The following morning we rode to the Castillo del Rey, the route taking us, soon after starting, over the fine old Roman bridge at the entrance of the town. For an hour and a half we pursued a good mule-track up the gorge of the Ternallas, a mountain stream dashing down through woods of ilex and pine, with bare grey peaks towering overhead; leaving the forest we came out into a grassy and boulder-strewn trough among the hills, and presently arrived at the foot of the crag on which the castle stands. So inaccessible does the rock look, crowned by the skeleton ribs of the old banqueting hall—yellow rock and yellow masonry welded in one—that at first sight one wonders how the ascent is to be even attempted. Up a steep hillside, covered with rocks, loose stones, and prickly shrubs, we scrambled and toiled on foot for nearly half an hour; more and more desperate grew the path as we advanced, larger and larger the rocks to be surmounted; but at last, with a final effort, we scaled a boulder over six feet in height and were hauled up by our muleteers into the arched doorway of the old fortress.
The origin of the castle is lost in the mists of antiquity; it is supposed to have existed in the time of the Romans, and under the Moors it formed an important stronghold to which they retreated after evacuating Palma. Later on the flag of Jaime III. still waved over the Castillo del Rey after the whole of the rest of the island had gone over to Pedro of Aragon, but in the year 1343 the loyal garrison was forced to surrender after a siege of more than two months.
Not much of the fortress survives at the present time; three pointed freestone arches belonging to the central hall form the most conspicuous feature of the ruins. Beyond this there is little except some subterranean chambers, and a few fragments of rock-like wall and pointed battlement, still untouched by time, that survive amidst a chaos of masonry. From the northern edge of the cliff—an appalling precipice descending sheer to the sea—a magnificent view over the coast and the surrounding mountains is to be had on a clear day, but on the occasion of our own visit ominous stormclouds were closing in around us, and the horizon was a blank pall of rain.
Hardly had we sat down to luncheon when heavy drops began to fall; seizing our cutlets and oranges we fled to the rock tunnel leading from the entrance to the interior of the castle, and in that narrow and draughty passage continued our interrupted meal; but to our dismay rivulets soon began to invade our retreat, the heavens poured down water through a machicolation overhead, and before long we were sitting, like the Blessed Catalina, on stones in the middle of a river bed, while a growing torrent flowed beneath our feet. Our men wrapped their blankets around them and squatted patiently in the doorway. Presently footsteps were heard, and a wet stranger scrambled breathlessly in at the tunnel’s mouth, accompanied by a guide in wide indigo breeches soaked to the consistency of jelly bags, while rivulets ran from the brim of his felt hat.
“Presently we came in sight of the Castillo del Rey ... built upon a crag crowned by the skeleton ribs of the ancient banqueting hall—yellow rock and yellow masonry welded in one.”
(page [108])
