The Ferrocarril de Sóller still runs on the same wooden carriages it was given in 1912. The leather straps still work. The windows still open with a satisfying drop.
For an hour, the train climbs and burrows through the Tramuntana, surfacing into the great bowl of the Sóller valley — a sea of orange and lemon groves, the fruit so heavy the branches bend.
At the other end, a wooden tram delivers you to the harbor. Nothing about any of this is efficient. That is precisely the point.
"The Mallorcan light is its own substance — denser, somehow, than anywhere else."
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