The little inn at the Puerto de Manacór is a typical Majorcan fonda. Our rooms were floored with cheerful red tiles, and the walls were almost awe-inspiring in their spotlessness; it is a popular saying that on Saturdays the Majorcans whitewash everything within reach. From our windows—furnished with wooden shutters in place of glass—we looked down upon a vine-covered pergola and a little bright blue bay encircled by a snow-white beach. Our beds were good, and the bed-linen excellent—the lace-trimmed pillow-cases and beautifully embroidered monograms testifying to the skill with which the women ply their needle. Supper was served on the first-floor landing, and consisted of fish, omelette, chicken and rice, and dessert; and at nine o’clock our hostess mounted the stairs to inform us that there would be no milk for our morning coffee unless some could be procured from Manacór (an hour distant)—the local dairy being inconsiderate enough to have two fine kids at the moment.
She bade us a friendly good-night, and as an afterthought pointed out that being in the country here, it was the custom to empty bedroom basins out of the window. We promised to avail ourselves of the permission, and retiring, were gently lulled to sleep by the rhythmic breathing of the tide below.
It is strange to hear of snow and frost at home while we are living in a long succession of June days. Under a cloudless expanse of blue—unbroken save by a transparent white moon in the eastern sky—did we leave the Puerto on the morning of March 16th. Retracing the road to Manacór, we drove through tracts of pine wood and rosemary, and at midday reached Arta—an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm-trees—the Yartan of the Moors, in whose day it was an important colony. Their principal mosque was converted by the Conqueror into the great church that stands upon the hillside and with fortress-like walls and wide-arched upper gallery dominates the town. Crowning the same hill is the wall-encircled church of San Salvadór, used in olden times as a refuge for non-combatants during Saracen attacks, and in more recent days as a lazaretto in time of pestilence—which led to its being pulled down and rebuilt about a hundred years ago.
In the vicinity of Arta are to be found certain tumuli of unknown origin, that correspond more or less to those monuments of a pre-historic race which exist in most of the islands of the Mediterranean. In a deserted olive-yard—where the poisonous solanum sodomacum trailed its miniature yellow and green melons among the stones and big, pale periwinkles grew—we came upon the Clápers de Gegants, or Giants’ Cairns. A ring wall of large stones weighing several tons apiece had evidently existed at one time; but most of the blocks had fallen in, and the central mound—whether watch tower or burial tumulus—was a mere chaos of stones and brambles. To any one who has seen the far finer megalithic monuments of Minorca, no Majorcan remains will appear of much importance.
“Arta is an oriental-looking town of white houses and palm trees—the Yartan of the Moors.”
(page [60])