one course we had nine different things on our
plate at once, to only five of which could we put a name. Being very
tired we went to bed early, our host informing us in bad English as he
lighted us upstairs that as the inn was very full he could not give us a
second bedroom till the following day. The fact that the house was being
rebuilt, and that we should be waked at five o’clock by workmen pulling
down a floor overhead, he prudently left us to find out for ourselves.
There are several excursions to be made from Ciudadéla, and the two days
we spent there were amply occupied in visiting the principal megalithic
remains in the neighbourhood. The _talayóts_ of Hostal which Murray’s
guide-book mentions, we found uninteresting, besides being troublesome
to get to—much traversing of rocky wheatfields and stone walls being
necessary before reaching them. But the drive to Torre Trencáda is well
worth taking, and can be combined with a visit to Llafúda.
Starting at nine o’clock, we retraced our steps along the high road for
a few miles and then turned off sharply by a cart track leading across
the fields. The pastures were studded with outcrops of live rock turned
to gold by a brilliant orange-coloured lichen, and innumerable tiny
field flowers, red and blue pimpernels, vetches, and a minute orange
marigold, spread a gay little carpet under foot. The common daisy of the
Balearics is not the crimson-tipped flower of our lawns, though quite as
wee and modest; it is a more fragile plant, and its flower has a faint
mauve tinge which on being dried becomes a bright blue. A friend of ours
at Kew told us it was the _Bellium bellidioides_ of Linnæus.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_Acting as a kind of pylon to the pigs’ palace at Son Saura
is a megalithic monument, unlike any other we saw_....”
(page 163)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_In the immense stone wall at Llafuda are built two or
three small megalithic dwellings_....”
(page 159)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A short walk brought us to the altar of Torre Trencádo, which is a very
fine one. The horizontal stone has in its lower surface a clean cut
socket which receives the head of the upright slab, but in spite of this
it has needed additional support in the shape of a pillar and wedge like
the _mésa_ at Taláto-de-Dalt. One would give much to penetrate the
secret of this old-world altar standing in its great solitude, wrapped
in the silence of the ages. For what strange worship of sun or moon was
it erected? What implacable deity demanded a human sacrifice? Does the
spirit of priest or victim ever haunt the lonely monument at twilight
and hovering around the symbol of an out-worn faith realise that the
gods themselves have passed away in the _Götterdämmerung_ that has
descended upon the land?
The monuments at Llafúda, although exceedingly extensive, are in a state
of chaotic ruin, the monoliths lying in confusion as though flung to the
ground by an earthquake. The position is partially encircled by an
immense stone wall, ten feet in height, in which are built two or three
small megalithic dwellings. This wall is absolutely typical of those
built at the present day by the Minorcans, barring the fact that its
thickness is in places not less than fifteen feet.
From the neighbouring _talayót_ a fine view over the surrounding country
is obtained—even the faint blue mountains of Majorca being visible
across the water. I had a somewhat ludicrous _rencontre_ upon the summit
of the cairn, for just as I reached the top I came face to face with a
big brown and white buzzard who was skimming over it from the opposite
side. It would be hard to say which of us was the most startled; we both
stepped back hurriedly, but the great bird was so close that I felt the
wind of his wings in my face and could see his magnificent golden eyes
dilate as for one moment he hung motionless, with yellow claws upturned,
before he swung round and with one convulsive flap was gone.
* * * * *
One of the pleasantest drives in the neighbourhood of Ciudadéla is to
Son Saura, an estate about six miles distant belonging to a Minorcan
nobleman. On this occasion we drove out _en famille_, for being Sunday
afternoon not only was the waiter sent with us to enjoy an outing, but
we were begged by our hostess to allow little José, aged six, to be of
the party. Little José was weeping dismally on the doorstep at the
moment, but as soon as our consent was given his tears stopped
instantaneously, and he was hoisted on to the box seat next the waiter,
under whose charge he was put. His mother assured us that he would be
good—but we had already seen quite enough of Master José to discount
this statement. Our hostess appeared to have no sort of authority over
her children; she would rave and shriek at them, and occasionally reduce
them to tears, but in the end they invariably got their own way, and
their attitude towards her was entirely that of the little girl in an
old Minorcan nursery couplet which for simplicity and impertinence it
would be hard to surpass:
The Mother says to her:
Dirty one! Badly brought-up one!
And she answers:
You! You were the same!
I may add at once that little José did not belie his character. He
snatched flowers from the flower beds, trampled mercilessly on precious
young tobacco plants in crossing the fields, nearly fell into a large
reservoir, was hauled hurriedly over two walls at the imminent risk of
overthrowing a whole row of his elders and betters, perilously balanced
on the top—and in fact acted as a complete antidote to any pleasure
which the poor harassed waiter might otherwise have derived from the
expedition. We, not being responsible for the child, took his misdoings
less to heart, and when he temporarily disappeared in the vicinity of an
open reservoir we were able to search the surface of the water for
bubbles with comparative calm—confident that Master José’s career had
not been such as to arouse the jealousy of the gods.
Son Saura is a pleasant-looking house surrounded by a large garden of
geraniums and verbenas, roses and lilacs, all in bloom at the time of
our visit. The estate is laid out with orange groves, olive and vine
yards, corn and tobacco plantations, the whole admirably irrigated from
two immense central reservoirs. In summer water has to be sought at a
great depth in Minorca, and the wells being too deep for the employment
of the Persian wheel, the usual method of raising the water is by means
of a large windlass turned by a donkey—one bucket being let down as the
other is wound up to the top. The drinking troughs for beasts which
stand beside these wells partake of the archaic simplicity and
durability of the dolmens, being formed of ponderous stone blocks
hollowed out to the required depth.
The modern Minorcan has indeed sundry habits not unworthy of the
megalithic monuments of his predecessors. The stones which he builds
into his field walls are hardly less vast than theirs, and the palaces
he erects for his pigs bear a strong family likeness to the prehistoric
_talayót_; composed entirely of loose stones, with a cleverly domed
roof, these buildings form quite a feature of the landscape in many
parts of the island. The smaller ones are often plain huts, but the
larger ones almost always have tastefully ornamented roofs—some
resembling the step pyramids of Sakkára, others being built in round
tiers like a gigantic wedding-cake. One—by no means the largest—which we
entered at Son Saura, and of which a picture is given, measured not less
than twenty feet across, inside, and twelve or fifteen feet in height;
spacious, clean, and delightfully cool in hot weather, these houses are
used by the pigs of Minorca as sleeping quarters at night and lounges at
midday. Any attempt to photograph the occupants we found, however, to be
out of the question: the very sight of a camera filled them with
suspicion, and when this was followed by a strategic advance their worst
fears were confirmed—with volleys of shrieks they broke up in panic,
and, with ears flapping wildly, went off helter skelter with all the
_abandon_ of their Gadarene ancestors.
Acting as a kind of pylon to the above-mentioned palace at Son Saura is
a curious old _mésa_, unlike any other we saw in the island—the
horizontal slab being supported on _two_ upright pillars, each of which
has a rude capital formed by a separate stone. This monument is possibly
of a different date from the other altars, and is said to be of a
pattern of which—as far as is known—only one other specimen exists, in
the island of Malta.
The last expedition we made at Ciudadéla was to visit the rock dwellings
at Son Moréll—a large property about an hour distant from the town.
There are three farmhouses upon the estate, at the first of which one
naturally draws up to inquire the way, and unless the traveller is very
careful he will here be taken to see two wholly unimportant tumuli lying
at some distance away amongst stone walls and a waste of asphodel—the
peasants being convinced that to lead a foreigner to the nearest
_talayót_ is the surest way of making him happy. In all good faith we
followed an ancient man across the fields, and in due course reached the
_talayóts_; it was quite useless to explain to our guide that it was not
such as these we were in search of, since besides being very deaf he
understood no word of Castillian, and when we remarked that the wind was
very high he replied by telling us that he was seventy-eight in January.
After much useless tramping and waste of time we at last discovered that
it was _Son Morell de Barránco_ to which we ought to have driven—the
Barranco being the ravine containing the rock dwellings—and continuing
our route across the fields we presently came to the second farm, lying
within a few minutes’ walk of the coast. Leaving the carriage here, we
descended on foot towards the sea, and soon came upon a row of curious
dwellings excavated in the rock walls of a narrow valley. Three of the
caves are of considerable size, and in the one of which we took a
photograph a pillar of live rock is left in the centre to support the
roof. All have neatly cut doorways and windows, and one of the house
fronts, as will be seen, shows traces of decoration—a cornice and a
couple of fluted pilasters having been rudely chiselled in the face of
the rock. Sheep and goats now inhabit the caves; of the people who with
patient labour constructed their dwellings in this wild and lonely
ravine by the sea no memory remains.
* * * * *
On the 1st of May we left Ciudadéla and returned to Mahon, stopping for
luncheon at the little town of Alayór, just off the main road. Seen from
a distance Alayór is a veritable fairy city set upon a hill—glistening
snow white in the sunshine—and though at close quarters it is no longer
beautiful, the whiteness of the houses is so dazzling that it is like
passing through snow-cuttings to drive through the streets, and we were
glad of the green glass panes of our _galaréta_ to protect our eyes from
the blinding glare. Whitewash is indeed a mania among the Minorcans,
who, not content with applying it to the outer and inner walls of their
houses, extend it to the tiles on the roof, the gutters, chimneys,
outhouses, and even neighbouring rocks. Where the field walls are coped
with freestone this also is whitened for miles, which gives the
landscape the curious and misleading effect of being traversed in every
direction by high roads.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The rock caves at Son Morell are of considerable size, and
one of the house fronts shows traces of decoration, a cornice
and a couple of fluted pilasters having been rudely chiselled
in the face of the rock._”
(page 164)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
“_The rock caves have neatly cut doorways and windows,
and one of them has a central pillar supporting the roof._”
(page 164)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Within half an hour’s drive of Alayór is the _mésa_ of Torralba—one of
the largest in the island, though it loses in effect by being encumbered
about the base by bushes and _débris_. The horizontal stone is said to
have a square cavity in its upper surface, as though to contain the
blood of a victim; but as our outfit did not include a ladder we were
obliged to take this statement on trust.
One of the sudden storms, for which Minorca is noted, overtook us while
we were engaged in photographing the altar. The sky darkened, and
without a moment’s warning such a deluge of rain descended that we were
quite unable to regain our carriage, not twenty yards distant. The
ground was swimming, the bushes and long grass were drenched, and when
ten minutes later the sun came out again and all was smiles, the only
dry member of the party was the camera—who with his usual foresight had
enveloped himself in the one waterproof cape at the very beginning of
the rain.
A couple of hours later we were again in Mahon, and at five o’clock that
same afternoon we had boarded the Palma boat and were taking our last
look at the town as we glided out of the bay—past the flat green tray of
Hospital Island, past the little rocky hump of Rat Island, where some
fishermen wave to us as their boat rocks on our swell—past the ruined
pepper-pot tower on the Philipet promontory—past the old sea walls of
San Felipe and the bristling defences of the Isabella fortress opposite—
and as we enter the open sea a chill wind springs up.
At daybreak we land once more—and for the last time—at the now familiar
quay at Palma, and are rattled through the streets that three short
months ago were new and strange of aspect in our eyes.
Our holiday in the south is over. It is the first week of May:
strawberries and cherries are in the market, and the voice of the cuckoo
is heard in the land. The pigeons are wheeling in flocks around the
sunlit tower of San Nicolas, and myriads of swifts still weave their
tireless flight over the town. But the swallows have gone northwards,
and we must follow them. Two busy days are spent in packing and in final
arrangements for the return home; and on the 5th of May we board the
_Miramar_ for Barcelona.
It is a marvellously lovely evening. The wide plain is wrapped in
shimmering shades of pink and violet, and brilliant against the deep
cobalt of the Sierra stand out the white houses of the town. Cutting the
western horizon in dark silhouette are the wooded slopes of Bellver—the
castle arch spanning a glowing fragment of the sunset where the gules
and or of Aragon are once more blazoned in the sky. The harbour is a
sheet of gold, and across the ever widening stretch of water Palma has
already dwindled to a doll’s city, where the great cathedral is the last
object on which our eyes linger. A spark breaks out on the old Moorish
tower as we glide past Porto Pi, some soldiers wave a last goodbye from
the earthworks of San Carlos, the darkening mountain slopes recede as we
reach the portal of Cala Figuéra—and at last we are clear of the bay of
Palma.
A golden moon hangs in the indigo vault above us, and our wake cleaves a
shining path straight up to the old white city that is vanishing from
our sight. And passing out into the night on a sea of glass we half
expect to hear once more the solemn midnight cry—
“_Alobado sea el Señor! las dóce, y seréno!_”
FINIS.
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THROUGH CORSICA WITH A
CAMERA
BY MARGARET D’ESTE
_Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d. net._
“Observant, animated and agreeably sensitive of the charm of the restful
island it describes, it will be read with advantage and interest by
every one who fosters ideas of some day going there.”—_Scotsman._
“The book has a delightful touch of feminine vivacity, and the camera is
almost as important in the production of it as the pen.”—_Observer._
“Miss d’Este gives a very attractive account of Ajaccio.”—_Spectator._
“Margaret d’Este gives a picturesque account of her wanderings all over
the island, in and out of the beaten track, and tells us that she found
its principal charm in its wild freedom, magnificent scenery and
delightful climate.”—_Daily Graphic._
“The reviewer is tempted at almost every page to quote, so full of
description is this charming book, but space forbids.... We cannot
remember enjoying any book so much since the days when William Blake
told the tale of his journeyings.”—_Daily Chronicle._
“A facile, charming style of writing; a quick, accurate observation of
men, beasts, flowers, and things.”—_Photographic Monthly._
“There are no fewer than seventy-eight photographs by Mrs. R. M. King
and the author in this charming book of travel far from the madding
crowd.... An unusually well-written and well-illustrated book.”—
_Northern Whig._
“The authoress has given us some delightful pen sketches of the scenery,
delicate little vignettes of local colour, and strongly sketched-in
characters of the natives, and the illustrations are decidedly
enticing.”—_Photographic News._
“The book is one of the brightest of recent travel volumes. Mrs. King’s
photography is a worthy contribution to the work, and is worth studying
by would-be picture makers, for its good placing of masses within the
space, and for the strong yet not harsh way in which bold patches of
deep shadow are placed against broad expanses of light.”—_Photogram._
End of Project Gutenberg's With a Camera in Majorca, by Margaret D'Este