From the first waking moments, when one could see the rising sun illumine the hill-tops, until, with its sinking, the grand crest of the Puig Mayor—the Greater Peak—was garbed in celestial glory, the day was a succession of artistic delights.
Sóller had for us an added charm in the companionship of congenial fellow-visitors—an English lady who appreciates the beauty of the place and the homely, good qualities of its people so highly that she spends long periods there, and an enthusiastic young artist from the Argentine who, with the world to choose from, elects to paint at Sóller.
Under their guidance we had driven to Biniaraix and, alighting, mounted the Barranco—a wonderful path by which the peasant proprietors reach the olive-trees that their untiring care in the preparation of the stony soil and their skill in husbandry have persuaded to grow on every possible—and, one might almost add, impossible—ledge of the rocky steeps.
The Barranco, which was like a series of low, broad steps, zigzagged between the mountains like some eccentric, never-ending staircase. As we went up and up we paused often to look down to where, deep in the valley, Sóller lay embowered in its orange gardens. And while we climbed we marvelled at the ceaseless industry of a race that is willing to expend so much time and toil to reap so small a return.
On the following afternoon we drove to Fornalutx, a little antique town three miles from Sóller. Fornalutx is the point from which expeditions start to climb the Puig Mayor.
The little town, which is built from the warm, amber-brown stone of the hill-side on which it perches, is very old. There does not seem to be a yard of straight street within its bounds. The houses are set down pell-mell, anyhow and anywhere. A delightful lack of uniformity reigns supreme. An orange orchard pokes itself in here, a vine trellis projects there, a flight of steps interjects its crooked way at every corner.
And it is all pictures!
The Painter, who knew the place, reflecting our pleasure, hurried us on to see a good subject, and another good subject, and yet another.
As we passed up a quaint side street the tinkle of mandolines fell gratefully on our ears, and we paused before the open doorway from which the sound issued. Green branches and tissue-paper frills decorated the entrance; within, some sort of merrymaking was in progress.
