Carved from Wood and Rock

by Kathryn Tann (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Spain

‘This wood has been rattling for a hundred years’, I thought, as the Tren du Sóller shuddered into life. I was visiting Majorca on a budget: my hotel was cheap and friendly, hidden just a few bays from the infamous Magaluf. But I intended to explore – beyond the high-rise blocks shading astro-turf and chlorine pools. The steep wall of the Alfàbia Mountains had been looming quietly in the background, tempting me for days. This was a journey it felt compulsory to make. The Tren du Sóller has been tirelessly shuttling people from Palma to Sóller since 1912. It is electric, made almost entirely of wood, hung with photo frames and, on that September morning, laden with tourists. It was easy to imagine myself amongst passengers of the past because the carriages, the line, the ticket office, all remain unchanged. It was not until we left the shady station courtyard that I realised the same cannot be said for the rest of Palma. ‘We must look ridiculous’, I thought, as a bus hissed alongside me and wheeled off into a side-street. The 3ft wide train tracks ran through concrete, past vape-shops, between impatient taxis. The city had evolved around them. We were moving in slow motion; a varnished wooden ghost. Once an essential connecting line between the orange groves and the city, this train was now just a tourist gimmick, painstakingly maintained each year for the hefty price that could be charged for a ticket. It was a museum on rails. On the wooden train went, leaving the wide-veined city. Dilapidated water tanks hung limp and skeletal over dry fields; we passed behind back yards, ex-swimming pools filled with algae or scrap metal, lean dogs barking. I didn’t see a single living person – only signs of life. Clothes gathering dust on washing lines, open shutters, beaded curtains. I kept my cardigan on: thick, white cloud was stopping the sun from warming the day. This was not what I had imagined. The next part of the journey was in darkness. As we entered the mountains, the little train led us through tunnels and deep-cut gorges. Rock-face passed in a blur by my window. And then, just as I was getting sleepy; blazing sunlight. We had emerged, suddenly, on the other side of the mountains. The Sóller valley, safely cradled away from the rest of the world by the Alfàbia mountain range, eases down in terracotta roofs and orange groves to the stunning Port du Sóller. The port itself is hidden away too, with cliffs reaching right around to form a turquoise lagoon. The Tren du Sóller came to a halt and tourists stumbled out onto a made-for-purpose viewing platform, blinking, mouths agape. While the majority extended their selfie sticks, I looked out across the valley, bursting with the joy that comes with discovery. From this side, the rocky peaks, cut in perfect light and shade, looked like the painted backdrop of a film-set. We had crept underneath the dividing line of the island, through tunnels carved out at the same time trees were being cut for these carriages. Seeing the clusters of houses, the orchards below, I knew with relief that we, the chattering tourists, were not the soul of this place. There were no neon signs for a ‘full-English breakfast’ or ‘British Doctor’. There were constants here that far outlived those people passing through for a day or two of paradise. There was life outside the blinkered expectations of the boozy Brit abroad. Though it was in many ways a tourist trap, this was not a Magaluf. The Tren du Sollér took years to create; it was expensive, it was a risk, but its longevity is testament to the care and skill which went into it. The line was opened on April 16th 1912: the same day the Titanic was lost on its maiden voyage. And while the world mourned, this island quietly celebrated a triumph that would outlast all expectation. Climbing back on board for the descent into Sollér town centre, I had changed my mind. This unique train was not a ghost of the absent past, but the faithful artery to a heart still beating.