To the foreigner these covered carriages appear intensely uncomfortable; if he be above the medium height his head comes in irritating contact with the roof; he can see hardly anything of the landscape from the windows, and he never ceases to marvel at the natives who can pack themselves in incredible numbers into one of these little-eases and emerge unruffled and cheerful at the end of a long drive. Yet it must be admitted that in its own country the galaréta possesses several distinct advantages over the open carriage; its occupants are indifferent to sun and rain, and can protect themselves from both dust and wind; on the hottest summer’s day a draught can be created by lowering the glasses and drawing the Venetian shutters with which each window is fitted, while upon the homeward drive the chilly night air can be as easily excluded.
Like all Southerners the Majorcans dread the change of temperature that takes place at sundown, and towards evening they wrap themselves in cloaks and mufflers, while the fearless foreigner sits out on a terrace to enjoy the sunset and is extremely indignant at waking next morning with a sore throat.
In a land where the new-born year is so amazingly precocious it is difficult to remember that in England he is still in his white swaddling clothes; by the end of January the plain around Palma is decked with miles of almond orchards in full bloom, their faint scent filling the air and their laden branches covering the country with billowy white masses. The wind has forestalled the date of the Carnival, and his last night’s Battle of Flowers has flung deep drifts of snowy confetti upon the sprouting wheat beneath the trees. But there are still snow-caps on the blue hills away to the north, and a sudden rattling storm of hail reminds us that even in Majorca Spring is not yet fully enthroned.
By February a vast expanse of young wheat has clothed the land in a garment of the crudest Pre-Raphaelite green—almost startling in its intensity when seen in contrast with sea or sky.
By the first week in March new potatoes and green peas are in the market, the orchards are knee-deep in beans, and the whole island is fragrant with bean blossom. In the carob groves—where the knotted trunks and twisted limbs of the old trees cast strange shadows on the swaying corn—are purple anemones, pink gladiolus, and a blue shimmer of honey-scented grape-hyacinths.
The long days of unbroken sunshine are now devoted to excursions into the surrounding country, and visitors begin to leave the town in which they have wintered and to roam further afield.
A favourite drive is to the neighbouring Château of Raxa, a country seat belonging to the Count of Montenegro, where the grounds are laid out in Italian fashion with orange and cypress terraces, stone vases and statues, and splendid flights of marble steps. Roses, violets, freesias, and heliotrope were in full bloom in the gardens on March 3rd, and the women engaged on the orange harvest handed down to us branches heavy with fragrant golden fruit. Oranges are nothing accounted of in Majorca, and lemons are looked upon as so far below all price that they are given one for the asking, any idea of payment being vigorously scouted.
The road to Raxa runs for many miles through a red plain given up to olive culture; whether it is the soil of Majorca that is responsible for the extraordinary grotesqueness of the olive-trees I cannot say, but they resemble nothing I have ever seen in other lands. Stretching away in quaint perspective on either hand are distorted grey forms suggestive of an enchanted forest; many of the old trees stand on a kind of tripod formed by the splitting and shrinking of their own trunk; here a hoary veteran of many centuries has wound himself into an excellent imitation of a corkscrew; a group of twisted crones appears to gossip together with uplifted hands, while two sprawling wrestlers are locked as in a death-struggle in each other’s arms. Here squats a gnarled mass like nothing so much as a gigantic toad; there a boa-constrictor twines itself in folds about its prey, and an antediluvian monster stoops to examine with interest the strange human insect that has adventured itself within reach.
So endless are the variations of form assumed by these extraordinary trees, so fascinating is each fresh discovery, that one wanders on and on, like children in a bewitched wood, and a determined effort of will is required to tear oneself away from such a scene and return to the carriage awaiting one on the prosaic high-road.