“We found the Gorch Blau filled with a rushing whirl of foaming, emerald-green water....”
(page [115])
Still it poured—steadily—without intermission; the landscape below us was blotted out by a veil of driving rain; banks of cloud were sweeping in from the sea and settling in woolly folds upon the hills, which appeared and disappeared as one storm after another broke over them and passed on. For two hours we waited, and then there came a lull; sallying out in desperation we slid and scrambled down the slippery rocks and soaking vegetation of the steep hillside, and rejoining our equally wet mules set out for home. The red path was now a quagmire under foot, and the little watercourses were leaping and chasing down the hills to join the river; but the rain held off and we got back in safety, being met at the inn door by a chorus of inquiries as to how we had fared, laments over our wetting, and an optimistic assurance that on the morrow the weather would be very bonito indeed.
But when morning dawned it was far from being bonito—it could hardly look worse. Nevertheless we determined on making the march to Lluch—a ride of about four hours across the mountains. The charge for a mule with its attendant muleteer is six pesetas for this journey if they return the same day; but if, as in our case, they are retained at Lluch for further expeditions, an additional five pesetas is asked for the return trip to Pollensa. One of our mules was a very smart-looking beast, ridden with the iron noseband which in Majorca usually takes the place of a bit, and carrying the English side-saddle we had brought with us, covered with a sheepskin to lessen the slipperiness so fatiguing to the rider when going up or down a steep mountain path for hours at a time. The other one was a sturdy pack animal, bridled in inferior manner with a hemp halter and furnished with pack saddle and panniers.
These pack saddles are extremely comfortable to ride on if they are well balanced; one sits as on a broad, soft platform between the panniers, dangling a foot on either side of the mule’s neck, the idea being that if the beast falls you will alight on your feet and get clear of him whichever way he rolls. As a matter of fact you find it impossible to move at all, partly owing to the adhesive nature of the sheepskin on which you are seated, and partly to a heterogeneous mass of luggage—rugs, valises, and fodder bags—piled high on either hand, while umbrellas and tripod-legs close your last avenue of escape.
The mounting of a laden pack-saddle is a problem in itself, and to the last I could discover no system upon which the feat is accomplished; a wild, spasmodic leap, taken from some wall near the animal, usually—but not always—lands one in the saddle, and once in position a fatalistic calm is the best attitude with which to confront the perils of the ensuing ride. The most well-meaning of mules has habits which do not conduce to the happiness of his rider upon a mountain track; he will pause on a hogsback ridge of slippery cobbles in the middle of a swift stream, to gaze entranced, with pricked ears, at the distant landscape; with an absolutely expressionless countenance he carries one under a low bough—or anchors himself in front by fixing his teeth firmly in a tough shrub as he strides by, and then falls over himself as his stern overtakes him. In short he awakens in his rider a lively sympathy with Dr. Johnson, who was carried as uncontrollably on a horse as in a balloon.
The paths were in an unusually bad state that day owing to the recent heavy rain; great parts of the track were under water; every torrent was swelled to twice its normal size, and miniature Lauterbrunnen falls were leaping down the faces of the cliffs. We forded several streams, slithered down causeways of loose sliding blocks, and scrambled up slippery rock steps where it was all the mules could do to keep their feet and avoid falling backwards.
For the first hour we rode in drenching rain through dark ilex woods and fine mountain scenery; but as we got higher the weather improved—the sun came out, the birds began to sing, the scent of wet cistus bushes filled the air, and emerging on to a grassy plateau we presently came in sight of the monastery of Lluch, lying in a level valley high up among the hills—a great pile of yellow buildings backed by grey rocks and ilex-trees.
Crossing the wide green, with its long range of stabling, its poplar-trees and fountain, we dismount—wet and tired—under the entrance archway, and pass into a large quadrangle formed by the college, the hospedéria, the priests’ house, and the oratory, an ornate chapel hung with embroidered banners presented to Our Lady of Lluch.