“The rock caves have neatly cut doorways and windows, and one of them has a central pillar supporting the roof.”
(page [164])
Within half an hour’s drive of Alayór is the mésa of Torralba—one of the largest in the island, though it loses in effect by being encumbered about the base by bushes and débris. The horizontal stone is said to have a square cavity in its upper surface, as though to contain the blood of a victim; but as our outfit did not include a ladder we were obliged to take this statement on trust.
One of the sudden storms, for which Minorca is noted, overtook us while we were engaged in photographing the altar. The sky darkened, and without a moment’s warning such a deluge of rain descended that we were quite unable to regain our carriage, not twenty yards distant. The ground was swimming, the bushes and long grass were drenched, and when ten minutes later the sun came out again and all was smiles, the only dry member of the party was the camera—who with his usual foresight had enveloped himself in the one waterproof cape at the very beginning of the rain.
A couple of hours later we were again in Mahon, and at five o’clock that same afternoon we had boarded the Palma boat and were taking our last look at the town as we glided out of the bay—past the flat green tray of Hospital Island, past the little rocky hump of Rat Island, where some fishermen wave to us as their boat rocks on our swell—past the ruined pepper-pot tower on the Philipet promontory—past the old sea walls of San Felipe and the bristling defences of the Isabella fortress opposite—and as we enter the open sea a chill wind springs up.
At daybreak we land once more—and for the last time—at the now familiar quay at Palma, and are rattled through the streets that three short months ago were new and strange of aspect in our eyes.
Our holiday in the south is over. It is the first week of May: strawberries and cherries are in the market, and the voice of the cuckoo is heard in the land. The pigeons are wheeling in flocks around the sunlit tower of San Nicolas, and myriads of swifts still weave their tireless flight over the town. But the swallows have gone northwards, and we must follow them. Two busy days are spent in packing and in final arrangements for the return home; and on the 5th of May we board the Miramar for Barcelona.
It is a marvellously lovely evening. The wide plain is wrapped in shimmering shades of pink and violet, and brilliant against the deep cobalt of the Sierra stand out the white houses of the town. Cutting the western horizon in dark silhouette are the wooded slopes of Bellver—the castle arch spanning a glowing fragment of the sunset where the gules and or of Aragon are once more blazoned in the sky. The harbour is a sheet of gold, and across the ever widening stretch of water Palma has already dwindled to a doll’s city, where the great cathedral is the last object on which our eyes linger. A spark breaks out on the old Moorish tower as we glide past Porto Pi, some soldiers wave a last goodbye from the earthworks of San Carlos, the darkening mountain slopes recede as we reach the portal of Cala Figuéra—and at last we are clear of the bay of Palma.
A golden moon hangs in the indigo vault above us, and our wake cleaves a shining path straight up to the old white city that is vanishing from our sight. And passing out into the night on a sea of glass we half expect to hear once more the solemn midnight cry—