“Santuiri was one of the great mediæval burgs of Majorca, and is in better preservation than either of its fellows of Alaró or Pollensa.”
(page [52])
A twin height across a little valley is occupied by the Oratorio of San Salvadór—the shrine of a wonder-working Madonna whose fame dates from the Middle Ages, and who is visited annually by thousands of pilgrims from all parts of the island.
To this shrine we ascended in the afternoon, the latter part of the route being a steep hillside, clothed with prickly pear and a sweet-smelling dwarf gorse, up which we slowly toiled on foot, the zigzag path marked out with twelve stations of the Cross, depicted in faïence tiles upon freestone pillars. Attached to the Oratorio upon the summit is a large hospedéria containing some forty bedrooms, built for the reception of pilgrims; the four brown-frocked friars who minister to the wants of visitors were busily engaged in sawing timber in the entrance-hall amidst a litter of fresh shavings, and one of them interrupted his work to take us into the adjoining chapel. In pitch darkness we groped our way to a niche at the back of the high altar, and were shown by the light of a match a little old stone statue—the Blessed Virgin of San Salvadór—only second in power to Our Lady of Lluch.
A special room is set aside for the votive offerings presented to her: the walls are thickly hung with uniforms, children’s garments, and bridal gowns; there are toys and medals, and stacks of crutches; there are rows of photographs of the Virgin’s protégés, who attribute their escape from accident and illness to her shielding power; there are crude childish representations of fires, shipwrecks, thunderbolts, runaway horses, and all the perils that humanity is heir to. Some of the ex-votos date from the attack of the Moors in 1737; others come from far countries—such as the one “promised to Our Lady in the fire of Santiago.”
One of the most pathetic offerings that I saw at another Majorcan shrine was a thick plait of long black hair—“promised to Our Lady” on such and such a date, doubtless by some soul in sore need. The belief in miraculous intervention as an answer to personal sacrifice is deeply ingrained in the islanders, and is, I should imagine, a source of much consolation to them.
After buying a few rosaries and ribbons bearing the name of Our Lady of San Salvadór we walked to the end of a hill-spur where stone seats invite the wayfarer to rest before beginning the steep descent. The sun was setting, and the scene before us recalled some Egyptian evening in its strength of colouring; far beneath us lay the great dim plain with its white towns, wrapped in the violet mists of sunset and melting away into the transparent blues and purples of the distant sierra. The roofs and walls of the Oratorio and the pine-trees upon the hilltop stood out in inky relief against a sky stained with orange and crimson, fiery lake and scarlet; the clouds were black, glowing coals backed with gold—the whole heavens were aflame in conflagration.