The Fortunate Isles Part 20

One most interesting chamber held the records of Pollensa for many hundreds of years--from the earliest archives that were inscribed on parchment now brown with age, to the smart morocco-bound chronicles of the day before yesterday. The arms of the city--the three cypresses, the silver star, and the c.o.c.k with a claw in the air, that had already become familiar to us--were there also.

Among the old cross-bows and halberds were the huge blunderbusses that, in accordance with an old custom, are still fired off yearly.

And with them were specimens of a much older form of offensive weapon in the shape of huge rounded stones that in olden times had been hurled from the battlements of the Castillo del Rey, aimed at the skulls of attacking enemies.

Articles that were specially interesting, because in use to the present day, were the big earthenware water-jugs from which are drawn by lot the young men whom Pollensa annually contributes to the Majorcan army. There must be anxious hearts, both inside and outside of the old building, on that morning in early February when the lads whose turn has come go up to draw from the narrow mouths of the Moorish jars the numbers that are to decide their manner of life for the next three years.

In the Council Chamber was a large painting by a native artist of Juan Mas, the townsman to whom belongs the honour of having first delivered Pollensa from the Moors.

Juan must either have been a _malade imaginaire_, or one whose spirit was stronger than his body; for, as the story goes, he was sick abed when the Moors reached the town, and leaping from his couch, without taking time to change his night-garb, he led the people on to victory. The artist shows the hero in what was presumably the sleeping-suit of the period--loose white breeches and a shirt.

We were back at the _fonda_ taking tea when a sound of chanting voices in the street beneath drew us to the windows in time to see a religious procession pa.s.sing slowly beneath. Priests in rich vestments, carrying banners, walked in front; behind in a double line came a long succession of females of all cla.s.ses--women with _rebozillos_ and pigtails, ladies with mantillas. A band of little girls and nuns brought up the rear; and, still singing, the company pa.s.sed on, and entered the adjacent church.

XV

THE PORT OF ALCUDIA

On being consulted respecting a conveyance that would take us to Alcudia, the younger Dromio had suggested the possibility of hiring one from a friend of his own. The distance was twelve kilometros, the cost would be about six or seven pesetas. So next morning, when we were ready to start, quite a smart trap awaited us.

It was after the fashion of the penitential gig in which we had journeyed from the Hospederia at Miramar to Soller, but it was twice as large. The owner, who drove, had dressed for the occasion. He wore a sportive cap of green and gold tartan plush, a well-starched white shirt that was lavishly sprinkled with black spots as big as sixpences (no collar, of course), and he was smoking a cigar.

Bidding farewell to the two Dromios, who shook us by the hands with seeming regret and craved the favour of a recommendation to our friends, we drove away through the sweet morning air. The lovely road curved about the foot of the hill crowned by the old Convent of Our Lady of the Peak, and past many little holdings--one-acre-and-a-goat sort of places--towards the sea. The road was dry, but there was no dust, and the January sun shone warmly from a cloudless sky.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Roman Gateway, Alcudia]

When we had reached the broad Roman road that led directly to the old walled city of Alcudia, our way led between countless ranks of great fig-trees--their spreading branches now bare and grey. So many were they, and so wide an area did they cover, that, if we had not seen figs growing in profusion at other parts of the island, we could almost have believed that all the figs in Palma came from Alcudia.

Our driver was a genial man who had emigrated and made his money in Buenos Ayres, and while still young had been able to follow the worthy native custom and return with his savings to his native district, where he was now comfortably settled, farming his own bit of land and driving his own pony-trap.

When we asked his advice as to where we might stay at Alcudia, he said there were two hotels at the port, which is a mile beyond the old city. The Hotel Miramar was the larger. But the proprietors of the Fonda Marina were friends of his own. They were very nice people. He could heartily recommend them. And here I may say that one of the many nice features of the Majorcans is that they are almost invariably on friendly terms with each other. If a shopkeeper happens to be out of the commodity a buyer wants, he will put himself out of his way to direct the customer to a brother vendor.

Alcudia is a curiously old city--far older even than Palma, they claim. It has a distinct inner wall--Moorish--and many substantial traces of an outer one--Roman. Entering by the gate of San Sebastian--near which a much-chipped wooden figure of the saint is sheltered in a netting-protected niche in the wall--we drove through the corkscrewy streets and out by a gate on the farther side.

Before coming we had decided not to stay in the ancient city. Its sanitary condition was supposed to be doubtful, and we had failed to hear of an inn there. But when we had driven through the picturesque Roman gateway and past the antique cross beyond, we looked back, and the place seemed so enticingly old-world, so like a habitation out of another century than ours, that we felt sorry we had made no real endeavour to find a lodging within its walls. However, the recollection that we would have to start about 3 a.m. in a small boat to get on board the Minorca steamer reconciled us to the prospect of living as close as possible to the harbour.

The Fonda Marina was an attractive-looking new house built at the very edge of the bay. As we drove up, the host and hostess, recognizing our driver, hastened out to welcome him. Before marrying and settling down as hotel-keepers, the husband had been a steward on South American steamers, and the wife had been cook to the former proprietors of the _fonda_. Both were pleasant, frank country folk, and terms were quickly arranged.

"We would like to stay here till the boat for Minorca calls to-morrow night. Can you take us for three pesetas a day?" we asked.

"For three pesetas _each_?" the host inquired dubiously, as though he thought we had suggested his accepting that sum for the trio. "If for three pesetas _each_--yes, surely."

So, to the evident satisfaction of everybody concerned, the easy bargain was concluded.

The Fonda Marina was particularly bright and airy. Its windows overlooked the great Bay of Alcudia, from which, in olden times, expeditions were wont to sail for Africa and the Levant. These were the days when the kings of Spain built whole fleets from wood grown in Majorcan forests.

There was a drawing-room whose three windows each commanded a totally different point of view. It had a good balcony, and was lit by home-made acetylene gas. Our rooms, which were clean and comfortable, faced seawards. With a very long rod one might almost have fished from their windows. A more enticing summer residence could hardly be imagined.

Our hostess had promised that in a few minutes luncheon would be ready. And it was with lively curiosity that we awaited its appearance. The two Dromios had entertained us for the same sum; and we were interested to see how the catering of the Fonda Marina would compare with that of their caravansary.

Seating ourselves in one of the large halls downstairs, we waited the turn of events. The mistress of the house had disappeared into the kitchen, whence frizzling sounds expressive of hurried cooking smote cheerily upon our expectant ears.

Presently a slim, dark-eyed young maid, Consuelo by name, hastened out bearing an armful of plates which she proceeded to set at intervals round a large baize-covered table near us. Then she added thick gla.s.s tumblers, a tall jug of water, and a large rye loaf.

"I say," said the Boy, "there are _six_ plates. We're evidently expected to dine with the family. That'll be fun."

But his hopes of a treat were disappointed by Consuelo reappearing to invite us into a neat little dining-room whose existence we had not suspected. There we found a table nicely spread for three, with the elaborately monogrammed linen one sees in every Majorcan home, good cutlery, a bottle of red wine, and a siphon of soda-water.

When we had taken our places our host himself placed before us a large dish of _arroz_--the excellent native stew of rice mixed with anything savoury in the form of fish, flesh, fowl, or vegetable that happens to be at hand.

Fried fish followed--fresh out of the sea, and so delicious of flavour that we were inclined to question whether those caught in the bay of Pollensa could possibly be better.

While we were eating it, the hostess came in to ask what we would have next--whether we would prefer an omelet or cutlets. We unanimously chose omelet, and in a hand-clap one, hot and buoyant, was on the table. Oranges and apples and black coffee completed the menu.

During the meal, the solicitude of the family to see that we lacked nothing that would conduce to our comfort was almost embarra.s.sing.

The door of our dining-room stood open, and although the host and Consuelo, who served us, did not actually remain in the room they were continually pa.s.sing the door with anxious eyes turned on our proceedings. And when a dish was removed the senora would come in person to inquire if it had been to our liking.

The climax came when the only child of the house--Cristobal, a dear brat of five--in his desire to see the eccentric strangers eat, crept stealthily up the staircase and stationed himself on his knees just opposite the open door of the dining-room, gazing down through the banisters at us.

This ingenious little manoeuvre was discovered by his father.

There ensued a sound resembling applause, and young hopeful was borne off, howling, to be comforted in the kitchen.

Immediately after luncheon the Man walked back towards Alcudia to sketch the view of the sea-gate of the old city, that had struck him when we drove through. And, left to our devices, the Boy and I went boating.

A jolly, flat-bottomed punt belonging to the _fonda_ was moored close at hand, and just across the blue and silver water lay an enticing stretch of lovely white sand. Behind it rose a bank of low shrubs overtopped by tall pines whose foliage had been so cropped that at a little distance they bore a striking resemblance to cocoanut palms. Beyond the flat expanse of land rose a line of mountains that glowed warm heliotrope and pink in the strong sunshine.

The still water was so clear that we could see every grain of the sand, every spray of seaweed, beneath. And as we drifted over the lagoon we felt as though the intervening decade had slipped back and that we were once again on the coral strand of the Pacific Islands.

I had heard that beautiful and, sometimes, very rare sh.e.l.ls were to be found in the Bay of Alcudia. So, getting the Boy to put me on sh.o.r.e, I wandered along by the edge of the water looking for them.

But my quest proved of little avail. Sh.e.l.ls there were, it is true, but they were very small, very fragile, and almost colourless; most, indeed, were pure white and nearly transparent. I have gathered sh.e.l.ls in many parts of the world, and I confess I was disappointed.

Still, it was the only point on which Alcudia did not far exceed any expectations I had formed of it. The comparative failure of my search must have been owing to the long continuance of calm weather. As the Mediterranean is almost tideless, it is only after a storm that wave-borne treasures are usually to be found washed up on her beaches.

Perhaps I may not have looked in the right spot, though I did wander a long way round the sh.o.r.e in the direction of the Albufera--the tract of marshy land where rice is cultivated. So far, that I was glad when the Boy, by skilful navigation, succeeded in avoiding the many sandbanks and could run the punt in and, picking me up, row me over to the _fonda_.

The Man was awaiting our return, and after taking a cup of tea we walked eastwards along the coast towards an old Moorish tower that we had seen from the distance.

The sun had set. It was in the mysterious half-light of the gloaming that we mounted the steps leading to the door and found it open at a touch. Within all was darkness. The flame of a match revealed chambers showing that the tower had evidently been a home as well as a place of defence. One had evidently been the living-room of the Moorish tenants, for almost half the floor-s.p.a.ce was occupied by the wide chimney-corner, where a host might have gathered round the blazing logs. I never see an ancient dwelling without experiencing a keen desire to know what manner of folks were the first to kindle a fire on the deserted hearth.

Feeling our way up the worn stairway, we reached a floor with more empty and silent apartments. Two or three broken steps led to a cunning opening placed exactly over the front entrance. Besiegers essaying to storm the door must have fallen easy victims to the alert watchers above; and that wide hearth had room to heat an amazing lot of water. At either side of the opening were embrasures into which the defender of the fortress might dart after he had aimed his missile--scalding water, arrows, heavy stones, or whatever the fashion of his time in projectiles chanced to be.

Mounting yet higher, we found ourselves standing in the open air, on a flat circular roof overlooking the wide bay. On one side of the roof were two chambers and a draw-well.

The view from the top of this ancient Moorish tower was grand. The sun had long set, but the sky still held a thousand glorious hues that were reflected in the sea. No craft moved on the surface of the water, and not a living being was in sight on land. The whole lovely world seemed to belong to us. Allured by the romantic beauty of the spot, we lingered until the colour had faded and the sky had become so dark that we had to stumble our way _fonda_-wards over the rough field-track, vowing to return on the morrow to see the place by daylight.

Supper was waiting when we got indoors--half-a-dozen fried eggs served with fried potatoes, cutlets, cauliflower and cheese. A home-made sausage, a mould of _membrillo_ jelly, fruit and coffee--an _outre_ combination perhaps, but it was all very tempting and nicely cooked, and we enjoyed it.