When we had breakfasted we went out and, within a few steps of our inn, found ourselves in the most picturesque market-place we had ever seen.
I do not know what may be the leading article of Pollensa market at other seasons, but on this January day the outstanding feature was cabbages—of tremendous proportions. Piled in heaps and hillocks on the ground, they fairly dominated the market. Other wares there were no doubt, but the things that impressed us were the number and size of these giant vegetables and a feeling of wonder as to where the people would come from to buy them. As the morning wore on, the mounds sensibly diminished in height; but at that early hour the stacks of cabbages towered so high that sometimes only the heads of the vendors were visible above them.
In the raised portion of the market-square women occupied the stone benches, their stock of home-grown fruits and of the finer vegetables exhibited in baskets before them.
It was the scarce time for grapes. The field-produce was long over, and only garden bunches were still to be had. But without any attempt at bargaining we bought two pounds of delicious grapes for sixpence-farthing, and large golden oranges were offered us at twopence a dozen.
The town was so full of strange and picturesque figures that every moment brought fresh entertainment. At the feria into which we strayed at Inca we had thought ourselves lucky in seeing one old man attired in the curious colsons en bufer, as the voluminous zouave-like pantaloons of bright blue cotton are called. Here in Pollensa wearers of the delightfully odd old-world dress abounded. And it seemed as though they took a special pride in the quaintness of their garb, so particular were they about the set of their neckties, so trim about the ankles, so careful as to the fit of the low black shoes that went so well with the costume.
The women of Pollensa, though less extraordinary of aspect, were also a pleasure to behold, for with scarcely an exception they wore the becoming native dress, and their heads were neatly covered with either the pretty white muslin head-dress or with handkerchiefs of gaily coloured silk.
It was somewhat disconcerting to realize, as we did quite suddenly, that it was really we who were the oddities, and that in the eyes of the crowd, at whom we were gazing so curiously, I was a ludicrous object because I wore a hat!
It was really quite an ordinary travelling-hat, but finding that the fact of a woman wearing a hat at all attracted undue attention from these unsophisticated folks, I hastened back to the fonda and changed it for a chiffon scarf worn mantilla-fashion. That done, I found I could pass almost unnoticed.
Majorca boasts many picturesque old towns, but probably Pollensa is the most picturesque of all. It is a beautiful antique: a town made for the painter. Its warm golden-brown houses have baked in the hot southern sunshine until they seem ready to crumble to pieces. It is by no means a rich town. Most of the dwellings appeared to belong to the poorer classes. As the Man said—"It is a city of slums—but what adorable slums!"
The streets were all turnings, and every turn brought a subject ready for the brush. Here was a grand old cross, there a curious fountain, yonder an ancient stone washing-trough. And round every corner, that market-morning, came the quaint old men in their broad-brimmed felt hats and baggy breeches, unconsciously adding the note of human interest that completed the pictures.