Vacancio Mediterrano
One can always count on the Mediterranean for a proper dose of summer.
The idea of going to Mallorca had first come up late last year when my friend Tom mentioned that his family have an apartment there. When I met up with the family on Boxing Day, the invitation was officially extended to me to come for a visit during the summer. I was flattered and honoured, and not in any position to decline the offer. As summer approached, Tom became more and more excited about heading to the big island in the Balearic Sea. Once the British summer arrived, I realised why a getaway was so desirable.
Mallorca is the largest of the Balearic Islands, floating in the Mediterranean between Barcelona and Algeria. The Spanish islands have a very Roman feel to them, appropriately so as they were once occupied by those occupiers of occupiers. When I arrived in Palma, after my two-hour flight from Bristol International Airport, I noticed how it reminded me a bit of Italy. I had never been to mainland Spain, so I suppose that is the closest reference I had. Tom and his dad, Tim, picked me up at the airport and we began the forty minute drive to the northern resort town of Port de Pollenca. I expected a ride in a left-hand drive car to feel weird, but it didn't. I suppose I've now grown accustomed to the steering wheel being on either side.
When we arrived at the apartment, I greeted Helen and Sophie, as Tom gave me the tour: stone slab flooring, three bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, stone patio, and hedged-in garden. The apartment complex had a shared pool just beyond the hedge and lily-pad covered pond. I slipped out of my socks and into sandals to enjoy the heat outside. There was a bit of cloud cover, which I'm told is unusual. I wasn't really bothered by that though. It was nice to be in shorts and a T-shirt. We ate some lunch and hung around a bit, eventually finding our way to the pool.
In the evening, Tom and I headed into town, walking along the Pine Walk, with the water stretching out on our left toward the horizon. Unlike in Britain, one doesn't really head out until after 10:00pm. Even at 10:30, there didn't seem to be many people out at the bars. Tom showed me all the local spots, a mix of chilled out pubs and a couple rockier night clubs. He re-acquainted himself with the Scottish doorman/owner of Chivas, whom he knew from previous years' visit. There are a lot of Scots people in Port de Pollenca, as well as English, Irish, and Germans. It's not as touristy and British as Palma (the capital city) and Mallorca as a whole is far less touristy than the neighbouring island of Ibiza. We had a relatively quiet night, and headed back home after grabbing a couple of very tasty burgers from the Argentinian burger man.
The next day was filled with more relaxing in the sun, balanced with a bit of relaxing in the air conditioned apartment. This turned out to be the pattern for most of the trip. It was nice to just be relaxing in a sunny clime, and not obligated to do anything. In the evening, we again ventured out. I love the Spanish concept of time: sleep in, get up, eat lunch, have a nap, get up, eat supper, relax a bit, go out until the wee hours, sleep and repeat. There's no rush after eating to go anywhere.
In the morning we all went to the neighbouring city of Alcudia. We wandered the streets along the old stone wall, in the hot sun, stopping in at a nice cafe for a nip of the set menu. Tim and Helen exhibited their Spanish prowess with the not-so-English-speaking server. I did my best to catch the important words: pescara (fish), patata (potato), crema (creamy custard-like dessert). The food was strange but true. It was more real than any of the typical tapas or tourist-oriented food one finds in trendier places. This place was definitely Spanish. We walked out in the sunny stone-paved streets, under the shadows of the ubiquitous white streamers. We climbed the steps to the top of the city wall to catch a view across the mountains and the bay. On the drive back, the wind surfers and kite boarders were out in full swing. Tim would soon escape to join them.
Another night out of course, meeting up with old faces and new ones. We met a couple of Germans, Pia and Kira, while searching for food. Tom seemed a bit jealous as I unleashed my cursory knowledge of the German language. Truth be told, when they were speaking to each other, I really had no idea what they were saying either.
The following day was a lazy one. It was spent relaxing and swimming. We didn't venture out that evening, opting instead to watch a movie. This gave Tim and Helen a chance to go out for a change, while we stayed with Sophie.
On Saturday, Tom and I walked down to the main beach, since I had not yet ventured that far. While there, we noticed a stage and bar being set up, and concluded that there must be a beach party. Checking the Internet back at the apartment confirmed our suspicions, and we made plans to attend. Of course we didn't head out until late, as is the custom, and stopped in at a bar across the street for a couple pints and some olives. A band was playing on stage, as we sat on the covered patio.
We joined the party and ran into our German friends again. They laughed at us for wearing shoes to a beach party. Truth is, we were torn about footwear, but in the end we had made the wrong decision. I suppose it was more the socks that were a stupid idea. The band finished up and the DJs started. In true Balearic fashion, the party went all night. We slipped away around 6:00am, and the music was still pumping behind us as we walked away. That would never happen in England.
The next morning, while Tom slept in, I went with Tim, Helen and Sophie to the Sunday market in Pollenca. There were many colourful foodstuffs on display and a lot of people about. We stopped for a coffee before heading up the 365 Calvari steps to the chapel at the top of the hill. This is a pilgrimage site, where the devout climb the steps on their knees each year at Easter. At the top was a great panoramic view of the city and adjacent mountains and bay. There were a couple of stray cats lounging in the sun. On the way down, Sophie counted the steps, which lead down into the town centre. We also stopped in at the cloisters, where an art installation was in place, before heading back to Port de Pollenca.
That evening I had my last meal with the family before Tim and Tom drove me back to the airport at Palma. I had a late flight and would arrive back in Bristol around 2:00am. Just before boarding the plane, I had a slight panic when I realised I didn't have my keys on my person. While standing in the queue for the plane, I searched through my hand luggage in hopes I had thrown them in there. Alas, nothing, so I crossed my fingers that they were in my checked bag. If I didn't have my keys, I wouldn't be able to get into my house. When I got to Bristol International, I rifled through my bag, and found nothing. I wasn't sure what to do, and figured I might have to stay at a hotel, and call the landlord in the morning, which would mean missing a half day if not a whole day of work. Then it dawned on me that there was an unrented room in our house that I could stay in for the night. The only hurdle was waking up my housemate so he could let me in when I arrived. He was happy to do so, and I spent the night in a cold room with no blankets. It was cheaper than a hotel anyway. The landlord dropped off some spare keys the next day. It turned out I had left mine in a drawer at the apartment in Mallorca. I got Tom to mail them to me when he returned to England.
It was a nice holiday, and would prove to be as close to summer as I would get, as the rainy British weather has made it feel like early spring since... well, early spring. I have a constant reminder of the holiday, weeks after returning, as I'm still cleaning the sand out of my shoes. Don't wear shoes to a beach party.
Cheers.
The idea of going to Mallorca had first come up late last year when my friend Tom mentioned that his family have an apartment there. When I met up with the family on Boxing Day, the invitation was officially extended to me to come for a visit during the summer. I was flattered and honoured, and not in any position to decline the offer. As summer approached, Tom became more and more excited about heading to the big island in the Balearic Sea. Once the British summer arrived, I realised why a getaway was so desirable.Mallorca is the largest of the Balearic Islands, floating in the Mediterranean between Barcelona and Algeria. The Spanish islands have a very Roman feel to them, appropriately so as they were once occupied by those occupiers of occupiers. When I arrived in Palma, after my two-hour flight from Bristol International Airport, I noticed how it reminded me a bit of Italy. I had never been to mainland Spain, so I suppose that is the closest reference I had. Tom and his dad, Tim, picked me up at the airport and we began the forty minute drive to the northern resort town of Port de Pollenca. I expected a ride in a left-hand drive car to feel weird, but it didn't. I suppose I've now grown accustomed to the steering wheel being on either side.
When we arrived at the apartment, I greeted Helen and Sophie, as Tom gave me the tour: stone slab flooring, three bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen, stone patio, and hedged-in garden. The apartment complex had a shared pool just beyond the hedge and lily-pad covered pond. I slipped out of my socks and into sandals to enjoy the heat outside. There was a bit of cloud cover, which I'm told is unusual. I wasn't really bothered by that though. It was nice to be in shorts and a T-shirt. We ate some lunch and hung around a bit, eventually finding our way to the pool.
In the evening, Tom and I headed into town, walking along the Pine Walk, with the water stretching out on our left toward the horizon. Unlike in Britain, one doesn't really head out until after 10:00pm. Even at 10:30, there didn't seem to be many people out at the bars. Tom showed me all the local spots, a mix of chilled out pubs and a couple rockier night clubs. He re-acquainted himself with the Scottish doorman/owner of Chivas, whom he knew from previous years' visit. There are a lot of Scots people in Port de Pollenca, as well as English, Irish, and Germans. It's not as touristy and British as Palma (the capital city) and Mallorca as a whole is far less touristy than the neighbouring island of Ibiza. We had a relatively quiet night, and headed back home after grabbing a couple of very tasty burgers from the Argentinian burger man.
The next day was filled with more relaxing in the sun, balanced with a bit of relaxing in the air conditioned apartment. This turned out to be the pattern for most of the trip. It was nice to just be relaxing in a sunny clime, and not obligated to do anything. In the evening, we again ventured out. I love the Spanish concept of time: sleep in, get up, eat lunch, have a nap, get up, eat supper, relax a bit, go out until the wee hours, sleep and repeat. There's no rush after eating to go anywhere.
In the morning we all went to the neighbouring city of Alcudia. We wandered the streets along the old stone wall, in the hot sun, stopping in at a nice cafe for a nip of the set menu. Tim and Helen exhibited their Spanish prowess with the not-so-English-speaking server. I did my best to catch the important words: pescara (fish), patata (potato), crema (creamy custard-like dessert). The food was strange but true. It was more real than any of the typical tapas or tourist-oriented food one finds in trendier places. This place was definitely Spanish. We walked out in the sunny stone-paved streets, under the shadows of the ubiquitous white streamers. We climbed the steps to the top of the city wall to catch a view across the mountains and the bay. On the drive back, the wind surfers and kite boarders were out in full swing. Tim would soon escape to join them.
Another night out of course, meeting up with old faces and new ones. We met a couple of Germans, Pia and Kira, while searching for food. Tom seemed a bit jealous as I unleashed my cursory knowledge of the German language. Truth be told, when they were speaking to each other, I really had no idea what they were saying either.
The following day was a lazy one. It was spent relaxing and swimming. We didn't venture out that evening, opting instead to watch a movie. This gave Tim and Helen a chance to go out for a change, while we stayed with Sophie.
On Saturday, Tom and I walked down to the main beach, since I had not yet ventured that far. While there, we noticed a stage and bar being set up, and concluded that there must be a beach party. Checking the Internet back at the apartment confirmed our suspicions, and we made plans to attend. Of course we didn't head out until late, as is the custom, and stopped in at a bar across the street for a couple pints and some olives. A band was playing on stage, as we sat on the covered patio.
We joined the party and ran into our German friends again. They laughed at us for wearing shoes to a beach party. Truth is, we were torn about footwear, but in the end we had made the wrong decision. I suppose it was more the socks that were a stupid idea. The band finished up and the DJs started. In true Balearic fashion, the party went all night. We slipped away around 6:00am, and the music was still pumping behind us as we walked away. That would never happen in England.
The next morning, while Tom slept in, I went with Tim, Helen and Sophie to the Sunday market in Pollenca. There were many colourful foodstuffs on display and a lot of people about. We stopped for a coffee before heading up the 365 Calvari steps to the chapel at the top of the hill. This is a pilgrimage site, where the devout climb the steps on their knees each year at Easter. At the top was a great panoramic view of the city and adjacent mountains and bay. There were a couple of stray cats lounging in the sun. On the way down, Sophie counted the steps, which lead down into the town centre. We also stopped in at the cloisters, where an art installation was in place, before heading back to Port de Pollenca.
That evening I had my last meal with the family before Tim and Tom drove me back to the airport at Palma. I had a late flight and would arrive back in Bristol around 2:00am. Just before boarding the plane, I had a slight panic when I realised I didn't have my keys on my person. While standing in the queue for the plane, I searched through my hand luggage in hopes I had thrown them in there. Alas, nothing, so I crossed my fingers that they were in my checked bag. If I didn't have my keys, I wouldn't be able to get into my house. When I got to Bristol International, I rifled through my bag, and found nothing. I wasn't sure what to do, and figured I might have to stay at a hotel, and call the landlord in the morning, which would mean missing a half day if not a whole day of work. Then it dawned on me that there was an unrented room in our house that I could stay in for the night. The only hurdle was waking up my housemate so he could let me in when I arrived. He was happy to do so, and I spent the night in a cold room with no blankets. It was cheaper than a hotel anyway. The landlord dropped off some spare keys the next day. It turned out I had left mine in a drawer at the apartment in Mallorca. I got Tom to mail them to me when he returned to England.
It was a nice holiday, and would prove to be as close to summer as I would get, as the rainy British weather has made it feel like early spring since... well, early spring. I have a constant reminder of the holiday, weeks after returning, as I'm still cleaning the sand out of my shoes. Don't wear shoes to a beach party.
Cheers.
posted by Mark Bauche at 10:13 PM
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