The scale of wages in the island is low—a labourer rarely earning more than eighteen pence a day; but there is every sign of general prosperity. The necessaries of life are very cheap, and a well-built stone house can be obtained in country villages at a rental of from two to three pounds a year.
The drive from Estallenchs to Bañalbufár is—from the point of view of scenery—one of the finest in the island; high above the sea runs the road, following every curve of the rugged coast; dark, fir-crowned cliffs tower overhead, and mountain ranges in splendid perspective jut out into the blue Mediterranean. Headland upon headland, point upon point—each intervening bay outlined with a semicircle of snow-white foam—they stretch back to where the faint blue battering-ram of the Dragonéra is still dimly visible in the haze of distance.
Perched on a rock pinnacle above the sea stand the yellow walls of an old watch tower; these towers, or ataláyas as they are called, were in olden days tenanted by coastguards, who from their lofty eyries watched the sea and gave the alarm to the countryside when any suspicious sail appeared on the horizon; a system of smoke-signals was in use by which the movements of a hostile fleet could be communicated to all the other ataláyas along the coast and to the inhabitants of the interior.
Bañalbufár is a small village built upon a mountain slope high above the sea, chiefly noticeable for the marvellous terracing of the surrounding hillsides; the terraces are so narrow and the walls so high that seen from below the effect is that of an unbroken stone wall several hundred feet in height, while from a little distance they resemble a gigantic flight of curved steps or an inverted amphitheatre upon the hillside. Vines and tomatoes are largely grown by the industrious inhabitants.
Down by the sea, in the cavernous recesses of overhanging rocks, are some curious corn mills, to which one descends by a steep paved path, the tiny mountain stream that works the mills raging and sluicing alongside in a polished aqueduct at such prodigious speed that upon touching the water your hand receives a smart blow.
Here upon a small headland below the village we ate our luncheon, among clumps of purple stock and bushes of bright green spurge—devouring the while a week’s budget of letters that Pépé had brought out with him; after which we rejoined our carriage and began the long ascent of the Col that lay between us and Palma. Like a snake does the white road wind in loops up the mountain side; the Pinus maritima clothes the hill slopes to the very summit, but rarely attains an even respectable size. In this respect Majorca differs strikingly from Corsica, where grand forests of Laricio pine flourish in the rockiest of soils. Natural timber is indeed a feature entirely lacking in the greater part of Majorca, owing to the fact that whenever it is in any way possible to utilise the ground it is devoted to the more profitable culture of the olive and almond.
Leaving the mountains behind us we presently pass Esporlás, with its rushing stream bordered by Lombardy poplars, and its great cloth factory, where hanks of dyed cotton are hanging out to dry; and soon after reaching Establiments—a trim and prosperous townlet nine kilometres from Palma—the rain comes down in torrents. We meet flocks of drenched sheep, and tilted country carts returning from market, each carter fast asleep inside, with his head on a pile of sacks and a blanket drawn up to his chin, leaving all responsibility to the sagacious mule who steps aside to let us pass. The wheat fields are dripping, the wet air is heavy with the scent of flowering may, and Palma itself is spanned by a bright rainbow. Let it rain! we are back in comfortable quarters once more!
On the 2nd of April we went to spend a few days at Sollér—the one inevitable expedition for all visitors to Palma. By the most direct route the drive only occupies three hours, but it is best to make a détour by way of Valldemósa and Miramár, so as to include the beautiful scenery of the north coast.
Long and straight and flat is the road to Valldemósa, the cornfields on either side decked out with blue borage, gladiolus, and pink allium, and bordered with a fringe of flaring yellow daisies—the kind known in English gardens as annual chrysanthemums. A brilliant touch of colour is given by a row of bright vermilion flower-pots, set out on the snow-white parapet of a country house; but actual flower gardens are as lacking among the homesteads of Majorca as among those of most southern lands—and the peasants would no doubt marvel greatly at the sentiment which induces an English cottager to allot so much valuable space to flowers when he might devote it to the utilitarian onion or the practical potato.