Thursday they cut wood,
Friday they load it up,
Saturday they set off,
Sunday they come home;
That is why they died of hunger.
On April 28th we left Mahon and went to Ciudadéla on the west coast, the town which formed the capital of Minorca up to the time of the English occupation. The two towns are connected by a splendid road that runs through the very centre of the island; and as the distance is little more than thirty miles the journey can easily be accomplished by carriage in a day. We started at nine o’clock in our galaréta of the previous day; our valises were bestowed upon the front seat beside the driver, and we ourselves climbed into the closed part of the vehicle at the back, not sorry to be sheltered from the wind. We had an excellent mule, both strong and active, who trotted briskly on the flat and pegged away up the hills as though walking for a wager—a characteristic which we observed most of the mules to share.
Leaving the town we bowled away along the great main road of the island. Seen in the brilliant sunshine of an April morning, with a blue sky overhead, green crops in the fields and wild flowers spangling the wayside, even the country around Mahon becomes invested with a kind of fictitious beauty; but what the hideous desolation must be of these endless stone walls seen on a grey winter’s day or under the parching drought of summer it is hardly possible to conceive.
