Another hour, over a ludicrously bad road, brings us to the low-lying Salinas near the coast; one might almost fancy oneself in a miniature Switzerland, for these salt-pans—which are said to have been known to the Phœnicians—cover an area of six square miles, and resemble inland lakes in whose unruffled surface the surrounding hills are mirrored. There are thirteen great estancos or shallow basins, fringed with glittering salt-crystals and intersected by sea-water canals, and causeways along which a little train puffs breathlessly towards the shining islands of salt stacked on stone platforms in the water; filling its trucks—each of which contains a ton—it hurries back to the embarking station, and pulling up on a staging running out into the sea, tips its load down a wooden shoot into a barge below, where bare-legged men—half salted up—are busy levelling the white mound, and presently convey it to a big Norwegian steamer lying in the harbour. Other salt boats are bound for Russia, or for America. One would think there was enough salt to supply the whole world; it lies in deep snowdrifts on the quay and is piled up into mountains by men who look like black flies beside it. The busiest time is during the summer, when the water in the shallow basins evaporates and the deposited salt is collected, but at that season the locality is considered unhealthy—the combined heat and moisture breeding malaria and a plague of mosquitoes.
By evening light the Salinas are very beautiful. The colours of the sunset are repeated in the water, and the dark banks and rushes stand out in sharp-cut silhouette against the soft purple of the hills around. Out at sea rises the double fang of the island rock Détra—an inaccessible pinnacle, in the summit of which the wild bees have nested from time immemorial; the whole rock is said to be sticky with honey, which at times descends in rivulets even to the water’s edge.
It was dusk when we regained our inn, and at ten o’clock that same night the red lights of the Isleño were seen gliding into the bay, and we were summoned to go on board. Taking leave of our most kind friend—who, not content with having done the honours of his native island, insisted upon our accepting some charming Phœnician relics as souvenirs of our stay—we went down to the quay and were seen off by our host and the faithful waiter, the latter remarking, as he shook hands with us, that we might safely rely upon the night being a precious one.
The sea was indeed like glass. The little steamer lay within fifty yards of the shore, and not a ripple stirred as we were rowed across in company with a tunny boat just in from Formentara—the fish standing on their heads in baskets on the deck, their big tails sticking up like ammunition for some torpedo boat. On an even keel we glided out into the night, and awoke at five the next morning to see the red watch tower of Porto Pi slip past the port hole. A fiery dawn was breaking over Palma as we went on shore; half a silver moon hung in the sky, and the masts and rigging of the shipping in the harbour were cut like a fine etching against the colourless mass of the town.
Even at this early hour the day’s work had begun; scavengers’ carts were going their rounds; yawning octroi men were astir; women were already fetching water from the tortoise-fountain on the Borne, and as we reached the hotel a belated watchman was making off with lantern and staff, to hide in some quiet retreat till dusk again brought him out to his bat-like life.
Our visit to Iviza was already a thing of the past, but the little island that had before been only a name to us was now a very definite memory of pleasant days spent in the open air, of friendly and picturesque natives, of sunshine and charming scenery—while even our unpropitious landing had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, in acquainting us with the resident whose kindness contributed so largely to the pleasant recollections which we shall always retain of our stay in Iviza.
PART IV
MINORCA
April was now nearly over and our holiday in the Balearics was drawing to its close. We had seen Majorca pretty thoroughly, we had had a charming glimpse of Iviza, and it only remained to spend a few days in Minorca to complete our tour of the islands. For fifty pesetas two first-class passages were secured for us on the Isla de Menorca, leaving Palma on April 26th, and at half-past six that evening we went on board, prepared to endure the eleven hours’ crossing to Port Mahon.
To the last it was doubtful whether the boat would start that night; a high west wind was blowing, the bay was flecked with white horses, and the clothes hung out on the housetops were clapping wildly, as if in exultation. But start we eventually did—perhaps owing to the fact that the Governor of the Balearics was on board, a personage of sufficient importance to allay any apprehension on our part as to the voyage, and indeed to act as a practical guarantee of safety, since, though the wind and the waves may be no respecters of persons, it remains an undoubted fact that governors of provinces get drowned far less frequently than do obscure individuals.