Running through the airport after a hasty repacking of bags to fulfill Ryanair luggage allowances, the beginning of a family trip to Mallorca. Laughter and Security. The sun rose as we boarded the plane. Last! Waves rolled below, carpeting our flight between Barcelona and the big island, which revealed itself not 45 minutes later through a break in the scattered clouds. The famous mountains of the Tramutana pushing up abruptly from the flat sea.

The airport greeted us in a babble of tourism, bursts of germanfrench and italianamerican, a veritable salad of sounds, accents peppered like olives. Primavera in Mallorca, perhaps less populated, the weather unpredictable, but the fields an impression of poppies, sheep and goats grazing on sunlight and rain. We made our way north through the flat as a pancake landscape. In the distance the mountains we brushed over on the way, hazy and high, the backbone of the Balearic isla.

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Alcanada our home for a week, a little hamlet near Alcudia, and a view across the bay. An old villa on the coast, filled with a history of art, a collection from a “could it be real” signed Miro, to portraits of the family who must summer here each year. Cupboards filled with old lady wallpaper and old lady smell, an art deco ceiling flowing to views of distant villages and boats crisscrossing the water. We spotted a pilot whale, its fin bumping from the blue, making it’s way to the open Mediterranean.

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Mountains of food, jenga, rummikub leagues, and fires built to keep us warm on chilly evenings. The smell of salt. And breakfast fry-ups. Strong coffee in early morning bed, will it be sunny or cloudy today? A semi schedule of events, conversation, and cormorants diving in front of the balcony. The water a mirror filled with seaweed coalescent in blues and greens. Birthday celebrations for Milos sister. 30 Blue Balloons, and feliz fiesta.

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A drive to distant villages with hair-raising narrow bends in the roads. Steep inclines, grassy hillside, roadside, drop, nothing, ocean. A blue bubble gum milkshake of sea, cliff-crashing, limestone eroded gorges, glimpses of death defying goats, laughing at our shrill exclaims about the slim roads, squeezed between double decker buses and nothing! Sa Calobra, somehow unpronounceable, an adventure in arriving, but worth the nerves. We clambered along the tourist trapped route, to a pebble strewn beach, strung between tall cliffs, the roar of waves undulated to a rumble as we adventured down the gorge, loosing the crowds to scraggly trees, and the striking vistas of sharp mountains of terracotta and grey, streaked with brilliant blue sky. My hiking boot Christmas/Birthday present very much appreciated!


From here we made our way up the hell-raising figures of eight road, 26 hairpin bends later, and the Serra de Tramutana presented more UNESCO views, and the village of Soller, where we munched on Pa amb oli a Mallorcan sandwich snack and watched the tram across a tiny sun-filled square. Tired, full, we headed home, uncoiled, slept, and a day on the beach followed.


Serbian punctuated a family reunion and the histories of friends catching up filled my ears with secrets that I cannot understand, and never reveal.
It’s the last night, the sun has set and tomorrow we head home. Mallorca has been good. I hope to visit again soon, to learn more about it’s hidden coves, and snorkle it’s depths. Also perhaps to bring back some of it’s wonderful goat grass and strange plants for my terrace. Next time, perhaps a trip by ferry with my car and a big spade!