“... the fine old Roman bridge at the entrance to Pollensa.”
(page [107])
We were not a little annoyed at this mishap, but our annoyance was soon quenched in amusement, so curiously unconventional was our host’s style of driving; hollerin’ and bellerin’ like Prince Giglio of immortal fame, as though driving half a dozen plough teams at once, our good host urged the old horse to speed with a running accompaniment of vituperation and ceaseless objurgations, ranging from threats to cajolements, thence to sarcasm, and occasionally rising to heights of scathing laughter, which startled the old horse more than anything else. It must not be imagined, however, that our progress was rapid; the noise served to clear the road for half a mile ahead of us, it is true, but the old horse had to be allowed to walk down every descent, while on the flat he was not expected to exceed a gentle trot; he understood his master perfectly, and feared him not at all. Never did we see an animal ill-treated in Majorca.
The road to Aubercuix takes one down to the port of Pollensa, and thence round the bay as far as the little lighthouse on the opposite point; beyond this one can only penetrate into the Cap de Formentór by a bad mule track, or by taking a sailing boat and landing in some little cove along the coast.
Wonderful was the view, glorified by the golden evening light, that we obtained as we wound along the water’s edge and followed the gravelled causeway leading to the Fáro; across the bay shone the white town of Alcúdia, seemingly built on the seashore, though in reality far inland; looking back towards Pollensa the scene was of marvellous beauty—in the foreground the curve of the shore, broken by black clumps of rushes, a few stunted trees, and an upturned boat lying on the sand; beyond, some fishermen’s huts, with here and there a dark pine-tree, sharp-cut against the dim distance of the sierra. Rank behind rank, their planes parted by the evening mist, veiled in shimmering tints of pink and violet, dove colour and indigo, and melting away into the sunset sky itself, stretched the mountain chains behind Pollensa. Their peaks were tinged with flame, and the rays of the setting sun descended like fire-escapes of golden web into the azure mist that filled the valleys.
For a few minutes the unearthly light lingered, and then the sun sank out of sight; a chill sea-breeze sprang up as we set our faces homeward, and the stars were shining serenely before we regained our fonda.