Tuesday 14 October 2003
Well the storm arrived here during the night. According to Ian it was very noisy and spectacular, but I was so deeply asleep that I was totally unaware of it. This morning our balcony is wet and the palm trees below our room are tossing fitfully, but it's dry now and as warm as ever.
8.30 in the evening
We have decided not to sample any further eating establishments here, at least for tonight. Instead we are opting to eat in our room from a selection of vacuum-packed meat delicacies purchased from the on-site supermarket along with a choice of condom-wrapped cucumber and misshapen tomatoes. It's raining heavily and we are wet through from our day's adventures. With a litre of Rioja to salve our sores, we feel a night in has its attractions. So, while Ian practices his culinary skills in the oven-free zone of our kitchen area, I'm using the excuse of this diary to relax and recover from driving back in the dark and the rain from Bunyola, some 60 km from here.
It was still dark when we woke this morning. By nine we were on our way to Bunyola intending to take the Palma to Soller train. I had no wish to drive around Palma finding somewhere to park, nor did I wish to navigate the 27 hairpin bends down from the Sierra de Tramuntano into Soller by car. Driving to Bunyola seemed an excellent compromise, particularly as the route up from Palma is not considered particularly spectacular until Bunyola. So we left here in sunshine, driving over a flat countryside of reed beds and windmills, many just stumps, a few still sporting skeletal sails previously used to pump water up to irrigate the vegetable plots and orchards of the plains behind the sierra.
Not far away we discovered from the map a little town on a hilltop with a couple of windmills. Its name immediately attracted us and we decided to seek out Buger, which turned out to be a delightfully sleepy place, too nice really to add to our odd place-name collection, which includes the likes of Rottenegg in Germany and other silly names.
As we entered the central square of the little town, we were met by an assortment of scruffy little dogs scampering around freely while the assortment of scruffy little gentlemen that owned them stood around on street corners, chatting and gesticulating to each other. Life seemed very laid back and pleasant as the women of the town buzzed about on their mopeds to do the shopping. The central square had a fountain with a huge metal candle, complete with flame. At that moment light dawned for Ian and me. Buger must be Catalan for candle, like bougie in French – the delights of language. [Or so we thought in 2003 … Búger actually derives from the Arabic Bujar, meaning farm, although a candle is a symbol for the town, featuring on its coat of arms.]
The countryside around the town was equally attractive with orchards, little fields bounded by dry stone walls, with a hermitage on a hilltop rising from the plain and a church tower and a windmill topping the hill upon which Búger sits. Around here the plain looks quite fertile, protected from winter winds by the towering hills of the Sierra de Tramuntana, the little road twisting its way between the fields and orchards. We continued, avoiding the motorway after Inca, via Binissalem, Consell and Santa Maria del Cane to Bunyola, a pleasant hilltop town which we unfortunately had no time to explore. We found a parking space, brooded over on all sides by the towering cloud-capped bare grey slopes of the dry mountains and walked down the steep streets lined with plane trees and large old stone houses to the little railway station with its single track at the bottom of the town.
From here five trains a day pass on their way up from Palma to Soller. However six trains a day pass on their way from Soller to Palma. One of Mallorca's great mysteries is why there is not a concentration of engines in Palma to the detriment of Soller. For once our luck seemed to be in; a train was due in 30 minutes. However instead of €1.17 single this is a tourist train and cost us €6.00 each. There was no difference with the service it was just a good way to make money. The choice was take to this train at 11.38 am or wait until 2.30 pm and travel for €1.17. I have to admire them; they know how to make the most of the tourists but really it is still very cheap. Maybe any locals willing to travel with a trainload of Brits and Germans would travel at the local rates. The train was already packed when it arrived. The line was opened in 1912 to link Soller to the outside world and it passes across and through the Sierra de Tramuntana in a series of curves and tunnels, one of them two kilometres long. The trains are the original electric ones with varnished wooden carriages, unsprung seats and windows that open right up along the sides to afford excellent views up the mountain sides. There were viewing platforms where the hardy could stand, clutching on to wrought iron railings as the train climbed up to the mountains to the summit before plunging down in a series of zigzag curves into the town on the flat plain on the far side.
Bunyola. The train to Soller
It is a unique experience, clutching on as we were suddenly plunged into total darkness when the little wooden train on its narrow gauge single track suddenly entered into a two kilometre long curving tunnel that seemed to go on for ever, noisily rattling along with just a ghostly glow from the lighting in the interior of the carriage ahead of us. Then, just as it seemed this was for ever, we shot out into daylight, pine trees brushing the coach to one side with a plunge deep into the valley on the other where the town of Soller lay spread out in the valley far below. Above the peaks still wrapped themselves modestly in wisps of cloud cover.
Soller from the train
Soller. Tunnel on the railway.
Soller. Railway train.
Later we took the tram down to the port of Soller, more for the ride than a desire to see the port. Ian says the trams are former San Francisco rolling stock. They connect with the railway and like the railway carriages are constructed of beautifully varnished wood. Tehy are open sided and potter through the town out across fields, down by the torrento or dried up river bed, actually flowing after the rains of last night, and through orchards with chickens scratching under lemon and orange trees, even passing through back gardens with old stone houses or smallholdings with vegetables, almond and peach trees.
Eventually the tram runs alongside the harbour down to the port with its many bobbing boats, where it terminates. There is little to do however. Most shops are for souvenirs, or are cafes and restaurants. We couldn't find anywhere suitable for buying picnic food and there was little else to do, so we caught the tram back to Soller. It had been a wonderful ride, well worth the €1.00 single ticket price.
Back in Soller the port pastry cases filled with spinach and Mallorcan goat's cheese, meat and vegetables, and chicken. These we ate with a bottle of water under the plane trees by a fountain near the impressive station entrance.
Soller. Tram in town
Soller. Tram beside port.
Soller. View from the west
As
we reached the closed doors of the Museum, heavy drops of rain began
to fall. We retraced our steps to the town centre by which time it
was teeming down, and all the restaurants around the square were
packed. In a side street we found a little shop with a café and
ordered a couple of coffees which we drank as we read the local
Catalan Soller newspaper and The Mallorca Times in Castilian.
Considering that we cannot speak either language, we spent a very
informative hour as the rain slashed down in the street outside.
There was a major article in the Soller newspaper about funding and
space problems in the Municipal Library. Because the terminology was
known to us, it was quite easy working out that the University of
Mallorca is funding the project to produce a union catalogue of all
the library resources on the island, that there is a guaranteed three
day limit for obtaining items held anywhere in Mallorca, that all
books, videos etc. are to be bar-coded and issued to users who will
themselves have bar-coded tickets etc. How useful to us it will be,
knowing the Catalan for barcode scanner or computerised database or
inter-library loan requests, I don't know but it could come in handy
one day.
It
was still raining when we left, so we went into a neighbouring shop
where a zany lady was selling umbrellas like hot cakes. She was also
selling off lovely Mallorcan dishes, jugs and bowls at greatly
reduced prices. We bought a pretty little jug as a present and a
paella pan for myself. She seemed to make the prices up as she went
along and they came to far less than the marked prices. She told us
it was closing down so was clearing her stock, though I don't suppose
she is. The items are probably seconds but good value anyway. She
gave Ian a couple of postcards but as one was of naked women I
jokingly said the I objected so she changed it, to Ian's chagrin, for
a postcard of Chopin's piano in Valldemosa.
Like the Museum, the station closed from 1.30 to 5.30 pm. Hoping there would be extra trais, we made our way to the station, along with every other visitor to the town. Hundreds of people crowded the platform and waiting room, aptly named Salon de Esperanto, as the rain fell in a deluge around us. However we were all obliged to wait until 5.45 pm before there was any sign of activity. Eventually we all piled, wet and steaming, into a double-length train and, with the windows to steamy to see out, we crawled our way up out of the town trough the many tunnels, into the mountains and down to Bunyola where Ian and I got off along with half a dozen others. All the rest trundles on their way to Palma.
Thankfully the rain had temporarily ceased so we walked up through the town, found our car and, as dusk began to fall, started the one hour drive back to our hotel. As darkness closed around us, the rain began. By the time we reached here I had enough of coping with a strange car on strange roads on the wrong side with darkness, pouring rain and steamed up windows. Fortunately I had an excellent navigator and we arrived here with no problems. Roads are definitely good here and driving generally easier than anywhere we have used a hire car for before. It's now 11 pm and a storm is raging outside. I'm glad we decided to eat in. Lightning is flashing continually, thunder is crashing around, and all the electricity is flickering. I hope it will have worn itself out by tomorrow. Ian, as usual when I'm writing, has fallen fast asleep. So I think I'll go to bed now.
Wednesday 15 October 2003
All night the rain and the wind continued. This morning the exit routes from the site were flooded. As we drove across the surrounding flat plain, the “torrentos” were living up to their name. The whole day has been torrential rains interspersed with occasional patches of sunlight. Generally the car headlights have been on all day, the windscreen wipers have been functioning, and the heater and demisters have had to work continuously to retain visibility. In the past I complained of the heat in Corsica, Crete and Tenerife. Here I'm moaning about the wet and the cold!
Actually we have coped pretty well, and have enjoyed today greatly. We're still very sorry though for the families with young children confined to the site. They have obviously come to the sea sun and sand. For the last two days they have been quite unable to enjoy any of them.
Sineu lies at the centre of the island and market day is on Wednesdays. We arrived around 10 a.m. and after parking below the town, which like most old towns in Mallorca, is built on a hill rising from the flat plain of the interior of the island, we walked up in pouring rain to the market surrounding the church of Nostra Señora de Los Angeles. In front of the church dominating the town is a statue of a winged lion, the symbol of the town, placed there during the Franco regime and very evocative of fascism. The market is highly praised and of importance to the whole island. The animal market must have already ended because all we saw were cages of domestic birds, puppies, kittens, and a few sheep and lambs. Vegetables and dried fruit were for sale, but the most successful product on sale was umbrellas, which were selling rapidly to the miserable tourists pouring from the coaches in t-shirts and shorts, shivering in the wet as they puddle-jumped from stall to stall. The rest of the market, which spread around all the streets of the town, was mainly for clothing or textiles and curtains. All rather a disappointment really, but I don't suppose the weather helped much with the atmosphere.
We left the main area to explore the more residential quarters of huge old stone houses with their green shuttered windows and doors. At the council offices an elderly lady asked my assistance to help her down the steep steps. At least I think that's what she asked me, and she was happy enough to take my arm to the roadway below. The building was a former convent with a central courtyard and cloisters. We walked in and nobody stopped us. Built against the side of a huge old church it was a tranquil, pleasant place to shelter from the interminable rain.
Sineu. Nostra Senyora de los Angeles
We left Sineu and headed off to Sancelles, again on a hilltop rising from the plain - most of the towns seem to be on hill tops. They are old, a quaint maze of little cobbled streets in yellow stone surrounded by orchards and dry stone walls. They are very attractive, and each is a joy to visit. We never expected to discover such gems in this tourist isle.
There isn't a lot in Sancelles but it made a pleasant walk around its clean streets. The rain had temporarily ceased. The church was surrounded by date palms, olive trees and even orange trees heavy with unripe fruit. There is a restaurant, a pub, a repair workshop for cars, a hardware store and a small general store. Local people find time to chat together and there is a very pleasant atmosphere.
We continued our cross-country peregrinations to Binissalem, the centre of the Mallorca wine growing area. We were disappointed not to see much evidence of this, just a few vineyards around the town and one commercial outlet, where the locals seem to purchase it in five litre plastic cans. As we walked through the narrow streets towards the church we got splattered with mud from every passing vehicle splashing into deep potholes where the rain had washed away the tarmac. Just as the rain recommend in deadly earnest we passed the bakers in the Carrer de la Concepcion with seating for coffee and cake. As the rains down we drank really nice coffee and ate savoury pastries while reading the local paper. Today's was all about a series of Monty Python films to be shown in Palma to celebrate thirty years of the Monty Python cult. It starts with “La Vida de Brian”. I'm not sure if the article was written in Catalan or Castilian; they are different from each other when seeing them side by side on official notices, but both are equally easy (or difficult) to understand. Basically we've decided if there are x's in it is Catalan. We got everything we asked for correctly so we feel quite proud of ourselves. I even asked for a jug of hot water as my coffee was too strong and Ian discussed the filling of his quiche and asked where the loos were. It’s proving much harder to communicate and understand written text however.
Binissallem. Wine label
We turned off at Mancor, a nice little town of narrow streets, up to the Ermita de Santa Lucia, set very high on the top of a nearby limestone outcrop reached by a series of hairpin bends. The place seemed deserted when we arrived in the rain but voices could be heard from within the monastery which is huge, with rows of shuttered windows and doors. From the steps we could look down and across to the town of Inca. In the foreground the nearer hills have been terraced though they seem now to have been abandoned - so it's not only in South America that Inca terraces can be seen. There were excellent views to surrounding hills and down into the valleys with the many trees mainly holm oaks with their leaves changing even here into autumn colours. Heavy rain clouds unfortunately blotted out most of the views. They also decided to discharge themselves just as we were about to descend the mountain. Unpleasant on a narrow, steep road with potholes, no safety barriers, and hairpin bends.
Mancor. View from Ermita de Santa Lucia towards Inca.
Mancor. View from Ermita de Santa Lucia.
Mancor. Ermita de Santa Lucia.
The Monastery of Lluc nestles in a dip in the hills at the end of a spur road. By the extensive car park, full of puddles and largely deserted, was an interpretation centre of the natural history and geology of the Tramuntana, including a section of the ferrereta, the midwife toad, threatened by introduced species. The entrance to the imposing monastery was nearby with covered walkways off which the cells opened, leading to the main complex, a dark baroque chapel housing the deeply venerated sandstone statue of the Virgin and Child, supposedly found by a shepherd named Lluc (Luke) in the 13th century which miraculously made its way back to the spot where it was discovered and the sanctuary was built. There was a well presented display on the history and work of the Monastery, including the Choir School, founded in the 16th century whose blue-robed choir boys sing services everyday. The atmosphere of contemplation was shattered rudely by a group of French visitors who had been too well entertained at the refectory and were making their noisy and unsteady way back to the coaches.
Lluc. Monastery.
Lluc. Monastery.
Lluc. View from the Way of the Rosary.
Lluc.
Lluc.
Lluc. Our car and driver during a break in the rain.
