Clouds gather every evening upon the mountain tops around Lluch, and the plateau itself, sixteen hundred feet above sea-level, is often shrouded in fog for days together. In bad weather a stay at the monastery is by no means enjoyable, and when we woke on the second morning and found the rain falling fast, we were not sorry to think that the galaréta we had ordered from Inca to fetch us would arrive in an hour or so. Our shoes and skirts had never dried thoroughly since the soaking they got on our ride from Pollensa, and the unwarmed rooms felt miserably chilly.
Going across to the restaurant, where we breakfasted at an icy marble-topped table, we found four young Frenchmen, who had arrived overnight, stamping their feet on the cold stone floor and bitterly bewailing their fate; they had come with the sole object of seeing the Gorch Blau—and now, not only was the expedition out of the question, but they were imprisoned in this dismal place—for voila! by this frightful weather it was impossible even to depart. What to do! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!
We could offer little comfort beyond suggesting that some misguided visitor might turn up during the morning, in whose conveyance they could make their escape—a contingency which both they and we felt to be very unlikely ... but even as we spoke, we saw to our surprise two empty carriages cross the green and draw up before the monastery.
“The Pla de Cuba is a high valley through which runs the mule path to Soller, five hours distant.”
(page [115])
“Now and again we got a peep of the plain and its white town far below....”