Waxing lyrical

Women Trav­ellers in Cata­lan Lands

The beaches of Mal­lorca are as dif­fer­ent as human moods and needs. Each has its form of ex­pres­sion and speaks its spe­cial lan­guage to those who will give at­ten­tive ears. Some pos­sess dig­nity, grandeur, and aus­ter­ity. There are beaches formed for soli­tude, oth­ers for in­ti­macy and gai­ety. Some ex­hale a dark and sin­is­ter prophecy of dan­ger­ous and mys­te­ri­ous things, for the shad­ows of their cliffs fall darkly, and strange echoes beat about them as though from winged things of evil. Else­where there is sunny co­quetry, laugh­ter of waves, songs of birds. The sea dances land­ward, tip­toe with fun, teas­ing the peb­bles with their game of hide-and-seek; creep­ing here, pounc­ing there, and then run­ning away with a back­ward toss of curl­ing crest which throws a golden mist sky­ward.

Then there are those beaches which give rest to the weary. These lie hid­den in still nooks, with­out rip­ple or mur­mur, just mir­rors for the beauty which en­cir­cles them. Peace broods on them with folded wings. Still re­flec­tions of those ram­parts of the sky lie deep within them. The gold and rose of that pageantry of sky is theirs also. No tint is lost; no slow grace of drift­ing cloud is ob­scured. One can eas­ily imag­ine Adam lead­ing Eve to these strands only yes­ter­day and show­ing her these fresh beau­ties which know nei­ther dis­tur­bance nor fear. Gulls rest mo­tion­less on this du­pli­cate of sky and, with heads tucked be­neath their wings, sleep. The pale tinted sands seem never to have been uti­lized for that book of mankind's his­tory which al­ways left the page marred. [...]

There is such a jolly lit­tle beach at Deyá. To reach it, go to Sóller by train (three quar­ters of an hour) or by motor. The rail­road ends at Sóller. Then drive to Deyá on a road, wor­thy of Hyde Park, which skirts the coast. Far be­neath spreads the Mediter­ranean, its sur­face pierced by sword-like promon­to­ries. From the shore moun­tains rise, curve on curve against the sky, sum­mit above sum­mit, suavely in­fold­ing within their em­brace deep ravines and tran­quil val­leys, um­bra­geous with a thou­sand gra­da­tions of green. […]

Deyá is a tiny ham­let perched on the apex of hill over­look­ing a gar­den val­ley. On the crest is a chapel sur­rounded by a shabby and de­light­ful lit­tle gar­den in which sleep the dead, among flow­ers, within sound of the sea, vis­i­ble through a gap in the moun­tain­ous shore. All about the val­ley other moun­tains tower, their crests salmon-pink at sun­set, so­lid­i­fied flame.

At the wee inn on the hill, one finds a man and wife of stern ex­te­ri­ors but well in­ten­tioned. The cell-like rooms are as neat as pins, and the lit­tle ce­mented ter­race, inset with flower-beds, over­hangs the val­ley and tiled roofs below. Ea­gles swing above, and wild ca­naries dart and trill below. The white road winds along the side of the moun­tain on the op­po­site side of the val­ley like a rib­bon, curv­ing in and out among the trees. Fo­liage is every­where, reach­ing to the rose and white sum­mits, and down to the hid­den river. Through the soft air yel­low but­ter­flies float, min­gled with drift­ing al­mond-petals. [... ]

To reach the beach take plenty of time and rub­ber-soled shoes. Also per­haps lunch, for your host at the inn charges but nine pe­se­tas a day (in­clud­ing a de­li­cious wine), which amounts al­to­gether to about a dol­lar and a half! De­scend the steep bit of road from the inn. And on reach­ing the main route, leave it and dip abruptly on the left into a lane among olive and or­ange trees. Fol­low the track, no mat­ter how ec­cen­tric its course, until you reach the stream at the bot­tom of the val­ley, which sings as it runs be­side you, show­ing you the way. Turn often and look back. Trees of every clime shel­ter you, and above tower the moun­tains, their sides ter­raced two thou­sand feet for olives.

In an hour you will reach the most adorable of beaches, naïve, in­gen­u­ous. No sand here. It is too sturdy for such pret­ti­ness. Yet it is very small, not more than two hun­dred yards of curve, which ends on ei­ther side at per­pen­dic­u­lar cliffs, which curve to­ward one an­other at their ex­trem­i­ties until the wee har­bour is al­most land­locked. To the right a path is faintly dis­cernible climb­ing the pre­cip­i­tous cliff to where a stone tower stands. By all means, after lun­cheon, fol­low the path along the coast. You will want to buy the tower, com­plete it, and live there for the rest of your life, but, alas, noth­ing can per­suade the owner to part with it.