I had learned about Deyá, Majorca through a chance
encounter with a composer back in Ohio. He had been
there and met Robert Graves, and he gave me a letter of
introduction. It seemed worth checking out, since the
mainland was so unappealing. We headed back north to
Valencia, where we caught a ferry to Palma. We drove
straight off the ferry to cross a fertile plain through
blossoming almond orchards, then climbed into the
mountains, through the village of Valdemosa and on to
Deyá, where we checked into a pension on the main
street. The place was immediately appealing. Built on a
hill, with a small plaza and church at the top, the village is
a series of terraced gardens and stone houses and is
notched with narrow streets, some so steep they are
broken by steps. At the bottom of the village, known as
the Clot, a ravine leads to a cove on the Mediterranean.
Fifteen hundred feet above the village is an imposing
crescent of cliff-faced mountain called the Teix, with
several torrents pouring from it during the winter months.