Climbing the steps that rose steeply between the two rows of houses, we reached the summit of the rocky promontory. Rusty cannon, their work long over, lay at rest in front of the old chapel that crowns the eminence. Before us lay the placid land-encircled sheet of water, behind us was a wall. Glancing over, we discovered, to our surprise and pleasure, that instead of the country landscape we had somehow expected to see, the ground fell sheer down to where the purple-blue Mediterranean ceaselessly surged beneath.
The unexpected transition from the peaceful inland lake surrounded by mist-flecked mountains to a precipitous coast was curiously interesting. A moment earlier, with the moisture-laden air blowing softly in our faces, we could have imagined ourselves in the heart of the Scots Highlands. Now, by the mere turning of a head, we were gazing across a great tideless sea.
A capacious coach, in which we chanced to be the only passengers, conveyed us back to Sóller and deposited us at the door of the Hotel Marina, where the Man, who had spent the morning sketching on a mountain-slope, was waiting to join us at luncheon.
The town was busy when, later in the day, we made a tour of inspection, finding fresh interest at every turn. A row of bananas rich in pod, a group of quaint old-world houses, a great palm rearing its stately head, its thick clusters of orange-red fruit stems heavily beaded with shining yellow fruit.
There was leisure in the air. It was evidently the visiting hour. In the entrance halls, in full view of the passing public, comely dames sat chatting all in a row, like the pretty maids in the garden of Mary-Mary-Quite-Contrary.
To us it always seemed odd to see the gossipers seated side by side in a formal line—a position that one would imagine was not conducive to the exchange of confidences.
The suggestion of French influence in the architecture of certain of the newer houses was explained by the fact that when natives of Sóller leave the island to seek their fortune they rarely go further than France—an easy journey with the Villa de Sóller sailing at frequent intervals from the port to Cette. And when the exiles return—as they invariably do, for the emigrant Majorcan's sole desire is to make money that he may settle in his own country—they naturally import some of the ideas and tastes of the nation with which they have sojourned.
French influence, too, was noticeable in the way the women dressed their hair. In many instances, particularly among the younger women, the pigtail and the rebozillo, or head-handkerchief, had given place to an elaborately dressed coiffure.
All night the full moon had illumined a sleepy world. When I looked out at six o'clock it was still visible, though the light of the hidden sun was already flushing with roseate tints the highest mountain-tops. Over the valley the azure smoke of wood fires lay softly, and the sweet, sickly fragrance of steaming chocolate was in the air.