The name of this place is Can Cristofol
About 50 years ago, walking cross country from Santa Eulalia to the valley of Morna, enjoying bird songs, buzzing of insects and a choir of cicades, breathing the smells of rosemary, frigola and the
inebriating perfume of fig trees and pines, I came upon a most extraordinary building lost in middle of nowhere.
Some old peasants sat at along wooden table shaded by hanging
Dominique Sanson
vines, drinking wine and beer.
An archway gave access to a small tienda with bar where more men
stood drinking hierbas.
A harmonious mixture of tinca and small Mexican fort harbouring a
tiny shop.
A couple of mules were tied close to a set of massive doors opening
onto a courtyard decorated with colouful plants and paved with
stones polished by centuries of hemp-shod feet.
Some old peasants sat at a.long wooden table shaded by hanging
vines, drinking wine and beer.
An archway gave access to a small tienda with bar where more men
stood drinking hierbas.
A fecund set of smells pervaded-the atmosphere, a result of
‘sobrasadas’ hanging from roof beams, candle wax, old cheese and
sardines, nicknamed Guardias Civiles’ cured in a wooden keg.
Add to that an acrid smell, reminiscent of adolescent socks, which turned out to be the result of heavy consumption of pota. This local tobacco was in those times cultivated in most of the fincas. A scene frozen in the l7th century, I was struck by the silence in this historical meeting place, a memory engraved in my memory forever.
Nowadays, due to happy circumstances, this Ibicencan monument has barely changed đue to the respect of the English and Dutch families who have taken on the historical finca surrounded by medieval olive trees and where now ecological vegetables and fruit are grown in luxurious gardens.
Thank Bes & Tanit nobody smokes Pota anymore!
Dominique Sanson
