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Margaret D'Este
With a Camera in Majorca
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066232405
Table of Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
To those who are unacquainted with the Spanish language, the pronunciation of Majorcan names is such a stumbling block that the following phonetic rendering of some of those most frequently met with may be found useful:—
Jaime= Ha-eé-mayLonja= Loan-haAndraitx= An-dreítschLluch= Lee-oókSollér= Sole-yairIviza= Evéess-aMahon= M’honeAubercuix= O-ber-cóotshPuig (signifying Peak)= PóotschBañalbufar= Ban-yal-boo-fárFelanitx= Fay-la-néetsch
Map of Majorca
PART I
In the spring of 1906 we found ourselves with three months to devote to foreign travel, and after some deliberation we decided to spend them in exploring those “Iles oubliées” of the Mediterranean—Majorca, Minorca, and Iviza—and in ascertaining for ourselves whether they were worth visiting and what were the possibilities of a stay there.
Their names, it is true, lingered in our memories like some familiar echo from far-off schoolroom days, but with regard to all practical details we were extremely ignorant, and it was without knowing a soul in the islands or a soul who had ever been there, that we set out on the last day of January to visit the Balearics—those homes of famous slingers.
A railway journey of twenty-two hours takes the traveller from Paris to Barcelona by way of Toulouse. The change from France to Spain is an abrupt one. After racing through flat lands of vine, through sand dunes and salt lagoons, one crosses the frontier into a dry place of red and orange hills, where stone villages stand bare and unshrinking in the strong sunlight, and here and there a palm—solitary outpost of the south—waves her dusty plumes; and the night falls suddenly upon a sky crystal clear, as the sun slips in glory behind the strong outline of the purple Pyrenees.
An old writer has left it on record that the thing which chiefly repented him in his life was having gone anywhere by sea when he might have gone by land. Since it is decreed, however, that islands shall be reached by water, one subject of remorse was spared us as we boarded the steamship Miramar at half-past six on the evening of February 5th. And so great is the power of comparatives to cheer, that though the worst of sailors, we derived a certain happiness from the reflection that we had at any rate chosen the lesser evil in sailing from Barcelona instead of taking the twenty-four hour crossing from Marseilles.
Behold us then at dawn gliding into the Bay of Palma and gazing around us with that undefined expectancy that even in these prosaic days of travel tinges with romance the landing on an unknown shore.
“From the grounds round the Castle of Bellver a most lovely view of Palma is obtained through the pine-trees. …”
(page 31)
“… the little harbour of Porto Pi, guarded by an old Moorish signal tower.”
(page 32)
Here is nothing of the wild and rugged mountain scenery that meets the eye on approaching Ajaccio. Rather like some Fortunate Isle safe from the reach of tempests does Majorca lie serene and dreaming upon the water. The great bay opening to the south is enclosed upon the east by a level shore terminating far out at sea in the blue headland of Cape Blanco, while closer at hand the western coast line is indented with many a rocky promontory and wooded headland curving down to the harbour’s rim. A low cliff of orange sandstone encircles like a sea wall the head of the bay, and upon this cliff stands Palma, a sea of colourless houses massed upon the water’s edge and stretching backwards to the wide plain—deep blue and level well-nigh as the sea itself—that forms the background to the town and to the great cathedral that towers high above all other buildings.
At its eastern rim the plain rises slightly to the double peaks of the Puig de Randa, far inland; on the west the panorama is closed by a distant range of sapphire blue mountains, the Sierra of the interior.
We land, and are rattled quickly away in an omnibus to the Grand Hotel—but a few minutes distant from the quay. It was no small relief to find that we were spared a further encounter with the Spanish douane, for the ruthless violation of our trunks at the frontier station of Port Bou was still fresh in our memory, while the very hour of our sailing from Barcelona had been marked by a last attempt at extortion. A Customs official who was patrolling the wharf in all the glory of helmet and sword, took upon himself to detain a packing case of ours, containing a saddle, and, on the ground that he could not see what was inside, he forbade it to be put on board.
It was late—it was dark—the boat was about to sail, and we had retired to our cabin. Our hired porter raved and shrieked upon the quay, then came to us and said we must have the case opened or it would be left behind. I stumbled upstairs again, my Spanish deserting me at such a rate that by the time I reached the shore my vocabulary was literally reduced to the one word, sombrero—which, unhappily, did not bear upon the matter. The douanier was polite, but firm. With shrugged shoulders he said the Senorita would comprehend that with the best will in the world he could not see through a deal board.
At that moment the gleam of a street lamp fell upon an upturned palm protruding from beneath the military cape—and into it I slipped a peseta, which produced such a furious access of shrugging and protestation that for one brief moment I thought I had insulted the man. But on looking round I saw that all was well, porter and case being already half-way on deck—and with a sense of deep annoyance at having tipped a person I would willingly have fined, I followed them and went to bed.
On the Palma quay all is peace. By a simple arrangement involving a certain annual subsidy to the Customs officials, the proprietor of the Grand Hotel has ensured protection for his guests’ luggage, which escapes even the most nominal examination. The hotel omnibus merely draws up for a moment in front of the Douane on entering the town; the officials, armed with long probing rods, saunter out, open the carriage door and wish us good day—and on we go again.
The town is still