Passing the quaint circular fish market and the vacant market-place, which consisted of a red-tiled and raftered shed, supported on white pillars and surrounded by trees, we walked up the slope leading to the great gate in the Roman wall that encircles the ancient town.
In a niche on either side of the opening stood a massive marble figure. The heads were gone and certain other members had not outlasted the ravages of the centuries, but enough still remained to show the beauty of the workmanship. From the neck-socket of the draped figure foliage was springing, and the statue of the legionary had the scarce dignified effect of carrying a bundle of fodder, so boldly had the weeds sprouted from under his right arm.
The streets within the old city walls were dark and steep and twisted. In their secretive recesses something of the atmosphere of the Middle Ages seemed still to linger.
The Ivizans go early to bed. The lights that illumed our landing had already been extinguished, and finding our progress over these tortuous steeps a protracted stumble, we groped our way back to the fonda, resigned to leaving further exploration to the morrow.
We slept soundly. When our early coffee came we drank it on the balcony as we watched two boys fishing from a boat in a shallow just beneath our windows. The bait seemed to be shell-fish, and the boy in the Carlist cap who held the rod was catching little wriggling fish as quickly as he could re-cast his hook into the water.
Then for the first time we awoke to the picturesque charm of the Ivizan's choice of material and love of colour in dress. The fishing boy wore plush trousers of a lovely pinky-fawn shade. His companion's were moss-green, and his waist scarf was scarlet. A crew of fishermen, their garments a kaleidoscope of gay hues, were breakfasting in their boat near. And along the beach beneath, a boy clad in faded blue velvet was carrying in one hand a basket of beautiful rose-coloured fish and dangling a hideously suggestive octopus in the other.
Our good friend the padre, a presbítero of Palma Cathedral, had kindly recommended us to his chosen friend, who was a beneficiado of Iviza Cathedral. So our first walk, on the morning after our arrival, led up the precipitous paths towards the superbly situated old church.
Seen by daylight the streets were vaguely reminiscent of both Palma and Mahón, without resembling either. While the whitewashed walls recalled the austere cleanliness of the Minorcan capital, the condition of the streets gave one the impression that the inhabitants subsisted chiefly upon oranges. The plenitude of balconies held more than a hint of Palma, though most of the Ivizan balconies were heavily fashioned of wood; and from many the entire family washing (which in Palma would be dried on the flat roof), even to sheets, hung out to dry. The Ivizans showed both taste and skill in floriculture. Quite a number of the balconies were prettily decorated with pot plants, from cinerarias to peonies, in full bloom.
The market was busy when we passed. Grave-looking women, with wide-brimmed white hats perched rakishly a-top the handkerchief that covered their heads, were selling oranges or vegetables. One, with a row of moist water-jars balanced on either side of the furriest donkey I ever saw, was plying the trade of water-carrier.
We reached the Cathedral during morning service, and we waited, enjoying the music and the tuneful clamour of the great wheel of bells that mingled so harmoniously with the sound of the organ, and wondering in which of the officiating clergy we would discover the friend of our friend. He also had been looking out for us, and as we, along with two old men, were the entire congregation, he had no difficulty in distinguishing us.