“From the grounds round the Castle of Bellver a most lovely view of Palma is obtained through the pine-trees....”
(page [31])
“... the little harbour of Porto Pi, guarded by an old Moorish signal tower.”
(page [32])
Here is nothing of the wild and rugged mountain scenery that meets the eye on approaching Ajaccio. Rather like some Fortunate Isle safe from the reach of tempests does Majorca lie serene and dreaming upon the water. The great bay opening to the south is enclosed upon the east by a level shore terminating far out at sea in the blue headland of Cape Blanco, while closer at hand the western coast line is indented with many a rocky promontory and wooded headland curving down to the harbour’s rim. A low cliff of orange sandstone encircles like a sea wall the head of the bay, and upon this cliff stands Palma, a sea of colourless houses massed upon the water’s edge and stretching backwards to the wide plain—deep blue and level well-nigh as the sea itself—that forms the background to the town and to the great cathedral that towers high above all other buildings.
At its eastern rim the plain rises slightly to the double peaks of the Puig de Randa, far inland; on the west the panorama is closed by a distant range of sapphire blue mountains, the Sierra of the interior.
We land, and are rattled quickly away in an omnibus to the Grand Hotel—but a few minutes distant from the quay. It was no small relief to find that we were spared a further encounter with the Spanish douane, for the ruthless violation of our trunks at the frontier station of Port Bou was still fresh in our memory, while the very hour of our sailing from Barcelona had been marked by a last attempt at extortion. A Customs official who was patrolling the wharf in all the glory of helmet and sword, took upon himself to detain a packing case of ours, containing a saddle, and, on the ground that he could not see what was inside, he forbade it to be put on board.