The bus drove up a narrow, winding road to the summit of Mount Toro, Menorca’s highest peak.
Stepping onto the tarmac, Sam asked Alan, “Which direction is Majorca?”
Alan pointed behind Sam, who turned around.
“Oh wow.”
“You’re lucky,” Alan told him, “last week it was misty up here and we couldn’t see much at all.”
We approached the 16th century church which Alan had told us was tended by Franciscan nuns. On entering I had to remind Sam to take off his sunhat as a mark of respect. As we looked around the beautiful old building, they started playing a recording of César Franck’s Panis Angelicus. I knew if I heard that song again it would remind me of the church on the hill.
Next we visited the gift shop, and I bought a few trinkets to take home. Sam got something for his mother, but
