At noon we reached Lluchmayór, and after lunching at the inn we visited the great high-backed church that prides itself on being the largest in the island outside Palma. It was deserted save for the presence of three old charwomen, who alternately chatted and laughed or piously mumbled Ave Marias and Pater nosters as they plied their flappers about the pulpit and the quaint old pews, resembling settees, with curved backs and deep seats inlaid with scenes in coloured woods. A wax figure of Santa Candida in a glass case, and some marvellous embroideries with inch-deep scrolls of gold thread set with precious stones, are amongst the most treasured possessions of this church.
On again, through Campos, whence we look back to catch a last glimpse of the Palma Cathedral—far away across the plain; and the evening shadows are lengthening fast as we drive into Santagný, where we are to spend the night.
Santagný is the southernmost town in Majorca, and as such suffered sorely in bygone time from the Algerian and Moroccan pirates who infested the neighbouring islet of Cabréra. In the sixteenth century the town was encircled with walls, to prevent the repetition of a raid that devastated the whole countryside and forced the inhabitants to fly for safety to the interior of the island. But centuries of safety have razed the fortifications more surely than any piratical attack, and one massive gateway—standing in the market-place—alone remains to testify to the dangers run by the townspeople in olden days.
The fonda, or inn, at Santagný proved to be one of those truly primitive establishments that cause one to ponder the eternal question as to which comes first—the tourist or the inn. The problem regarding the hen and the egg is itself not more elusive than the vicious circle in which one becomes involved when dwelling on this subject. It is highly improbable that the accommodation at Santagný will undergo any improvement until visitors have shown some sign of wishing to come to the town; it is equally improbable that visitors will show any signs of wishing to come to Santagný until the accommodation has been improved.
I must admit that the supper passed off in comparative style. We sat in a small, whitewashed room downstairs—our driver and a soldier also supping there at another table—and in place of the bell of conventionality we clapped our hands between the courses, which consisted of an excellent omelette, a dish of meat and rice, and oranges sliced with sugar. Our hostess’s attentions were somewhat spasmodic owing to the periodical raids she made on certain small boys whose noses were flattened on the window-pane, and at whom she dashed out very suddenly—belabouring such as came under her hand with a large market basket. In the outer room a guitar was being strummed, and the voices of the men sitting drinking there broke out now and then in a resonant chorus. All this was very nice and native; but when we went upstairs to our bedrooms it was still very native—only not so nice.
Three small and stuffy cubicles opened off the landing at the head of the stairs; the only one that obtained any light or air was the end one, which had a small window in the outer wall of the house, but—as if to compensate for this advantage—it lacked a door, the privacy of its occupant being dependant upon a flimsy curtain that fluttered airily to and fro in the doorway. Each cubicle contained a bed, a chair, and a straw mat on the floor; and outside, on the landing, stood one small washstand, with a set of toilet appliances destined to be shared by all the occupants of the bedrooms. That the centre room was already engaged was evident from an unmistakably masculine snore that proceeded from it. Horses munched loudly in a stall below, and the petulant voices of dreaming pigs rose to the skies from an adjoining farmyard. Even our driver—who never considered his duties at an end until he had personally inspected our sleeping quarters for the night—expressed disapproval at the prospect, although his sympathetic shrugs plainly intimated that as we had made our beds so must we lie upon them. I speak figuratively, for as a matter of fact our beds were not made at all, though we had been more than two hours in the house.
Amidst such unpromising surroundings did we eventually retire for the night, waking to find that our neighbour of the middle room had most opportunely taken himself off in the small hours of the morning, leaving us in sole possession of the washstand, so that our toilet was accomplished in comparative safety, and with no other interruption than the sudden appearance of our hostess on her way upstairs to fetch a sausage from the attic. It is but fair to say that this was the only fonda we met with in the whole of our wanderings that was so primitive in its arrangements.
On going down to breakfast our hostess presents us each with a thick tumbler containing a species of strong, brown broth, very nourishing, I should suppose, for an invalid; swelling with pride, she reveals the fact that the strange beverage we are drinking is tea—and it is doubtless on the strength of this compliment to our nationality that she presently tenders us a bill for fourteen pesetas—ten shillings and sixpence—a sum not overwhelming in itself, but absurdly high according to the standard of charges current in Majorcan inns.
Five pesetas—four shillings—a day for each person is the recognised charge for board and lodging at all the best fondas in Majorca. At a little hotel, such as that of Sollér or Alcúdia, one’s pension may run as high as six or even seven and a half pesetas; but these are the outside prices; and one’s driver’s food—for which one is expected to pay while on tour—should never exceed two pesetas a day.
At small native inns an arrangement as to terms should always be made on arrival. Particularly is this the case in out-of-the-way villages where strangers are rarely seen, and where the innkeeper will occasionally endeavour to make a profit out of all proportion to the accommodation provided for his guests. This sharp dealing is so little in keeping with the character of the average Majorcan that I can only explain it by quoting the people’s own saying, to the effect that there is not room for honour and profit in the same pocket. I think that the opportunity offered of enriching themselves easily at the expense of well-to-do foreigners proves too great a temptation for certain fondistas who have lost the finer feelings possessed by their compatriots not engaged in trade.