I think it was then that I fell in love with Soller.

There are places that at first sight you are entranced with, and in two days find you have exhausted. Soller is decidedly not one of these. At the close of the third day of our stay in the hill-encradled town we felt as though we had hardly yet had more than a glimpse of its beauties, so many and varied are they. It is said that you can stay at Soller for two months and go for a different walk every day--and I believe it.

From the first waking moments, when one could see the rising sun illumine the hill-tops, until, with its sinking, the grand crest of the Puig Mayor--the Greater Peak--was garbed in celestial glory, the day was a succession of artistic delights.

Soller had for us an added charm in the companionship of congenial fellow-visitors--an English lady who appreciates the beauty of the place and the homely, good qualities of its people so highly that she spends long periods there, and an enthusiastic young artist from the Argentine who, with the world to choose from, elects to paint at Soller.

Under their guidance we had driven to Biniaraix and, alighting, mounted the _Barranco_--a wonderful path by which the peasant proprietors reach the olive-trees that their untiring care in the preparation of the stony soil and their skill in husbandry have persuaded to grow on every possible--and, one might almost add, impossible--ledge of the rocky steeps.

The Barranco, which was like a series of low, broad steps, zigzagged between the mountains like some eccentric, never-ending staircase.

As we went up and up we paused often to look down to where, deep in the valley, Soller lay embowered in its orange gardens. And while we climbed we marvelled at the ceaseless industry of a race that is willing to expend so much time and toil to reap so small a return.

On the following afternoon we drove to Fornalutx, a little antique town three miles from Soller. Fornalutx is the point from which expeditions start to climb the Puig Mayor.

The little town, which is built from the warm, amber-brown stone of the hill-side on which it perches, is very old. There does not seem to be a yard of straight street within its bounds. The houses are set down pell-mell, anyhow and anywhere. A delightful lack of uniformity reigns supreme. An orange orchard pokes itself in here, a vine trellis projects there, a flight of steps interjects its crooked way at every corner.

And it is all pictures!

The Painter, who knew the place, reflecting our pleasure, hurried us on to see a good subject, and another good subject, and yet another.

As we pa.s.sed up a quaint side street the tinkle of mandolines fell gratefully on our ears, and we paused before the open doorway from which the sound issued. Green branches and tissue-paper frills decorated the entrance; within, some sort of merrymaking was in progress.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Mandoline Player]

A group of pinafored urchins who were hanging about outside told us that it was the _fiesta_ of the master of the house.

It was rude, inquisitive, and wholly inexcusable, of course, but, incited thereto by curiosity, we drew nearer and nearer until we could see into the room which opened directly from the street, and wherein a young girl and a grey-haired man were seated, mandolines on knees, playing a duet. They performed without music but in perfect harmony.

The girl, who was dark-eyed and pretty, was attired gaily in honour of the festivity. She wore a red skirt, a pale-green bodice, and an elaborately embroidered white ap.r.o.n. Blue ribbons adorned her well-oiled hair, silver bracelets and rings decorated her slender wrists and skilful fingers. The man was evidently her father. In the background we got an impression of guests and of a presiding matronly presence.

With a final flourish the melody ceased.

"Bravo!" we cried, and clapped our hands.

It was no longer possible to ignore the presence of the impertinent foreigners. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the sociable Majorcans welcomed the opportunity of recognizing our uninvited appearance. For, as we turned to go, the mistress of the house hurried out, a hastily vacated chair in either hand, to urge us to enter, and would take no refusal.

Within, the guests had rearranged themselves. Retiring further into the room, they had left s.p.a.ce for us. It would have been discourteous to reject the hospitality so unaffectedly offered.

Our little party was soon grouped inside the doorway, and the father, whose _fiesta_ it was, laying aside his mandoline, seated himself at an old piano, and the concert began afresh, the daughter playing the mandoline to her father's accompaniment on the venerable instrument. The company, which included two priests, smoked as it listened appreciatively.

On the centre table was a liqueur-stand, two decanters of red wine, and a large round dish holding a giant _enciamada_. When the music ended and we rose to go, the hostess advanced carrying the liqueur-stand, and, doing the honours with an ease of manner and dignity of bearing that might have adorned any social rank, she insisted on pouring out a little gla.s.s of _aniset_ for each of us.

Having drunk to the health of the hero of the _fiesta_, we made our farewells and departed, delighted with this chance glimpse of placid and happy home-life, and wondering what manner of reception a party of curious intrusive foreigners who disturbed the peace of a family gathering would have met in our own conservative country.

That afternoon at Fornalutx was fated to be one of those that stand clearly out in the memory, not because of any special adventure or of any great occurrence, but simply because it held a succession of captivating little incidents, of happy chances.

Pa.s.sing down a narrow street of steps we came upon an old house whose wide outer court tempted us to enter. Exploring, we found ourselves in an olive oil factory. In the inner chamber a patient mule, his eyes blindfolded by having miniature straw baskets tied over them, was walking sedately round, supplying the force that crushed the olives, and from the press the oil was gushing in streams that went to fill the vats underneath the floor.

On the outside wall of the post office a caged bird was singing cheerily. Next door was the prison, but that cage was empty. The barred window of its cell opened breast-high on the street, but spiders had, undisturbed, woven webs across its bars, and the key stood in the door. Evidently malefactors are scarce in the quaint hill-town.

Leaving the crooked streets, we strolled up the side of the _torrente_, which flowed amidst orange orchards and by the sides of picturesque houses. Pomegranate-trees, their dainty foliage flecked with autumnal gold, had rooted in the high banks by the water, and the unplucked rose-red fruit had already supplied many a luxurious meal for the birds. Were I a bird I would elect to build my nest at Fornalutx, for there I would be sure to find an abundance of good food. Figs bursting with ripeness hung on the trees, and all around were oranges, and vines, and yet more oranges.

Far up the precipitous hill-path, at a point so high that it afforded a glorious view of Soller, we came upon a farm-house known to our friends.

The occupants, greeting us kindly, took us into the most curious kitchen imaginable. Goatskins covered the ceiling, and in the centre was a place where seats encircled a charcoal brazier--a Majorcan "cosy corner," where the household could sit and snugly toast their toes, when storms blew snell about the mountains and rain obscured the valley.

The garden s.p.a.ce in front of the farm-house had been turned into a great bower by a huge vine that, trained along a trellis, cast over it a pleasant shade.

[Ill.u.s.tration: At Fornalutx]

It was late in the season--the last day of November--yet a few glorious cl.u.s.ters of grapes, the berries all golden and pink and wearing a bloom unmarred by touch of hand, hung heavy from its branches. Here another instance of native generosity awaited us, for the housewife, resolutely refusing recompense, sent us away laden with bunches. As we descended to where the carriage waited we must have presented something of the appearance of the returning spies that Moses had sent out to view the land of Canaan.

The sun had set when we reached Fornalutx. Looking up from the crooked street towards the hills we saw the peak of the Puig Mayor stand out against the darkening eastern sky, sublime, magnificent, bathed in a flood of roseate light. It was a fitting climax to a day of quiet delights.

We had entered Soller wet and weary on Sat.u.r.day night, knowing no one within many miles. When, on Wednesday afternoon, the diligence bound for Palma called at the Marina to pick us up, people of four different nationalities a.s.sembled round the coach door to bid us "G.o.d-speed."

We would fain have lingered amid the oranges and palms of Soller, but time was flying and we had much to see elsewhere.

The diligence was full--so full that there would hardly have been s.p.a.ce for an added thimble. It was our first experience of a Majorcan diligence, and we were interested to see how pleasantly the already closely packed pa.s.sengers squeezed together to make room for new-comers, and to note how quietly they all sat, without fidgeting, with scarcely a change of position, during a drive that lasted over four hours.

The window in front and those at the sides were shut, and remained so throughout the journey. Fortunately our seats were by the door, and through its big window, which we kept open, we had a splendid view.

The highroad from Soller to Palma is, I verily believe, one of the most curious ever made. Immediately after leaving the town it has to ascend 1,500 feet, which exploit it accomplishes by zigzagging at acute angles to the summit. That done, it zigzags down the other side.

The progress uphill was necessarily slow, so slow indeed, that the driver, who had traversed that road daily for thirty years, left his sure-footed mules to guide themselves, and trotted along behind the coach smoking the eternal cigarette. And, while we revelled in the ever-varying views afforded by the constant change of direction, our fellow travellers gently dozed, with the exception of a round-eyed little girl, who, oppressed by the glory of her first hat and the excitement of her first journey, kept wide-awake.

Up we went, every moment revealing some fresh effect of light and shadow in the enchanting mountains, past where the embryonic workings of the new light railway scarred the hillside. Up we went and up, catching little glimpses of the town nestling far beneath in its cradle of mountains, and seeing the last flash of sunset illumine their crests. As we mounted slowly the somnolence of our fellow pa.s.sengers became more profound, and a portly father who was seated beside the little girl, to her evident alarm, lurched farther and farther in her direction, threatening altogether to efface her.

The Man was on the point of going to the rescue, but the coach having reached the old carven cross that marks the summit, a sudden and vivifying change came over our manner of progress. The driver remounted the box beside the two motionless old women, whose black-shrouded figures we had seen silhouetted against the light, and off we set, at a pace that atoned for our crawl uphill.

The more rapid motion wrought a transformation on our companions.

All the slumberers awoke. The portly gentleman, simultaneously opening eyes and mouth, gazed down in astonishment at the child, as though during his doze she had materialized out of nothing. Lively expressions lit up the blank faces. The little old man in the corner began softly chanting one of the quaint native songs, that to me always sound like improvisations.

It was already dusk when we stopped to change our three hardy mules at a wayside _fonda_: and the lights of Palma were sparkling through the December darkness when we drew up at the city gate for the _consumero's_ inspection.

During our days of absence the gay little city seemed to have decided that winter had come. The soldiers had donned their heavy coats, and men were going about m.u.f.fled in great cloaks: but leaves were still thick on the plane-trees in the Borne, and to us the air seemed still soft and pleasant.

A few minutes later we were entering the Casa Tranquila with that feeling of absolute contentment that return to one's own home alone can afford.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Son Mas, Andraitx]

X

ANDRAITX

A happy fortune more than good guiding led us to Andraitx. The Boy, painting at the port of Palma had seen the diligence, stuffed within with country folks and top-heavy without with their bundles, start with a gay jingle of bells for that little-known town, and was seized with a desire to visit it.