The Pillars of Hercules

In the misty light of daybreak there was nothing, not even a sunrise—only the whitish water of dawn, no land. We did not raise Mallorca until seven-thirty or so, the west coast, Dragonera Island, and then rounded Cabo de Cala Figuera, where there was a lighthouse. I could see tawny hills and a mountainous interior, a lovely rugged place. At the edge of some beaches there were white hotels stacked up, and dense settlement, but there were stretches of coast on which there was very little evidence of any building.

Mallorca, sometimes called the heart of the Mediterranean, for embodying all its virtues, is known in Britain as a package holiday destination, and so is a synonym for cheapness. It is one of those place names which, like Frinton or Bognor, carries with it so many dubious associations that it has been given the status of a household word and just pronouncing it, deliberately twanging it, calling it “Majorca,” and sounding the “j,” has the same effect as cracking a joke.

“Yes, it is lovely,” the Spanish passenger said when I remarked on the beauty of the island. His son was still asleep as we pulled into the harbor. “When I was growing up this island was all natural.”

I asked him his age. He was fifty. He remembered the coming of the package tours, the rise of the hotels. He said there were parts of Mallorca that were very beautiful.

“But in the summer it is terrible all over.”

He said that business was awful here at the moment—worse than on the mainland.

“But things are improving. There is a fiesta on the weekend.”

Arriving by ferry gave me a good look at the place. I had resolved not to fly anywhere in the Mediterranean anyway, and the decision was useful in forcing me to make elaborate detours (like the one to Denia) which gave me a perspective on places I would not otherwise have had.

Mallorca looked elegant from the sea, as we crossed the wide Bahía de Palma. Nearer the port I could see the old town of Palma, the ornate cathedral dominating the city walls and the stucco buildings, some of them ancient, and the newer suburbs to the west, the fertile fields and valleys at a greater distance to the north.

I walked down the gangway and through the port building to the main street, by one of the marinas. Over breakfast, studying a map, I debated whether to take the narrow gauge train through the mountains to Sóller on the rocky north coast. “As beautiful a run as any in Switzerland,” one brochure said. But I also wanted to see the more remote seaside villages on the west coast which were nowhere near the railway. A rental car seemed a good idea.

The phone book listed a number of rental agencies. And because of the large British population there were many British businesses, a whole sub-directory listing importers of sausages and beer and books and jam, as well as advertising clothes, haircuts, and houses.

There was even an English radio station, beaming sentimental songs from Palma to British residents on the island. I discovered this after I had rented the car. I tuned to that station, which was all the more affecting because it was so amateurish.

“Valerie is on her way to London,” the woman announcer said. “She’ll be in Mayfair tomorrow. Safe trip, Val. Here’s a song for Valerie.”

It was “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.”

“I was thinking how I first heard that song at the Hammersmith Palais,” the announcer said, after it had ended.

I had driven out of Palma and I was passing small fertile farms, and stone houses, heading for the mountains.

“What’ll I Do” began to play, with Fred Astaire singing to the wobbly melody. The music made me homesick, but homesickness seemed a natural condition of travel. I can only travel when I am happy, but when I am happy I miss the productive routines of my life, and the woman at the center of it. Each morning these days I woke to the questions, Where am I and what am I doing here? and then got up and attempted to make something of the day.

“I’ve got to say cheerio now. But remember, if you do it, do it good. And if you don’t do it good, don’t do it at all.”

The mountainside rose abruptly from the flat Palma plain, and it was steep, a vertical ascent of hairpin bends. At the ridge I looked across the rocky cliffs and saw green slopes and a bay and blue ocean. But as I descended a storm crowded the coast, and it was raining like hell as I entered Sóller.

I was so wet and bedraggled that at least four Spaniards took me for a native and asked me difficult questions. One question was, “Where is the office that processes insurance claims for injured workers?”

Walking around the town to get my bearings, I saw three coin-operated machines in the plaza. One dispensed gum. One dispensed plastic toys and beads. The third dispensed (for two hundred pesetas) pairs of condoms encased in small plastic globes. I could see them in the fishbowl top of the dispenser. I was trying to decide where I should spend the night when I saw a sign to Deyá.