MAJORCA

Press, Volume LXXI, Issue 21656, 14 December 1935, Page 19

MAJORCA

(BPICXAI.LT WBITTII TO* THI PEISBJ

[By W.E.M.] For anyone who has ever listened to the tramp of the Homan legions, the moment when he first sees the Mediterranean must be memorable. For me, that moment came in a French train, on my way to the Spanish frontier; I was travelling fourth class, partly from low tastes, but chiefly from lack of money, and making myself as comfortable as possible with a bottle of vin du pays, some ham sandwiches, and a bag of olives. I looked at it with eager enthusiasm. I am aware that such an emotion on such an occasion is trite and almost banal, and that the moment should have been my cue for a witticism in the modern manner, but, I repeat, shameful as it may appear, I looked at it with eager enthusiasm. All that I saw was sea—yes, blue sea—beyond a sandy coast, but Massilian ships had rowed past there while the Phoenicians were still visiting the Cassiterides for tin. A most trite emotion —I apologise again. In the small hours of the morning, we reached the Spanish frontier, and I saw my first Spanish policeman. They have curious flat pieces at the back of their helmets, to hold them steady and comfortable when they lean against a wall and go to sleep—so at least I was told by a Frenchwoman who had lived in Spain for some years and did not love her exile. The morning’s journey was a dreamy, other-worldly affair, as it always is when you have tried to sleep in a train; all I remember of it is a couple of soldiers in the carriage, and a Spanish woman with enormous breasts, suckling her baby. Then came Barcelona; it was the time of the Exhibition, and everything was about five times its usual price, especially for foreigners. I had had two nights in the train —French fourth class carriages are no miracles of speed—and was dreamy from lack of sleep; but I remember lunch in a cafe on a hill, with a magnificent view below, and a waiter who complimented me on my Spanish but preferred to take my order in French; he deserved an extra tip for his effrontery in flattery. Then another night’s travelling, still fourth class, on the boat to Palma. The accommodation was primitive in ways that need not be described, but at least I had a bed and there were no vermin. And at last, in the first light of dawn, Majorca. I knew, and still know, next to nothing of Balearic history. When a small boy looks up “Baleares” m a Latin vocabulary, he finds “Balearic slingers,” and his schoolmaster enlarges on it to explain that the Romans used their subjects as lightarmed troops. And on one occasion during the Punic wars a Carthaginian admiral (was it Mago?) put in here. And there was a Spanish general in command of a fleet of galleys; he thought he knew better than his pilots, put to sea in a gale, and lost his entire fleet. And Admiral Byng was not so far away. And that is all. ’ When you land, you learn a little more. Among the mountains in the north of the island, wherever you go, there are stone water channels running down the hillsides; they were built for the Moors by Christian slaves, so that every drop of rain might be used for the crops in the valleys below. It seems impossible that it should pay to feed a man to do such work as this; but perhaps it was done by galleyslaves, in the intervals between marauding expeditions. And on the lower slopes of the hills, however steep, there are olive terraces, built in the same manner; strange, gnarled old trees, sometimes one, sometimes half-a-dozen together, and each group with a stone wall round it to retain the soil. Truly labour was cheap in those days; it is hardly more expensive now, or it would never pay to pick the millions of little fruits, each smaller than fc a damson, whose oil has to compete with dripping. But the Mallorcean scheme of life is to sell, and never to buy, and such an economy does not lead to high wages. The greater part of what the pickers earn is paid in olive oil. A narrow gauge railway runs from Palma to the north of the island; its toy lines twist away out

of sight as soon as they have passed the end of the station. It was here that I had almost my only successful conversation in Spanish. An old lady said to me “El tren yiene en un punto.” I heard, and, amazingly, I understood. “Si, senora.” I replied. Her next remark, unfortunately, I could not understand at all, and I had to confess that I had barely the four words which Spanish courtesy allows to those who have none. Incidentally, I would advise all who intend to travel in a foreign country to learn at least enough of the language to say that they do not speak it; they will save themselves an infinity of trouble. To this extent I can lay claim to seven languages. I was staying with friends who had rented a house in the village of Fornalutx; it was solidly built of stone, and had six rooms, but wooden shutters instead of glazed windows; and the rent, if I remember, was ten pounds a year. The street was steep and narrow, and since it was meant for mules, not motors, it rose in steps. Catilina looked after us and did our shopping—not the pride of Cicero, but an e'derlv Mallorcean woman; she guarded us as a hen guards her chickens, and after comparing prices a little we were well content to leave all our marketing to her. I have a photo of her before me as I write; she is not beautiful, and one would swear that she was a Moorish woman from North Africa. We did not like to ask if she had Moorish blood. We made many expeditions, past the houses with their orchards of oranges and lemons, then up the steep cobbled mule tracks through the olive terraces, up through the ilex forests where pigs wandered, and at last on to the scrub and scattered pines of the hill tops. We watched charcoal burners at work among the oaks, and exchanged a “buenos” with the mule drivers. One day we visited an olive farmer in a neighbouring valley. He was well-to-do. and had several men working for him, but he had heard that one of us wanted to buy a goat skin, and thought it worth while to bring one six or seven miles over the hills, I think for eightpence. He showed us his olive presses, and explained the difference between a good olive and a bad one. He took us into his living room, of patriarchal size, with a hearth in the middle and a chimney built over ft; there were benches in a square round it, and on one of them a very old woman was asleep. He showed us his store rooms; I remember piles of acorns and shelves of a sort of fig cheese, very good to eat. He gave us various small presents and offered us wine; and at this point I made a grievous mistake. I had been told that if you admire it a Spanish gentleman will at once give you his house, but without intending you to accept. We had accepted everything he had offered us; had Ve not been guilty of a gross breach of manners? I tried to refuse the drink without making it appear that I did not want it—and indeed it was a very hot and thirsty day—but the curse of Babe was my undoing, and our host did not understand. He turned to my companion, who was also a little puzzled, and asked, “Que dice. I explained hurriedly, in English; my companion saw the point, and tried his own Spanish, but with no better success. By this time we were ail beginning to gesticulate, and our host was turning from one to the other of us, asking in a sort of frenzy “Que dice? Que dice? The day seemed hotter and thirstier than ever, but there was only one way out of the impasse; we shook him warmly by the hand, and fled. On another occasion, for the first and probably for the last time in my life, I dined in pyjamas in the refectory of a monastery. We had tramped to Lluch, intending to sleep at the monastery, and just before we got into shelter we were caught in the first heavy rain for a fortnight. We were drenched, and dinner was ready; there was no way out of it, so we went down in our pyjamas. We tried not to appear self-conscious, and no one seemed to notice us; we hoped they would take it for the normal evening wear of Englishmen. We went into shops and asked for “un paquete de cigarillos, senorita, si le parece”; it is surely a harmless weakness to enjoy a language so mellifluous. We went into orchards and bought oranges, as many* as we wanted for a penny or two, and their skins so juicy that the hand in which you held one was wet; and when we came home with them Catilina cried out on us for paying so much. if ever I am left in my*old age with a fixed income of fifty or sixty pounds a year, I know what I shall do; I shall go to Majorca, rent a house, and set up as a millionaire. I shall have a garden to give me fruit all th*year round, and vegetables, and 1 shall do myself very well, Spanish fashion. But there is always a snag somewhere; there are Englishmen there already, doing the same thing; and all their talk is of “when we get back to England.”