One man left his plough to come and tell us that he liked the English very much, which was a little surprising when one considered that till that moment he had probably never set eyes on any one of our nationality. We heard subsequently, however, that some years ago an Englishman hailing from Birmingham had stayed in the island, and though, to our host’s surprise, we could not supply the unknown traveller’s name, we were shown an unmistakable proof of his visit in the form of an English book—the only existing specimen in Iviza.
We got back to our inn in time for dinner, and found the same company again assembled at table. The Fonda de la Marina is the fashionable restaurant of the town, and it caters for a considerable clientèle among the residents in addition to its own guests. The cookery was doubtless excellent, but the dishes were so wholly native in character that we perhaps failed to appreciate them as fully as did our fellow convives. During Holy Week the fare is maigre, and our menu that night was the following:—
A tureen-full of shellfish, stewed—shells and all—with rice and fragments of lobster.
A mess of pottage, very thick, containing white beans and cabbage.
Another mess—chunks of salt cod, with eggs, potatoes and peas.
Whole fishes, boiled, with yellow sauce.
A sweet cake.
Cheese, raisins, and oranges.
The following morning we drove to Santa Eulália. There are only two really firstrate roads in Iviza—one to Sant Antonio, the twelve-mile drive we had already taken, the other—slightly longer—to San Juan, at the northeastern extremity of the island; it was in this direction that we set off at eight o’clock.