PART II

Although it falls to the lot of few of us to remain as sublimely unconscious of geography as was Charles Lamb—who asserts that though he held a correspondence with a very dear friend in New South Wales he was unable to form the remotest conjecture as to the position of thatTerra Incognita—yet I think I may safely assume that not many of my readers are familiar with the geography of Majorca, and a glance at thesketch-mapgiven in this volume may be of service in acquainting them with the principal places of interest in the island.

The fact which perhaps chiefly strikes one is the miniature scale of distances. Just as the mouse occupies the same space on the page of a book on natural history as does the elephant, so does Majorca appear in its own particular map to be as large as Ceylon; and it gives one repeated shocks of surprise to find that what looks like a day’s journey is a matter of two hours by rail, or a morning’s carriage drive. There are half a dozen excursionswhich visitors to the island rarely fail to make; one is to Sollér, only a day’s expedition by carriage from Palma—though, as it possesses a comfortable little hotel and is in the midst of beautiful scenery, it is a favourite place for a lengthened stay. The old towns of Pollensa and Alcúdia upon the east coast attract a certain number of foreigners every season; and the fame of Arta’s stalactite caves draws thither a large number of sightseers, being easy of reach from the railhead at Manacór.

But with these exceptions the interior of Majorca enjoys an almost perpetual immunity from tourists, most of whom are far from enterprising.

It was to Arta that we ourselves were bound when we quitted Palma on March 12th, but having plenty of time before us, and being fond of driving tours, open air, and scenery, we decided to do the whole journey by road, and to spend as many nightsen routeas we found desirable. Our carriage was one of the hotel victorias, drawn by an excellent pair of little grey horses; our luggage was of the most modest description, consisting of two of those feather-weight valises, made of brown cardboard, that can be bought for a few shillings in most Continental towns, and that belie their frail appearance by resisting ill-usage to an almost incredible degree. Our driver was a friendly and reliable native, who in all the years he had driven hotel carriages had never been asked to conduct anybody across the island. It was indeed an unheard-of thing to do. Was not the railway there to take people to Arta? and was it not well known that the southerndistricts of the island contained nothing that could be of any possible interest to any one? However, it was no affair of his if English ladies were eccentric; his not to question why. Their motives might be inscrutable, but he was there to carry out their wishes, whether wise or foolish.

No June morning could have been more glorious than the one on which we left the Grand Hotel, and, rattling over the cobbles down to the harbour, struck out southwards towards Lluchmayór. For a couple of hours we crossed a great plain, carefully tilled and tended. In the orange gardens the golden crop was being gathered by peasants mounted on easel-shaped ladders. Stretches of corn and beans alternated with extensive fig orchards, which in July supply a harvest so bounteous that even the pigs fare sumptuously upon the fruit. Thick as faggots of dead wood were the leafless branches of the old trees—their elbows stuck out at an aggressive angle as though resenting the proximity of their somewhat heathenish-looking neighbour, the prickly pear, which in Majorca is termed the “Moorish fig,” as opposed to the “Christian fig” of cultivation.

Standing up above the level of the orchards, and extending over the plain in numbers that suggest an immense pyrotechnic display in preparation, are countless wind wheels, twenty or thirty feet in diameter, furnished with a tail to keep their heads to the wind, and with sets of wooden slats that furl and unfurl like a fan, according to the strength of the breeze. Raised upon stone platforms and spinning round rapidly, these wheels are engaged in raising water from wells and pumping it into the great reservoirs that in summer supply the irrigation aqueducts intersecting the fields.

A Wind-wheel“...countless windwheels, twenty feet or more in diameter, engaged in raising water from wells....”(page46)

“...countless windwheels, twenty feet or more in diameter, engaged in raising water from wells....”

(page46)

Group of Windmills“On some of the hills windmills are massed in a gregarious manner characteristic of Majorca....”(page51)

“On some of the hills windmills are massed in a gregarious manner characteristic of Majorca....”

(page51)

At noon we reached Lluchmayór, and after lunching at the inn we visited the great high-backed church that prides itself on being the largest in the island outside Palma. It was deserted save for the presence of three old charwomen, who alternately chatted and laughed or piously mumbledAve MariasandPater nostersas they plied their flappers about the pulpit and the quaint old pews, resembling settees, with curved backs and deep seats inlaid with scenes in coloured woods. A wax figure of Santa Candida in a glass case, and some marvellous embroideries with inch-deep scrolls of gold thread set with precious stones, are amongst the most treasured possessions of this church.

On again, through Campos, whence we look back to catch a last glimpse of the Palma Cathedral—far away across the plain; and the evening shadows are lengthening fast as we drive into Santagný, where we are to spend the night.

Santagný is the southernmost town in Majorca, and as such suffered sorely in bygone time from the Algerian and Moroccan pirates who infested the neighbouring islet of Cabréra. In the sixteenth century the town was encircled with walls, to prevent the repetition of a raid that devastated the whole countryside and forced the inhabitants to fly for safety to the interior of the island.But centuries of safety have razed the fortifications more surely than any piratical attack, and one massive gateway—standing in the market-place—alone remains to testify to the dangers run by the townspeople in olden days.

Thefonda, or inn, at Santagný proved to be one of those truly primitive establishments that cause one to ponder the eternal question as to which comes first—the tourist or the inn. The problem regarding the hen and the egg is itself not more elusive than the vicious circle in which one becomes involved when dwelling on this subject. It is highly improbable that the accommodation at Santagný will undergo any improvement until visitors have shown some sign of wishing to come to the town; it is equally improbable that visitors will show any signs of wishing to come to Santagný until the accommodation has been improved.

I must admit that the supper passed off in comparative style. We sat in a small, whitewashed room downstairs—our driver and a soldier also supping there at another table—and in place of the bell of conventionality we clapped our hands between the courses, which consisted of an excellent omelette, a dish of meat and rice, and oranges sliced with sugar. Our hostess’s attentions were somewhat spasmodic owing to the periodical raids she made on certain small boys whose noses were flattened on the window-pane, and at whom she dashed out very suddenly—belabouring such as came under her hand with a large market basket. In the outer room a guitar wasbeing strummed, and the voices of the men sitting drinking there broke out now and then in a resonant chorus. All this was very nice and native; but when we went upstairs to our bedrooms it was still very native—only not so nice.

Three small and stuffy cubicles opened off the landing at the head of the stairs; the only one that obtained any light or air was the end one, which had a small window in the outer wall of the house, but—as if to compensate for this advantage—it lacked a door, the privacy of its occupant being dependant upon a flimsy curtain that fluttered airily to and fro in the doorway. Each cubicle contained a bed, a chair, and a straw mat on the floor; and outside, on the landing, stood one small washstand, with a set of toilet appliances destined to be shared by all the occupants of the bedrooms. That the centre room was already engaged was evident from an unmistakably masculine snore that proceeded from it. Horses munched loudly in a stall below, and the petulant voices of dreaming pigs rose to the skies from an adjoining farmyard. Even our driver—who never considered his duties at an end until he had personally inspected our sleeping quarters for the night—expressed disapproval at the prospect, although his sympathetic shrugs plainly intimated that as we had made our beds so must we lie upon them. I speak figuratively, for as a matter of fact our beds were not made at all, though we had been more than two hours in the house.

Amidst such unpromising surroundings did we eventually retire for the night, waking to find that ourneighbour of the middle room had most opportunely taken himself off in the small hours of the morning, leaving us in sole possession of the washstand, so that our toilet was accomplished in comparative safety, and with no other interruption than the sudden appearance of our hostess on her way upstairs to fetch a sausage from the attic. It is but fair to say that this was the onlyfondawe met with in the whole of our wanderings that was so primitive in its arrangements.

On going down to breakfast our hostess presents us each with a thick tumbler containing a species of strong, brown broth, very nourishing, I should suppose, for an invalid; swelling with pride, she reveals the fact that the strange beverage we are drinking istea—and it is doubtless on the strength of this compliment to our nationality that she presently tenders us a bill for fourteen pesetas—ten shillings and sixpence—a sum not overwhelming in itself, but absurdly high according to the standard of charges current in Majorcan inns.

Five pesetas—four shillings—a day for each person is the recognised charge for board and lodging at all the bestfondasin Majorca. At a little hotel, such as that of Sollér or Alcúdia, one’spensionmay run as high as six or even seven and a half pesetas; but these are the outside prices; and one’s driver’s food—for which one is expected to pay while on tour—should never exceed two pesetas a day.

At small native inns an arrangement as to terms should always be made on arrival. Particularly is this the casein out-of-the-way villages where strangers are rarely seen, and where the innkeeper will occasionally endeavour to make a profit out of all proportion to the accommodation provided for his guests. This sharp dealing is so little in keeping with the character of the average Majorcan that I can only explain it by quoting the people’s own saying, to the effect that there is not room for honour and profit in the same pocket. I think that the opportunity offered of enriching themselves easily at the expense of well-to-do foreigners proves too great a temptation for certainfondistaswho have lost the finer feelings possessed by their compatriots not engaged in trade.

Quitting Santagný we drove on to Felanitx, a pretty little town surrounded by low hills whose crests are occupied by many windmills frantically waving their arms on the sky line. Windmills are everywhere. Some stand singly upon barrow-like mounds crowned with cactus tangles, others are massed upon ridges in the gregarious manner characteristic of Majorcan corn mills. All have either six or eight sails, which gives them a very full-bodied appearance; and some are furnished with tail feathers, and resemble large dragon-flies that have interrupted their whirring flight to settle for an instant with outspread gauzy wings upon a little tower of dazzling whiteness. An old miller leans out of a little upper window in one of the mills, filling it up so completely that we wonder if he will ever get back again.

“Buena vista!” we call up to him as he watches us from his lofty perch.

“Ah, yes!” he replies, looking far out over the sunny landscape, “from here one sees all the world!”

It is in truth a very lovely world upon which he looks down this bright March morning. The almond orchards are streaming down the hill slopes and invading the town in torrents of young spring verdure; the houses are screwing up their eyes in the sunshine, even the tiniest windows being half built up with slabs of freestone, while many are closed entirely. Old women sit at their doorways plaiting and spinning, and greet us cheerfully as we pass, and leaving the town we take a pretty road through pine and heath, almond and olive, arbutus and carob, and set out to visit the old castle of Santuíri. Within half an hour of our destination the carriage halts, and a rocky goat-path leads us to the summit of the crag upon which the ruins stand.

Santuíri was one of the great mediæval burgs of Majorca, and is in far better preservation than either of its fellows of Alaró or Pollensa. In the fifteenth century its walls were strengthened against an expected attack of the Moors, and much of these defences still remains.

Proud, and most desolate, is this old sentinel of the southern coast. Buzzards hang in mid-air beneath the battlements—brown specks against the dim blue plain below; sheep graze amongst spurge and St. John’s wort on the grassy knolls within the fortress. The old gray walls are trimmed with golden patches of coronilla and crowned with achevaux-de-friseof bristling aloe spikes. A narrow path cut in the face of the crag, and unprotected by any parapet, leads to the machicolated gate tower; above your head there are slits for boiling oil, and at your back is sudden death in the shape of a precipice, with nothing to break your fall but the fixed bayonets of some huge aloes rooted in the crevices of the cliff below. Assuredly it was well to be on good terms with its lord when craving admittance to the Castle of Santuíri.

A Windmill“All the windmills have either six or eight sails, and some are furnished with tail-feathers.”(page51)

“All the windmills have either six or eight sails, and some are furnished with tail-feathers.”

(page51)

Santuiri Castle, Interior“Santuiri was one of the great mediæval burgs of Majorca, and is in better preservation than either of its fellows of Alaró or Pollensa.”(page52)

“Santuiri was one of the great mediæval burgs of Majorca, and is in better preservation than either of its fellows of Alaró or Pollensa.”

(page52)

A twin height across a little valley is occupied by the Oratorio of San Salvadór—the shrine of a wonder-working Madonna whose fame dates from the Middle Ages, and who is visited annually by thousands of pilgrims from all parts of the island.

To this shrine we ascended in the afternoon, the latter part of the route being a steep hillside, clothed with prickly pear and a sweet-smelling dwarf gorse, up which we slowly toiled on foot, the zigzag path marked out with twelve stations of the Cross, depicted in faïence tiles upon freestone pillars. Attached to the Oratorio upon the summit is a largehospedériacontaining some forty bedrooms, built for the reception of pilgrims; the four brown-frocked friars who minister to the wants of visitors were busily engaged in sawing timber in the entrance-hall amidst a litter of fresh shavings, and one of them interrupted his work to take us into the adjoining chapel. In pitch darkness we groped our way to a niche at the back of the high altar, and were shown by the light of a match a little old stone statue—the Blessed Virgin of San Salvadór—only second in power to Our Lady of Lluch.

A special room is set aside for the votive offeringspresented to her: the walls are thickly hung with uniforms, children’s garments, and bridal gowns; there are toys and medals, and stacks of crutches; there are rows of photographs of the Virgin’sprotégés, who attribute their escape from accident and illness to her shielding power; there are crude childish representations of fires, shipwrecks, thunderbolts, runaway horses, and all the perils that humanity is heir to. Some of the ex-votos date from the attack of the Moors in 1737; others come from far countries—such as the one “promised to Our Lady in the fire of Santiago.”

One of the most pathetic offerings that I saw at another Majorcan shrine was a thick plait of long black hair—“promised to Our Lady” on such and such a date, doubtless by some soul in sore need. The belief in miraculous intervention as an answer to personal sacrifice is deeply ingrained in the islanders, and is, I should imagine, a source of much consolation to them.

After buying a few rosaries and ribbons bearing the name of Our Lady of San Salvadór we walked to the end of a hill-spur where stone seats invite the wayfarer to rest before beginning the steep descent. The sun was setting, and the scene before us recalled some Egyptian evening in its strength of colouring; far beneath us lay the great dim plain with its white towns, wrapped in the violet mists of sunset and melting away into the transparent blues and purples of the distant sierra. The roofs and walls of the Oratorio and the pine-trees upon the hilltop stood out in inky relief against a sky stained with orange and crimson, fiery lake and scarlet; the clouds were black, glowing coals backed with gold—the whole heavens were aflame in conflagration.

Santuiri Castle, Exterior“The old grey walls of Santuiri are trimmed with golden patches of coronilla and crowned with achevaux de friseof bristling aloe spikes.”(page52)

“The old grey walls of Santuiri are trimmed with golden patches of coronilla and crowned with achevaux de friseof bristling aloe spikes.”

(page52)

Oratorio of Our Lady of S. Salvador“Far beneath us lay the great plain, wrapped in the violet mists of evening.... The Oratorio de San Salvador will for ever be associated with the most beautiful sunset we ever witnessed in Majorca.”(page54)

“Far beneath us lay the great plain, wrapped in the violet mists of evening.... The Oratorio de San Salvador will for ever be associated with the most beautiful sunset we ever witnessed in Majorca.”

(page54)

Long after the glory had faded away a pure, brilliant glow illuminated the sky and lighted us on our homeward way, and we returned to Felanitx with the memory of San Salvadór for ever associated in our minds with the most beautiful sunset we ever saw in Majorca.

On March 15th we left Felanitx and continued our journey across the great southern plain. The road to Manacór runs along a low ridge and commands extensive views on either hand; asphodels fringed the wayside, and every patch of waste ground displayed the Spanish colours in gay yellow daisies and a tiny scarlet ranunculus, the Adonis vernalis. The weather was glorious; a shower during the night had laid the dust and cleared the air, and blue cloud-shadows chased merrily across the landscape.

“Bon dia tengan!” comes in cheerful greeting from the fields where groups of peasant women, in big straw hats, ply their hoes among the wheat. When they found we wished to take a photograph of them their amusement was unbounded, and their merry laughter was quite infectious.

Unceasing is the care of the crops, and unremitting is the labour bestowed upon the land before it assumes that market-garden-like neatness that is the ideal of theMajorcan peasant. Centuries of cultivation have converted much of the land into rich, productive soil, but a glance at a recently reclaimed field shows one the difficulties with which the original cultivator has to contend, difficulties that would surely daunt a less stout-hearted race. Slabs of bed-rock and countless myriads of loose stones cover the surface of the ground: by blasting and patient excavation a certain proportion of these are removed, and the intervening patches of earth are dug by hand, the first harvest being represented by a scanty crop of wheat sprouting in the interstices of the rock paving. The second or third year it will perhaps be possible to drive a narrow sharp-pointed ploughshare between the stones, lifting it briskly out of the ground when the shaft mule is brought up with a jerk by a more than usually stubborn boulder. Each year hundreds of tons of loose stone are collected and disposed of in one way or another; some are stacked in cairns among the crops and go by the name ofclápers; others are carried with infinite toil to the boundaries of the field and built into a dry wall a yard or more thick—coped with the masses of rock that work up through the soil almost as quickly as they are removed from the surface; others again are thrown into great stone reservoirs built for the purpose and filled to the brim with blocks big and little. Gradually the plague of stones begins to abate. What one generation has begun, a future one will accomplish, and eventually the land will assume the appearance of a rich alluvial plain, and Dame Nature will put on as benevolent a smile as though she hadproposed from the very first to bountifully reward the industrious peasant.

But always there will be miles upon miles of beautifully built stone walls to tell a different tale. Truly may it be said of the Majorcans, as of their Catalonian forefathers—that from stones they produce bread.

All the morning we drove, and by noon we had passed the town of Manacór and were descending towards the sea through a silent, sun-steeped land of rock and asphodel. Asphodels surrounded us for miles, their starry sceptres swaying in the wind and shining like silver where the sunlight struck through them. It is strange that no southern artist has painted us a Madonna of the Asphodels.

Down by the seashore stands a small group of freestone houses called the Port of Manacór, and after lunching at thefondawe set off on foot to visit the famous stalactite caves close by. There is nothing in the surface of the surrounding country to suggest the existence of vast subterranean caverns; the guide simply leads the way across the wide moor to a walled enclosure, where, half concealed by boulders and scrub, a flight of rock steps leads down to theCuevas del Drach—the Dragon Caves of Manacór.

Armed with acetylene lanterns we descend, and plunge into a perfect labyrinth of halls and passages; some of the scenes are very beautiful; there are “cascades of diamonds”—frozen falls that sparkle like hoar frost in the sun—and wonderful statuesque formations underfretted canopies fringed with glittering icicles; there are myriads of stalactites hanging from the roof, some snow-white and thorny, others like pink glass, that ring musically when struck with a stone. There is an immense cavern where one sits down to rest; weird shadows cast by the lamps dance upon the walls, and falling drops of water tinkle loudly in the silence. There are precipices and bottomless pits—into which the guide tosses stones—and atmospheric lakes, into which one is liable to walk unawares—the surface of the water being invisible to the sharpest scrutiny. There are bright blue pools, crystal clear, in the depths of which stalagmites appear like white sea-anemones and seem to mirror back the pendant bosses of the roof. One may walk for miles and not have seen all, but the heat in these caves is trying to many people, and one is not sorry to come out into the cold upper air after spending an hour or two in a temperature of nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit.

Many years ago some Spaniards were lost for days in the Drach caves, and the spot is still shown where in their despair they scratched upon the walls:No hay esperanza—There is no hope!

In the caves of Arta, people are said to have entered who have never been seen again, alive or dead.

The little inn at thePuerto de Manacóris a typical Majorcanfonda. Our rooms were floored with cheerful red tiles, and the walls were almost awe-inspiring in their spotlessness; it is a popular saying that on Saturdays theMajorcans whitewash everything within reach. From our windows—furnished with wooden shutters in place of glass—we looked down upon a vine-covered pergola and a little bright blue bay encircled by a snow-white beach. Our beds were good, and the bed-linen excellent—the lace-trimmed pillow-cases and beautifully embroidered monograms testifying to the skill with which the women ply their needle. Supper was served on the first-floor landing, and consisted of fish, omelette, chicken and rice, and dessert; and at nine o’clock our hostess mounted the stairs to inform us that there would be no milk for our morning coffee unless some could be procured from Manacór (an hour distant)—the local dairy being inconsiderate enough to have two fine kids at the moment.

She bade us a friendly good-night, and as an afterthought pointed out that being in the country here, it was the custom to empty bedroom basins out of the window. We promised to avail ourselves of the permission, and retiring, were gently lulled to sleep by the rhythmic breathing of the tide below.

It is strange to hear of snow and frost at home while we are living in a long succession of June days. Under a cloudless expanse of blue—unbroken save by a transparent white moon in the eastern sky—did we leave thePuertoon the morning of March 16th. Retracing theroad to Manacór, we drove through tracts of pine wood and rosemary, and at midday reached Arta—an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm-trees—theYartanof the Moors, in whose day it was an important colony. Their principal mosque was converted by the Conqueror into the great church that stands upon the hillside and with fortress-like walls and wide-arched upper gallery dominates the town. Crowning the same hill is the wall-encircled church of San Salvadór, used in olden times as a refuge for non-combatants during Saracen attacks, and in more recent days as a lazaretto in time of pestilence—which led to its being pulled down and rebuilt about a hundred years ago.

In the vicinity of Arta are to be found certain tumuli of unknown origin, that correspond more or less to those monuments of a pre-historic race which exist in most of the islands of the Mediterranean. In a deserted olive-yard—where the poisonoussolanum sodomacumtrailed its miniature yellow and green melons among the stones and big, pale periwinkles grew—we came upon theClápers de Gegants, or Giants’ Cairns. A ring wall of large stones weighing several tons apiece had evidently existed at one time; but most of the blocks had fallen in, and the central mound—whether watch tower or burial tumulus—was a mere chaos of stones and brambles. To any one who has seen the far finer megalithic monuments of Minorca, no Majorcan remains will appear of much importance.

View of Arta“Arta is an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm trees—the Yartan of the Moors.”(page60)

“Arta is an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm trees—the Yartan of the Moors.”

(page60)

Women Weeding a Wheatfield“Groups of peasant women were plying their hoes among the wheat....”(page55)

“Groups of peasant women were plying their hoes among the wheat....”

(page55)

From Arta it is a pretty drive to the castle of Cap de Péra, an old fortress with portcullised gateway and peaked Moorish battlements, around which one can walk on a narrow ledge laid on stone brackets. Prickly pear and masses of crimson and white stocks run riot within the walls and cluster about the little chapel of the summit. Beyond the castle the road winds by a steep ascent to the lighthouse of the Cap de Péra—built upon the extreme eastern point of the island, whence a splendid view is obtained, the low coastline of Minorca being dimly discernible far out at sea.

At nine o’clock the following morning we set out for the stalactite caves of Arta—said to be the most wonderful ones in the world, with the exception of certain caverns in New South Wales. For an hour and a half we descended towards the coast through a plain of fig orchards and palmetto clumps—the latter portion of the route being a mere cart-track of surprising badness—and finally drew up under a grove of picturesque oldPinus maritimanear the seashore—the finest trees we had yet seen in an island where good timber is rare.

Fifteen minutes’ walk along a cliff path, with a turquoise blue sea below, and the scent of pines and gorse filling the warm air, and we come to the entrance to the caves. A great cleft opens in the face of the cliff overhead—a natural ante-chamber to the caves, supported by Herculean pillars of live rock, and to this we ascend by a long flight of massive stone steps, as though to the portals of some grand old Egyptian temple. Following our guidewe pass through an irongrilleand descend through cool depths of grey rock till we seem to have reached the very heart of the hills.

So strange is the under world through which one is led for the next two hours that at times one doubts whether it is not all a dream. Now we wander through lofty halls hung from roof to floor with stony curtain folds, where tall stalagmitic palm-trees stand in groups—their rugged stems hard as marble, white as though bleached by long confinement in these sunless caves. Now we seem to be exploring a coral world in the depths of the sea, and half expect to meet startled fishes darting hither and thither among the fantastically sculptured grots and low-fretted arches through which we creep. Now we enter the great hall of columns, and wait in darkness upon a high rock-platform, while our invisible guide busies himself below with Bengal lights. Suddenly a vista of gigantic columns leaps out of black space, monstrous shadows retreat into a perspective of infinite extent, and—as though in some strange operatic scene—we find ourselves standing in a great vaulted crypt, Gothic in its indescribable richness of architectural detail, Egyptian in its gigantic proportions and massive grandeur. Still larger is the great cavern known as the Cathedral, the roof of which attains a height of a hundred and fifty feet; so weird and grand beyond belief is the effect created by this vast interior when lighted up—so wonderful is the mimicry of hangings and sculpture—so regular the slender turrets and fretted pinnacles that enrich the structure,that it is difficult to realise that the scene before one is Nature’s own handiwork.

Wending our way down the Devil’s Staircase we next descend to a spot below sea-level to visit the “lost souls”—a company of black and burnt-up looking little figures seated beside a salt-water pool that goes by the name of the Styx. Endless is the imagery suggested by the stalactite formations; some resemble isolated statues, others intricate groups of Hindu gods. There is an organ with musical pipes, there are strange echoes that live far away among the rock caverns of the roof, and huge lurking shadows that—startled by the light of our lanterns—glide swiftly out of their recesses and disappear into the darkness ahead. But always we return to the aisles of ghostly columns that distinguish these caves from all others I have ever seen.

Questioned as to the presumed age of these columns our guide throws up his hands in despair, and, leading us to a small stalagmite in process of formation, shows us a couple of coppersousembedded in its glassy surface; it is twenty years since they were placed there, and in that time the stalagmite has risen to the rims of the coins and they are now fixed in their place by the most delicate silver film. Allowing fifteensousto the inch, a rough computation sets the rate of growth of this particular stalagmite at something between three and four thousand years to the foot—a period doubtless considerably exceeded in the case of the larger columns.

The gem of the whole collection is the great palm-treethat stands alone in one of the outer courts. There are others that equal it in girth—its stem measures little more than three feet in diameter—but its splendid shaft ascends flawless, joint above joint of white coral-like stalagmite, till it unites with the roof sixty or seventy feet above the level of the floor. Since the world was young it has stood in these Halls of Silence—a silence of æons, broken only by dropping water and occasional earthquake shocks that have flung masses of stalactite to the ground. These horizontal rings in its stem may have been deposited in the days of palæolithic man; while that joint was being formed Babylon and Nineveh rose and passed away, and the Pharaohs in long procession filed across the world’s stage and vanished.

The falling drop has now finished its work and has shifted to another spot where it has begun the base of a second column. Some day the capital of this one also will be completed....

It is a glimpse into Eternity that appals one.

On March 18th we left Arta. A hum and a buzz in the street proclaimed it Sunday morning, and on emerging from our inn we found a couple of hundred people—including two Civil Guards and all the elders of the place—assembled to see us off. This interest was centred less in ourselves than in our victoria, for to people whose only notion of a carriage is the Spanish one of the baker’s-cart pattern, the sight of so long, low, and altogether remarkable looking a vehicle was of thrilling interest. It was probably the first ever seen in this part of the island, and had it been a motor-car it could not have made a greater sensation. Beasts of burden bolted at so novel an apparition, mules in carts swerved violently; children would drag their small brothers and sisters half a mile across country to catch a glimpse of us, and we brought whole village populations running to their doors.

Entrance to the Caves of Arta“A cliff path with the turquoise-blue sea below leads to the entrance to the caves of Arta....”(page61)

“A cliff path with the turquoise-blue sea below leads to the entrance to the caves of Arta....”

(page61)

Fisherman in Phrygian Cap“At the port of Andraitx fishermen in red Phrygian caps were mending their nets....”(page67)

“At the port of Andraitx fishermen in red Phrygian caps were mending their nets....”

(page67)

Stepping into our carriage with a gracious and comprehensive bow to the throng around, we were whirled away at a gallop down the crowded street, and quitting the town we struck out for Santa Margarita on our return to Palma. Long processions of country carts were returning from Mass, with men and women seated upon sacks at the bottom of the vehicles; but the fields were deserted save for an occasional swineherd tending his beasts among the carob groves.

Near Sineu we passed a large corral of young mules with their mothers; so proudly do these quaint, long-eared infants follow the handsome black mares that one is irresistibly reminded of the inquiry put by an interested listener to the man who was boasting of his mother’s beauty—“C’était donc Monsieur votre père qui n’était pas beau?”

The night was spent at Sineu, and returning to Palma the following morning we settled down at the Grand Hotel for a week before starting on our second drivingtour, which was to introduce us to the North-western corner of the island.

For the next few days the weather behaved as badly as it occasionally will do in southern lands where its reputation is at stake. The Palma natives became first apologetic, then exasperated;—“Fie, for shame!” screamed an old woman angrily, addressing the rain from her shop door where we had taken shelter in a downpour—“Fie, for shame! What, then, will the English ladies think of us!”

But the spirit of perversity had entered into the Spring; she sprinkled snow upon the mountains, and kept the mail-boats imprisoned at Barcelona; she drenched the shivering population till the very swallows sat disconsolately on the clothes lines, drooping their wet wings; and she persisted in making such ugly threatening faces that it looked as if we should never start for Andraitx at all. Reason certainly pointed to our remaining at Palma; we were warm and comfortable at the Grand Hotel—we got far better food than we ever did on our travels, and the Dark-room itself was more commodious than might be our future quarters in some villagefonda. On the other hand time was passing, and we had yet much to see; finally we decided to risk all and to go.

The heavens were black with clouds when we set off on the morning of March 27th, but before we had beengone half an hour our lucky star shone out, and the weather executed a completevolte-facesuch as one is led to believe any climate but our own would be ashamed of. Brilliant sunshine dried up the puddles with that amazing rapidity peculiar to porous soils, and the day suddenly decided to be quite, quite fine.

So excellent may be the results obtained from flying in the face of Providence—if only it be done at the right moment.

Merrily our little horses jingled along the splendidcarretera real—the royal road—that leads to Andraitx; now we follow the coastline and catch glimpses of blue waves and fringes of white foam between the stems of the pine-trees; now we turn inland among the olive groves—where the old trees pirouette airily or stand with feet gracefully crossed upon the hill slopes, amidst pink and white cistus and bushes of wild mignonette. In three hours we reach Andraitx, where the carriage road terminates, and having no further use for our victoria we send it back to Palma, with instructions to meet us the next day but one at the village of Estallenchs beyond the mountains.

Andraitx, the old Andrachium of the Romans, is a prosperous-looking town lying in a green valley of almond orchards; most of the inhabitants are sea-faring folk, and down by the shore—five miles distant—we found a little colony of houses where fishermen in red Phrygian caps were mending their nets until the gale should abate. It was assuredly no day to put out to sea so long as whitefoam was running up the face of the cliffs, driven by a wild west wind.

The church of Andraitx is one of the oldest in the island; it stands upon rising ground above the town, its great blank walls plain—even in a land of plain exteriors; and beside it stands the fine old Possession-house ofSon Mās, said to date back to the time of the Moors. The Possession-houses of Majorca were originally the country seats of the Spanish nobility; once inhabited by the great landowners, they have now descended to the level of farmhouses and have become the residence of the principal tenant farmer upon the estate, who goes by the name of the Amo, or master. These fine old buildings usually stand in the centre of some large property, and are almost invariably fortified and adapted to stand a siege.

Very picturesque is the straggling yellow pile ofSon Mās, with its high walls and machicolated tower. Passing under a heavy stone archway we cross a large courtyard, where pigeons are stepping through stately minuets upon a vine pergola, and ascend by a flight of steps to a broad open gallery, supported on pillars, that runs along the front of the house. We are shown the spacious kitchen and living rooms of the present occupants, and are then led through suite after suite of disused apartments—whitewashed, stone-flagged, shuttered, given up to bats and cobwebs. In the rooms occupied by the Señor, when on rare occasions he pays a visit to his estate, are a few pieces of the old furniture—some wooden chests, such astake the place of wardrobes in Majorcan households, a carved bedstead, and a few old paintings—fast going to decay. Soon there will be nothing save the stone scutcheon in the courtyard to preserve the memory of the founder ofSon Mās.

Behind the house is an enormous reservoir containing a water supply that would outlast any conceivable siege to which the inhabitants might be subjected. The cement roof of the tank forms a wide terrace—some ninety by thirty feet—and two well-shafts, thickly lined with maidenhair fern, give access to the water.

A winding staircase leads to the summit of the old watch-tower, where from an openloggiaunder the roof the besieged could hurl down missiles upon the foe before the gate. In an unguarded moment I attempted the ascent of this tower, and never shall I forget the sensation of that climb; losing sight of my feet from the very start—my head being always three turns higher up the steps—and momentarily expecting to stick fast for good, I thrust myself in spirals up the narrowest corkscrew stairs it has ever been my fate to encounter. Judging by my own sensations I should guess the staircase to have measured nine inches in width—but it is possible it may have been rather more.

As we sat at supper that evening there came a knock at the door and theAlcaldewas announced; a shy little man fingering a felt hat slipped into the room and made us a low bow; he was the Burgomaster, come to pay his respects and to inquire if we had all we wanted. Whileentirely appreciating the kindness that prompted his visit we could willingly have dispensed with it, on account of the immense exertion required to express ourselves in Spanish at all, and the impossibility of doing so as we should wish. We gathered that he was placing himself and all he possessed at our disposal, and we did our best to rise to the occasion; but sentiments of gratitude are sadly lamed by a limited vocabulary. We tried to improve our position by asking if he could speak French, and expressing our disappointment when he negatived the question. The interview was punctuated by rather painful silences—and it was with a certain sense of relief that we saw our friendly visitor bow himself out again on being assured there was nothing he could do for us.

All that night a terrific storm raged. Mingled with the rattling of hail and the crash of thunder came the sound of theSerenohammering at the house door to wake thefondista, and shortly afterwards we heard the latter come upstairs and pound lustily upon the door of an adjoining bedroom; some señor had to be called to catch the diligence, which—according to Spanish custom—leaves Andraitx at the extraordinary hour of two o’clock in the morning.

By the time we had finished breakfast the sun was shining hotly once more, and we were able to start for San Telmo. Seated in a smallcarreta—a very light skeleton cart on two wheels, with rush mats spread over the bars of the bottom and sides—we set out at a foot’s pace to visit the old castle on the coast, an hour and ahalf distant. For a mile or so one ascends by a very steep mountain road, but after crossing thecolthis road deteriorates into the roughest of cart tracks, winding down to the sea through a valley of pine-trees, olives, and carobs.

A country road in Majorca may mean anything—from a tract of bedrock scattered with loose stones of any size, to a soft, uneven hill-path, barely wide enough for a wheeled vehicle to pass. Short of coming to actual steps, acarretais expected to follow anywhere where a pony can obtain a footing, and many a time did the bumps and lurches to which we were subjected recall George Sand’s driving experiences in the year 1838.

Speaking of what is now one of the finest roads in the island she narrates in lively French how in her day the journey was perilously accomplished—“with one wheel on the mountain and one in the ravine.... The jolting is indescribable ... yet however frightful a concussion the driver receives, he sings all the time in a loud voice—only breaking off to bestow curses upon his horse if the animal hesitates for an instant before plunging down some precipice or climbing some rock wall.... For it is thus one proceeds—ravines, torrents, quagmires, ditches, hedges, all present themselves in vain—one does not stop for so little. Besides, it is all part of the road; at first you think you must be steeplechasing for a wager, and you ask your driver what possesses him. This is the road, he replies. But that river? It is the road. And this deep pit? The road. And that bush also? Alwaysthe road....A la bonne heure!And all that remains for you to do is to commend your soul to God and to contemplate the landscape, while awaiting death or a miracle.”

Descending from thecarretashortly after starting, to lighten the load of the floundering pony, I had at first persuaded the stout proprietor to follow my example; but within a very short time he had climbed in again, observing with a loud gasp that the way was long. It was not the first time he had been to San Telmo; only a year ago he had driven two English ladies there, and they too had had a camera, and on the way it fell out of the cart and was lost. To this day he could remember their lamentable cries of “La máquina, la máquina!” But five days later it was picked up by an old man, who thought it was a bomb and carried it home very cautiously. The ladies were very pleased—oh yes, they gave him more than a day’s wages for it.

The little castle of San Telmo was built in the sixteenth century for the protection of Andraitx. It stands on a rocky prominence by the seashore, and is in good preservation, its barrel-vaulted dining hall serving as a workshop for the old man who lives there. From the flat roof of the tower, where rusty cannon still occupy the embrasures, one looks down upon a pretty beach, where long green waves, lit up by the sun, break gently upon the sand, and great conch shells are sometimes found amongst the foam fringes of the surf. Some three hundred yards out from the shore is the low turtle-backedrock Pentaleu, where the Conqueror first set foot on quitting his storm-tossed galley; and screening the northern side of the little bay are the bare grey flanks—dreaded by sailors—of the Dragonéra, Majorca’s westernmost outpost. A lighthouse occupies the knife-like ridge of the summit, and cutting along through the Freu—the narrow strait between the island rock and the mainland—comes a little white steamer, the Barcelona boat, bringing a welcome cargo of mails after a silence that has lasted more than a week.

The following morning, March 29th, we set out for Estallenchs, our cavalcade consisting of one riding mule and a sturdy donkey to carry the luggage. No expedition could have offered a greater contrast to our tour of the preceding week than did this journey across the mountains. On the southern plain a whole day’s march of thirty miles is accomplished in a morning’s drive; in the Sierra we take four hours to cover a distance of twelve miles. Up and down among the hills winds the mule track; now we are high above the lapis lazuli sea, on a mountain path knee deep in palmetto fans and the red-velvet flower of lentiscus bushes; now we descend to a torrent bed hemmed in by great grey cliffs scarred with red scarps where part of the hillside has broken off and poured like an avalanche into the bed of the valley. Now we enter the pine woods where the white allium and many orchises grow, and the air is fragrant with rosemary and gorse. Further on we come to a winding rock staircase cut in the face of the cliff, down which, our guide tells us,it is not safe to ride; the only surprising thing is that any animal except a goat should be expected to descend it; and here our baggage donkey distinguished himself by slipping down and lying motionless, but quite unhurt, till he was unloaded and dragged on to his legs again.

A rough cart track winds for some way into these lonely hills, and we meet timber carts descending with loads of fir-trees, the mules stumbling and sliding on their haunches down the steep hillside—the heavy two-wheeled carts, with powerful brakes on, crashing and jolting behind them over boulders and tree-stumps.

As we approach human habitations again, traces of cultivation once more appear; small terraces are levelled on the mountain side and planted with almond-trees, from which our men snatch handfuls of young milky nuts in passing—a universal habit that has given rise to the sarcastic proverb, “The laden almond-tree by the wayside is sure to be bitter.” At last, after a long and fatiguing descent by shallow paved steps, we come in sight of Estallenchs—a pretty village nestling in a fold of the hills, backed by cliffs, grey peaks of sun and shadow; in front a valley opening down to the sea, with hill slopes clothed in almond, olive, and fir.

The inn is a very humble building, and does not even entitle itself afonda. The master of the house was absent, and the old woman left in charge spoke no Spanish; we spoke no Majorcan, and by way of facilitating conversation she suddenly sent an urgent message to the village doctor, who arrived post haste, thinking that some accident had befallen the English señoras. Somewhat dashed at finding us both uninjured and in good health, he yet conversed with us very pleasantly in our attic chamber, offered to show us the place, translated various requests for us, and before leaving ordered our dinner. Thanks to his ministrations we lacked for nothing that night, the only hitch occurring at bedtime, when our best efforts to obtain candles resulted in a dish of olives being set before us.

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