Introduction.
Jill's account of our wet week in Mallorca was edited directly from her manuscript, largely using speech to text software and with little editing, so as to preserve the immediacy of her impressions. The images were mostly rephotographed from those taken on film by Ian at the time, and the quality leaves something to be desired.
Friday 10 October 2003
Tomorrow Ian and I fly to Mallorca from Exeter for a week. It is the first time that we have visited the Balearics but, as our visit to Tenerife proved so successful, we are prepared to accept that not all of Mallorca will be given over to the young extroverts with their brash music, beach parties and heavy drinking. Indeed, we have had many assurances that the island is very beautiful with attractive old villages and friendly people. We will not know where we will be staying until we arrive but hope very strongly that we will have similar good fortune to that in Tenerife.
Sunday 12 October 2003
We are mow in Mallorca in the north-east, staying in a resort called Alcudia Pins, near the S'Albufera nature reserve for bird life. We discovered that Albufera comes from the Arabic word for lagoon. That would explain Albufera in Portugal, which we discovered last year where, like here, there were salt marshes inland, behind the resort.
Actually, at the moment, it all seems rather boring here. Since our arrival last night, we have seen nothing of the country except the route across the island from Palma, which seems flat and uninteresting though well-built and clean. The same applies to the endless blocks of tourist accommodation, all very uninspiring but clean and of good quality.
After a delay leaving Exeter, we were promptly told off for drinking our own wine on board the plane. It wasn't allowed! The bottles they were serving on board for one person were larger than the little decanted plastic bottle we had brought with us, so it seemed pretty silly, but I suppose is a reflection on the trouble they have had with some holidaymakers in the past. At least if they sell it, they can regulate the quantity people can consume. Nice to be regarded as the ones who are potential troublemakers on a flight to Mallorca! Although we had opted not to have the in-flight meal and thus saved £20, we were served it anyway. We pointed out that we had not paid for it, but were assured that they were for everyone, so I'm glad we didn't pay, otherwise I'd have been very cross!
On landing and learning where we would be staying, we were told we would have to pay an "ecotax" of a Euro each a day to the hotel. As we had been assured that the price we paid included everything, there may have to be an argument with Airtours/Apollo when we get back. Not a large tax and not unreasonable but it goes against the principle of what was agreed with the company at the time of booking.
It's fairly quiet at this hotel – quiet being synonymous with monotonous and rather uninspiring. It's all in its own cocoon, with on-site supermarkets, beaches, pools, pubs and restaurants. However at eleven at night we were eyed oddly going to a deserted bar for a beer - and that was on a Saturday night. It must be a certain type of holidaymaker that can be content to hang around the site doing nothing for a week. We have not spoken to any local people at all since arriving and the piped TV is all in English with German subtitles. It is nearly all gyrating youngsters in bright skimpy clothing dancing to thumping techno music. Hey, folks, we're getting old. We want something more interesting.
Well, off to discover the joys of the local supermarket – marmite, corn flakes, and baked beans, I expect - also to see if we can hire a car to escape from here.
Later the same day 7:30 p.m.
Well, we did! We have a little Opel until Thursday evening which we hired from the hotel for 120 Euros – I think that's about £15.00 a day fully comprehensive. It's OK and it was a great relief to escape from the weird place with its tannoyed pop music. We went to the Airtours official welcome here this morning, but it was so toe-curling we had to leave. We were given free orange juice and were obliged to shout ¡Hola! to the staff three times, as if it were a children's panto, then shown a video of all the amazing things to do at Alcudia Pins – like lie on the beach, eat ice creams, lounge by the pool, enjoy the bar, then discover the night club, or just relax on the balcony with the piped techno music to help you really enjoy yourself. Be prepared to leave your brain in the UK if you ever take a package tour to Mallorca. The amazing thing is, most people seem to enjoy it. It was when the egghead Humpty Dumpty figure got on to the stage to talk about the things for the little ones – the bouncy castle, the bicycles for hire and the afternoon shows, that we finally cracked and left. We asked reception how we could hire a car. When? they asked. Immediately! we screamed. Never have we handed over our Euros so willingly. I never realised how weird we are. Everyone else seems so happy and although it is something one should experience once, we find it all so boring. Once we got used to the car, our day was transformed, and we discovered real people, real little towns - real life in fact.
Our first stop was at Muro, a rambling old town of rather dilapidated large old stone houses. We climbed up to the top of the town with its huge, golden stone Romanesque church surrounded by bright green date palms. In the square a Sunday market was taking place and local people were chatting cheerfully to each other in Catalan, a cross between Spanish and French. We couldn't understand what we overheard, but it definitely sounded different from Castilian Spanish. A woman was making doughnuts in hot oil by the roadside, so we bought a couple. Very greasy, but we were hungry. The town is very pleasant with many bars and cafes with people sitting on the terraces with post-mass beers, watching the world go by.
We went into the church, cool and bright gold; gold stonework and gilded metalwork. The statues were dressed in white satin, as is always the case in Spanish churches, it seems but, before we could really look, we were thrown out by the priest locking the great wooden doors after mass.
We never discovered the ethnological museum of Mallorca and, realising it would be closed as everything is during the afternoon, we retraced our route to the car and continued through surprisingly green countryside, quite thickly covered with pines, palms and cactuses, pockmarked with innumerable stone quarries to Artá via Santa Margalida.
The latter seemed a clean, pleasant town with large, well-maintained old buildings, rendered and colour-washed in cream, cinnamon or sienna with dark green shutters closed against the noise of the streets and the heat of the day – which has been warm and sunny, but not particularly hot.
Artá is also worth a visit. We have had no trouble in parking anywhere today and nowhere has been crowded. Indeed, once away from the tourist resorts, the roads and countryside are quite empty.
It was around two in the afternoon when we found our way on foot to the town centre and its open square. We found a pizza restaurant where we were obliged to communicate in German as the friendly waiter insisted on speaking to us in that language, ignoring our efforts to speak Spanish. He never did realise we were English! After a couple of pizzas, a beer for Ian and chilled water for me, consumed on a shady terrace, watching the German tourists, we felt revived. It is strange how different the towns favoured by the Germans are from those haunted by the English. I think the Germans have better taste!
We have both been very impressed with the cleanliness of Mallorca so far – no graffiti, no rubbish, no rubble of half-finished and abandoned speculative building. Everything everywhere is of excellent quality and, in its way, tastefully done. We have great respect for the way in which the local authorities have coped with the tourist trade, managing to please both the local community (who benefit greatly, having the highest per capita income in Spain) and the majority of tourists who manage to have brilliant holidays in the resorts along the coast, without impacting on the interior of the island.
We entered the church, where they have real candles for prayer rather than the electric ones Ian so enjoyed in Tenerife and Seville. One young lady was frenziedly rushing around leaving money at the foot of every statue and running her hands in a demented manner over each statue and painting. Such behaviour is verging on fanaticism.
Leaving the web of little old streets and houses reluctantly behind, we retraced our steps to the car and continued to San Serra de Marina, a resort on the east coast still in the process of development. Those buildings that have been completed are superb. Well constructed, rendered and colour washed in whites, creams, oranges and siennas, with red tiled roofs, they are definitely aimed at the upper end of the tourist market. There is a marina full of expensive craft and a few chic restaurants are beginning to appear. It will be a very nice development when it is finished.
And so to Ca'o Picafort where we stopped on the main parade of shops and hotels and walked down to the marina and along the endless promenade of restaurants, cafes and bars selling their products in German, English and Danish. Tourists sauntered along or sat on terraces enjoying Kaffee und Kuchen or tea and cake – usually strawberry gateau with ice cream. There was a pleasant laid-back atmosphere and everyone seemed happy. There was no sign of the sort of trouble that the news reports lead one to expect from Mallorcan beach resorts. Indeed the majority of visitors seemed of retirement age. It was all a great deal more interesting than the resort where we are obliged to stay and to which we returned about 6.30 to avoid driving in the dark.
So we went to the typically Catalan Keller an der Ecke for supper. It was actually quite pleasant, and reasonable value although it lacked any sort of atmosphere or authenticity. Ian had zwei Bockwurst mit Pommes frites, while I tried to go ethnic with solomillo de cerdo, ending up with a pork fillet, jacket potato and salad, nicely served with a couple of cervezas by a pleasant waiter who indulgently permitted us to attempt to communicate in his language. As a reward at the end he gave us a couple of tiny glasses of green liquid which he said was a digestive. They certainly warmed the cockles of our hearts.
Then I dragged a reluctant Ian to see Naughty Nigel in his scarlet suit putting on a free show to entertain the tourists. A crowd of kids helped him with a brassy rendition of Naughty Nigel had a farm. Then, with the same kids watching, he brought on his ventriloquist's dummy lookalike and continued in a crude and almost obscene vein, quite unsuitable for the young audience. It was interesting to see how everyone had dressed smartly for the evening, the women in frilly skirts and high heels. Ian disappeared for a quick vomit in the swimming pool because the tackiness of it all nauseated him, but I found it quite culturally interesting. However we felt pretty tired and a little of Nigel was more than enough for us, so we left and fell promptly asleep once back in our room.
This morning we made a fairly late start, setting off about ten. Our first stop was Alcudia, the old town enclosed by city walls. The town dates back to Arab times but has been considerably rebuilt. Most of the walls survive. Within, the buildings are all beautifully restored and immaculately clean. They are of course a tourist honeypot, and justifiably so. They are spotless, almost clinically clean and smart with their honey coloured stone walls. Everywhere however are endless miles of electricity cables and telephone cables. It's a horrid Spanish habit to festoon the facades of beautiful buildings with cables that could quite easily be hidden from view. Local vehicles make war way through the cramped streets, managing to negotiate impossibly tight corners. Many of the stone fronted houses have pots of aspidistras or orange trees outside. It all looks wonderfully attractive and the shady narrow streets are pleasant to stroll around on a hot day. Unfortunately there were far too many English and German tourists. I know we are all part of it but I feel we are simply an item on the production line and I prefer to feel attached in some way to the community within which we temporarily find ourselves.
Naturally Monday is the day when the museum, the library, the archives, and the Roman City of Pollentia were closed – how does the whole of Europe know exactly which day the Maxteds are coming? So Ian peered longingly over the wall that at a site of six inch high walls and lamented his ill luck.
So we drove on to Pollença and parked on the outskirts (parking has been no problem anywhere) beneath a hermitage set high on the hill. We entered the town past an attractive convent with its garden full figs, bananas, citrus fruits and bright flowers (hibiscus perhaps) which currently houses of town museum - closed on Mondays of course.
A small square held a book sculpture, strangely contorted all olive trees and the large flamboyant statute of one of the medieval Kings. The town is another tourist honeypot but very pleasant nonetheless. From the main square we made our way through the shady narrow streets to the foot of the 365 steps up to the church and Calvary overlooking the town. After Sri Lanka, this was a piece of cake. Keeping to the shade of the cypress trees lining the steps, we positively scampered to the top, passing beautiful stone villas on either side which appear to be owned by wealthy British or German expats.
From the top we were afforded wonderful views down over the roofs of the old town and across to the grey, arid limestone crags and Formentor Peninsula. To the right we could see the cliffs that ended in Cap de Pinar beyond Alcudia. A pleasant whitewashed chapel at the top of the steps offered calm welcome change from the bright sunlight. I found it very pleasant, with several paintings around the whitewashed walls. However, it seems I have absolutely no taste, as I've since read in the Rough guide that the paintings are the most tasteless religious paintings imaginable! A couple may have been less well executed than the rest, but I think it's a far too severe criticism.
We descended the steps and stopped to investigate the church of Monte Sion. The local school was closing for lunch and we were assailed by 7 to 8 year olds who dared each other to talk to us. It was all amusing but we have realised what we cannot understand the spoken language at all despite, being able to puzzle out so much of the written language. Mind you, the children were speaking Catalan rather than Castilian and we've begun to realise it can be far more different than expected. We think the children were asking us the time, and also to put some money in an envelope for something they were asked to collect for by their school. It was all good humoured and caused much laughter that we couldn't understand them.
We stopped for a healthy salad at the Cafè du Calvère. Healthy in that it was the smallest, most uninteresting salad we have ever been served. Each of us we received two leaves of tasteless lettuce, half an egg, half an onion, hapf a tomato and six olives. The was it – not even a roll. The couple of bottles of olive oil and vinegar on the table served for dressing. It costs 5.25 euros each - appalling value. The did order in Spanish and even the drinks were 100 per cent correct, so we feel proud of that, but were disappointed not to get value for money. We paid, but wrote on our bill that, while the service had been good, the quality had been very poor, so at least we went down fighting.
Then Ian took me for a walk through a network of back streets in search of a Roman bridge which, when we found it, he told me was probably not Roman anyway. Nonetheless it was an interesting walk through residential streets to a dried up river bed with a narrow arched bridge across. There are many dry riverbeds in this arid limestone country which just occasionally, at times of heavy rain, will burst into a violent torrent, only to disappear again completely until the next downpour. This one presumably acts as a conduit for all the rain falling on the Sierra de Tramuntana. Beyond the bridge was a beautiful pink white stone farmhouse with green doors and shutters, surrounded by vineyards, orchards with sheep beneath the foliage, and fig trees, all set against the grey, stark, rugged backdrop of the Tramuntana and the bright blue sky.
We retraced our steps though Pollença to our car and set off on the route to the Formentor Peninsula, which had been attempting to lure us all day as we gazed out from the town walls of both Alcudia and Pollença. Grey barren mountains of limestone rising up from the central plain, the peninisula represents the northern end of the Sierra de Tramuntana which runs the length of the north coast of Mallorca from Andr?? to the lighthouse at the tip of Formentor. There was a fair number of vehicles on the narrow, twisting route. In summer it must be a real problem, not only with passing but also with parking at the various miradores. Neither were a hazard to us today however, and generally the surface of the road was good, if rather narrow on the various hairpin bends, and although certain areas had bollards along the outside edge to prevent vehicles from plunging over, more often than not on the inside edge of a serious bend with a sheer drop, the safety barriers were not installed and there was no protection until well after the dend had been navigated. The outside edges of the roads have been broken away as there is the constant concern for the wheels leaving the road and plunging over the edge. The route compared easily with some of the more exposed coastal drives we made in Corsica. We were fortunate that it was late in the day and coaches had finished taking tours up.
The peninsula is well worth a visit. The first stop after driving up by the twisting route from Porte Pollença was at the Col de Mal Pas from where we had views back in one direction over the bay of Porte Pollença. In the other we looked vertically down from the rugged limestone cliff top straight into the bright clear blue sea of the Mediterranean as it washed the northern shore of Mallorca. The rocks were bare, contorted and weathered old grey and white limestone typical of the entire island. This all seemed stunning enough but we continued a further twelve kilometres along the twisting or rather cork-screwing route out to the actual lighthouse, pausing to peep at the Hotel Formentor which is said to be the most chic in Mallorca. Constructed in the 1930s, the rooms have been graced by Charlie Chaplin and his ilk. It still remains a very exclusive hotel in a quite unique location on the edge of the majestic cliffs that dominate the northern tip of the island. Goats roam wild on the peninsula but have the good sense to keep well away from the road.
We reached the lighthouse eventually after plunging through a tunnel cut from the rock and descending by a series of hairpin bends and narrowed necks of rock with the sea on either side. We had difficulty parking - it must be impossible in summer. From here the cliffs plunged vertically into the clear water some 750 feet below. The bare grey limestone has been shaped and weathered by centuries of wind and rain that had formed the rock into strange contortions. Even here though, in the odd cranny, cactuses and palm trees have established a tenuous hold. Back from the edge fir trees and even oaks have become established. There are no flowers or grass however, and the area has an atmosphere of gloom and foreboding, even on such a warm sunny day.
We stopped for petrol on the way back and then at the nature reserve of Albefuros. It was closed but seems to be a network of footpaths and cycle ways among acres of reed beds and wetlands that provide a habitat for all sorts of marsh birds. We also followed the river flowing from the reserve down to the sea, a short walk on the far side of the road from the reserve. By now dusk was falling and without jackets it was becoming chilly on the beach.
Back at the "boot camp" - you WILL enjoy your holiday - we opened a bottle of very pleasant red wine, Spanish but it doesn't seem possible to buy locally produced wine here in tourist resorts; we will have to search some of the villages. We sat on the balcony watching holidaymakers setting off for the evening of entertainment in the bar. At this time it was relatively peaceful as the real noise didn't start until around ten, but as it is mainly families and children here, it is probably more muted than at some other resorts.
As the noise level increased we went off to find somewhere for supper. It was impossible to find anything "ethnic" so we opted for bar on the beach full of English folk smoking, drinking and generally having fun. We were served the nearest thing they had to local food, Spanish omelette with chips and salad. It was actually rather nicely presented, ample and cheap. With a couple of beers and loads of tapas of bread and olives, the bill was considerably less than we paid by the meagre salad in Pollença. Being a purely English restaurant even the staff was British, but in a strange way it was rather pleasant observing everyone, they were all so friendly and relaxed. It is just strange to us that this is the way so many British folk enjoy a "foreign" holiday. Afterwards we went down onto the beach which was completely deserted at 11.00 pm. The sand had been cleaned and raked for tomorrow and little waves gently lapped the shore all along the edge of the huge wide bay, lights twinkled and shone from the myriads of hotel complexes still full of Brits and Germans having FUN.
Across the bay beyond the headland of the Cap de Ferrutx near Artà the sky was permanently illuminated by flickers and flashes of lightning as a storm approached. Sitting silently on a lounger on the deserted beach in the darkness, it was quite atmospheric watching as the forked flashed shot down from the sky to hit the rugged outline of the headland. There was no sound of thunder so the storm must still have been far out to sea.
