The Fortunate Isles Part 11

"Yes, we'll come back----"

"And stay a month," we agreed, as we had done about so many charming spots that we had got just a glimpse of, and as we were fated to do about so many more before our sojourn in these lovely isles came to a close.

We would gladly have lingered to explore the beauties of Deya, but the delay at starting had already encroached on the November afternoon, and the greater portion of our journey was yet to come.

So the men, who had got down to walk through the village, remounted, and once more, huddled up together, off we joggled, out of the lovely valley and along a cliff-road where, among the grey-green olive-trees, girls in skirts of vivid scarlet were gathering the fallen fruit.

It was five o'clock and dusk was already falling when we descended the zigzag road leading into Soller and, pa.s.sing a picturesque old cross, turned into a modern-looking street planted on either side with trees.

"What I want to see now," I said, deliberately shutting my eyes to the scenery, "is a hotel with electric light, and a good fire, and German waiters, and French cookery."

"Don't be hateful," retorted the Boy. "But it doesn't matter; you won't see it. My only fear is that they won't be able to take us in."

The rain, which was now falling more heavily, had sent the townsfolk indoors. The only wayfarer in sight was a venerable gentleman who, as he sat astride a panniered donkey, protected himself from the rain with a large umbrella.

Turning with a final jolt, we drew up in front of the Hotel Marina, whose wide gla.s.s doors opened hospitably to receive us.

There was no question of lack of room, fortunately, but the dinner-hour was yet two hours ahead, and even the satisfaction derived from the omelet (which wasn't really an omelet) was already a vague memory. But we are people of resource. While I boiled the unfailing tea-kettle the men foraged, returning with provender in the shape of crisply toasted _bizcochos_ and _cocas_, and we had a cosy tea that enabled us to possess our bodies in patience until the dinner-hour.

The waiter who served us was German, the cookery revealed more than a suspicion of French influence, the electric light was brilliant, and there was a cheery fire. But even the Boy did not complain.

IX

SoLLER

Though a longer acquaintance reveals many charming and wholly Majorcan characteristics, at first sight Soller resembles a Swiss town, so closely do the high mountains encircle it. The likeness is emphasized when, as occasionally happens in winter, the double crest of the Puig Major is tipped with snow.

With the exception of Palma, Soller was the only Balearic town in which we had slept. Half unconsciously we found ourselves putting them in comparison, to discover that while each is, after its own fashion, delightful, they are entirely dissimilar.

Palma, "compactly built together," stands, crowded a little, within its city walls, its feet lapped by the sea, a fertile plain behind it, while Soller stretches itself at ease among its hills, with abundant elbow-room, in a fruitful orange grove. Water is a precious thing in Palma, where drinking-water in quaint Moorish stone jars is hawked through the streets, while a striking and refreshing feature of Soller is the abundance of running water. It flowed--a little sluggishly perhaps, for the rains had not yet come--over the stony bed of the _torrente_; it gushed unchecked from the street fountains; it ran along cunningly contrived stone conduits and turned mills.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Soller]

There are no rivers in Majorca. The beds of the _torrentes_ that ought to be rivers are often so dry that they resemble rough sun-baked roads. It was so many weeks since we had seen even a thread of running water that the sound of its flow was music in our ears. As a full and free supply of pure water is essential to the well-being of a town, one easily understands how Soller has the advantage of Palma in health conditions. The absorbent soil of Soller ensures freedom from rheumatism, and the old people remain hale and hearty to the close of lives that in many cases come within nodding distance of a century.

Perhaps it was owing to the absence of the military, or the want of a railway--though Soller has one in the making--or of the close vicinity of a port, but to our cursory view Soller appeared less gay, and its people seemed to lack the irresponsible smiling light-heartedness of Palma folks.

There were architectural differences also. To enter one of the better-cla.s.s houses in the larger city one crosses a _patio_, or open courtyard, and having ascended a stair, knocks at a door; while in Soller one steps directly from the street into a large hall, on either side of which, close to the wall, are set a long row of chairs all of similar design. Here visitors are received, and, as far as we could judge, penetrate no further.

Soller has few of the flat roof-tops or windows that are so prominent a feature of the old Moorish capital, but Soller has more chimneys; in the stillness of early morning the faint blue haze of wood fires overhangs the town.

Our first day at Soller opened dull and grey. Much rain had fallen in the night. The streets were damp, the mountains mist-shrouded.

The Boy and I felt depressed and cross. The Man, who had already discerned picturesque possibilities in the unique situation of the place, put a sketch-book in his pocket and went off in search of a typical subject. The Boy and I prowled about the narrow streets, allowing ourselves to be annoyed at everything--at the mud, at the Sunday crowds, and at the way they stared at us.

In the square before the church was a busy little market. At the corner of the square, near where one gets a lovely view of the _torrente_ overhung by the balconies of crooked old houses, some of the ramshackle vehicles that convey marketers to and from the port of Soller were waiting.

"Let's go and have a look at the port," proposed the Boy. "Those people look at us as if we were wild beasts. And it will be better than hanging about here in the mud."

The shower that had been threatening all the morning was beginning to fall, so I agreed. Selecting the coach that seemed on the point of starting, we took our seats. A young couple, an old couple, and half a dozen market baskets overflowing with greenstuff, shared the interior with us. Three more people and several more baskets mounted to the box, and, just as the rain began to patter heavily on the canvas roof, we drove off, glad to have secured the temporary shelter.

The way from Soller to its port seems to lie through an orange grove, so closely is it flanked on either side with gardens full of the shining leaves and golden fruit. It was sad to learn that a blight had attacked the crop in the lower part of the valley, and to see in one orchard a heap of trees, plucked up by the roots with the fruit still thick on the branches, waiting to be burnt.

As we drove slowly along we met many country people townwards bent to ma.s.s or market. Long usage in sunshine and shadow had streaked the original hue of their great cotton umbrellas with broad lines of lighter tint--lines that until one guessed the cause looked like elaborately decorative stripes.

By the time we had reached the entrance to the landlocked harbour the rain had ceased. Fitful gleams of sunshine broke through the clouds, and the air was soft and pleasant.

Except from one point of view the natural harbour resembled a quiet inland lake. There was no sign of the near proximity of the sea. To the left rose a bold headland crowned by a lighthouse. To the right was a long sweep of bay lined at the farther end by a row of houses, before which small craft lay at anchor. Swart fishermen in red caps and yellow boots lounged by the doors of the cafes.

Just beyond the houses the steamer _Villa de Soller_, that makes periodical trips between the port, Barcelona and Cette, was loading boxes of the oranges for which the district is famed. Farther on was a second lighthouse.

Climbing the steps that rose steeply between the two rows of houses, we reached the summit of the rocky promontory. Rusty cannon, their work long over, lay at rest in front of the old chapel that crowns the eminence. Before us lay the placid land-encircled sheet of water, behind us was a wall. Glancing over, we discovered, to our surprise and pleasure, that instead of the country landscape we had somehow expected to see, the ground fell sheer down to where the purple-blue Mediterranean ceaselessly surged beneath.

The unexpected transition from the peaceful inland lake surrounded by mist-flecked mountains to a precipitous coast was curiously interesting. A moment earlier, with the moisture-laden air blowing softly in our faces, we could have imagined ourselves in the heart of the Scots Highlands. Now, by the mere turning of a head, we were gazing across a great tideless sea.

A capacious coach, in which we chanced to be the only pa.s.sengers, conveyed us back to Soller and deposited us at the door of the Hotel Marina, where the Man, who had spent the morning sketching on a mountain-slope, was waiting to join us at luncheon.

The town was busy when, later in the day, we made a tour of inspection, finding fresh interest at every turn. A row of bananas rich in pod, a group of quaint old-world houses, a great palm rearing its stately head, its thick cl.u.s.ters of orange-red fruit stems heavily beaded with shining yellow fruit.

There was leisure in the air. It was evidently the visiting hour. In the entrance halls, in full view of the pa.s.sing public, comely dames sat chatting all in a row, like the pretty maids in the garden of Mary-Mary-Quite-Contrary.

To us it always seemed odd to see the gossipers seated side by side in a formal line--a position that one would imagine was not conducive to the exchange of confidences.

The suggestion of French influence in the architecture of certain of the newer houses was explained by the fact that when natives of Soller leave the island to seek their fortune they rarely go further than France--an easy journey with the _Villa de Soller_ sailing at frequent intervals from the port to Cette. And when the exiles return--as they invariably do, for the emigrant Majorcan's sole desire is to make money that he may settle in his own country--they naturally import some of the ideas and tastes of the nation with which they have sojourned.

French influence, too, was noticeable in the way the women dressed their hair. In many instances, particularly among the younger women, the pigtail and the _rebozillo_, or head-handkerchief, had given place to an elaborately dressed coiffure.

All night the full moon had illumined a sleepy world. When I looked out at six o'clock it was still visible, though the light of the hidden sun was already flushing with roseate tints the highest mountain-tops. Over the valley the azure smoke of wood fires lay softly, and the sweet, sickly fragrance of steaming chocolate was in the air.

The valley was still partly in shadow when after breakfast the Man went out to resume work. Leaving the Boy to his own devices, I went with him.

The country immediately surrounding Soller is so full of roads all beautiful, and paths all picturesque, that it is often difficult, even for those who know the district well, to find the way they look for. After a little winding in and out of the twisted streets we came upon the expected road--a track leading upwards towards the olive terraces.

From the steep slope where we sat it was curious to watch the progress of the sun as it rose over the mountain-tops to note how, as it climbed higher, the shadows shortened, the moist streets dried, the chill vanished from the atmosphere, and new shadows crept over the sunlit sides of the surrounding hills.

Beneath us ran the _torrente_, and from the roads on either side of its banks came the sound of wayfarers entering or leaving the town.

The air was full of cheerful sounds, of the rattle of wheels, or the tinkle of bells and the bleat of lambs as a flock was driven by. The atmosphere was so clear that we caught the swift musical note of a church clock, and the sound of a gunshot reverberated among the hills like a peal of thunder.

The few pa.s.sers-by gave us kindly greeting. Two old women returning from market, a bevy of young girls on their way to gather the fallen olives, an old couple trotting briskly beside their panniered donkey--all had time to smile and wish us "Good-day."

As the sun became stronger I rose and wandered on, up the steep, cobbled road, past the gardens where the oranges hung golden, looking for wild flowers. Even in the days of late November one rarely looks in vain for wild flowers in Majorca; and this morning, strolling along by the runnels of water, where the delicate maidenhair fern grew in profusion, I saw twining about the ivy berries in the hedge a lovely creeper that was new to me.

Set at regular intervals on a slender brown stem, it bore cl.u.s.ters of glossy green foliage and drooping florets and buds. The blossoms, which had four petals, were cream-hued and flecked inside with crimson. It was a dainty and distinctive trailer. Even in its natural state it was difficult to imagine a more graceful wreath. A pa.s.ser-by of whom I asked its name called it _Sylvestris montana_, and volunteered the information that, though it luxuriated on dry walls, no one could succeed in inducing it to grow in gardens.

Following the path as it wound about the side of the hill, I found myself by easy stages rising high amid the olive terraces. There were silver-white olives beneath me, silver-white olives above me.

The voices of the invisible gatherers mingled harmoniously with the music of the running water. A soothing sense of peace lay over all.