At 8.30 this morning, as I swim out across the millpond still surface of water that might actually be warmer than my bath, there’s a song rattling around my brain. It goes something along the lines of
‘It was thirty years ago today…
…dum di da…
That I first came to Pollenca Bay…’
Now I’ve got to be honest and admit that I can’t be precisely sure that it was thirty years ago to the day that I first came to this island. Thirty years is rather a long time. And some of us don’t have the memory they used to! But it must have been pretty close. Because the first time I came to Puerto Pollenca I was pregnant with my son. And it was September. And he’s going to be thirty in December! (How it manages to be possible that I’ve got a son who is going to be thirty is a whole other question? But we won’t go into that one here!)
So as I was saying… It was thirty years ago that I first came here. My mum and dad were renting a one bedroom apartment behind the Ila d’Or and I came and slept on the sofa-bed for a few days. We did pretty much the same sort of thing we still do today. Wandered into town along a Pine Walk that looked not hugely different to how it does now. Could it have been narrower? My memory says it was. I do know that the path was of beaten earth, with here and there the roots of the pine trees twisting up through the surface. There were certainly no sunbeds or umbrellas on the beach; the villas along the sea front were not so smartly dressed as they are now. Were all the apartment blocks there? Most of them I think.
I do remember that thirty years ago there were boats moored in much closer to the shore, so that when we swam we had to negotiate our way between them. Was the water quite so clear and sparkling in those days? I’m telling myself it’s cleaner now than it used to be. Not all change is unwelcome!
Sis Pins and Miramar – definitely both there; been there a lot longer then I have. Corb Mari was called the Bec Fi – in those days my dad’s favourite restaurant. We used to go to La Lonja for dinner, but the jetty was wooden and we sat at tables by the water’s edge and threw bread to the fish. On the way home after dinner we often stopped at Katy’s Bar (now a private house just after you get to Little Italy) for a late night lamumba. We ate lunch at the Ila d’Or – beaten earth under the pines, plastic chairs and tables, and the bar was built of wood with a straw roof rather like the swanky new beach umbrellas that have appeared on the beaches this year. The food in those days was simple: squid, sardines, tortilla. But the white painted hotel was as quietly elegant as ever and the view from the bar at sunset was – as it still is today – impossible to beat.
So there have been a few changes. Which in thirty years is inevitable. But the one thing that hasn’t changed is the way that the water of Pollenca Bay has stayed blue and beautiful and better than anywhere else in the world.
I wish I could show you some pictures of what it used to look like. Unfortunately back then I was more interested in taking pictures of my family than the view. But for those that are interested here are a selection of more recent pictures taken at various times of the day from various locations around the bay.
And if anyone has any old photos or memories from those far off days I’d love to hear about them.
So I know that paraphrasing someone else’s title in order to attract attention is a cheap trick. But I have a sneaky feeling that if I called this post something like ‘The Life Cycle of the Cycad’ people not so interested in cycads (of which I recognise there may be many) might not read it. And I’d hate for you to be missing out!
Because who would have thought that a garden terrace in downtown Puerto Pollenca would see so much action? We’re not just talking sightings two days running of a Pine Marten, (see Pinch Me post) which is one of the creatures that David Attenborough has never seen in the wild but wishes he had. There’s another extraordinary thing happening out there which I simply have to tell you about.
A couple of years back, when I arrived in Majorca after a winter at home, it was to find that the cycad (for those cycad novices that’s the frondy green plant in the black planter) on the terrace was behaving rather strangely.
A cycad with a head the size of a football. Is that normal?
I kept a close eye on developments. The head grew bigger. It was unnerving.
Then the following year this…
Even more unnerving.
By the beginning of this year the weird eggy looking things had gone a bit flaccid. When we arrived from the UK in June the few remaining leaves had began to go brown. I prepared myself for the worst. Clearly this was a cycad on its last legs.
So imagine my surprise when I returned at the end of August
And it’s not just one cycad. Now there are four!!! Three little baby cycads are battling it out for space in a very crowded planter.
Now if you happen to be an expert on this kind of thing, you will probably tell me that this is entirely normal behaviour for a cycad and only to be expected. But to me it’s… well, quite frankly, it’s very curious.
You do the same thing for years. And then one day you decide to do it differently. And it’s like a door opening to a whole new world. A world on your doorstep that’s been there all along, only you just didn’t know about it.
Take this summer, when, after many years of flying to our house in Majorca, we decided to take the car and drive instead. There were practical reasons – we had stuff we wanted to take with us that we couldn’t fit into a suitcase, we were going to be out there for a while so it made sense to have our own car. And we had had enough of airports; we felt like a change.
But it wasn’t just about practicality. We were looking to combine function with some fun. What we didn’t realise was quite how much fun was in store for us.
I’ve written about our boat trip to Bilbao with Brittany Ferries, and our first night in San Sebastian in my post The San Sebastian Crawl, so I won’t go over it again. Suffice to say we had a ball!
But the Pintxos bar tour we enjoyed, in the company of the lovely Esther from San Sebastian Pintxos Tours, turned out to be a good metaphor for the journey. Bite sized portions of experience; little tasters of amazing places. There and back we didn’t stay more than a night anywhere. But thanks to the meticulous research and careful planning of my top-notch concierge (aka my husband), our experience of each place we visited was memorable, enough to give us a real flavour without overfacing us.
After our unforgettable night in San Sebastian we headed south, stopping for coffee on our way in the mediaeval town of Olite with its fairytale castle.
And then on to a blow out lunch at Restaurante 33 in Tudela (described in my post A Serious Case of PTS). The drive to Barcelona took us about five hours in total, taking us away from the wooded mountains of the north into the flat, dry expanse of central Spain. Not always the most exciting of scenery, but great roads. And we kept ourselves amused listening to podcasts of Cabin Pressure with Benedict Cumberbatch playing a useless pilot and Roger Allam as his cynical, world weary co-pilot. Greatly to be recommended; the time flew by.
We came into Barcelona in the late afternoon, negotiating our way through this busy, beautiful city with the help of the satnav (absolutely essential bit of kit without which we would probably be filing for divorce by now. How did people manage without them?) A few hours to fill before heading for the port to catch our ferry to Majorca, a bit of anxiety about where to leave the luggage filled car in notoriously thief friendly Barcelona, a complete lack of hunger due to massive eight course lunch eaten in Tudela; we were a little uncertain of what to do with ourselves.
So we headed for the Olympic Park area which is near the port, found a secure car park to leave the car, and went for a stroll. This part of Barcelona is part beach holiday, part super modern, stylish city. Look to your left as you wander along the esplanade and there are people playing volleyball on the beach, couples strolling barefoot along the water’s edge hand in hand. Look to your right and there are skyscrapers and fountains and wide boulevards streaming with Friday afternoon traffic.
We went in to the achingly stylish Arts Hotel for a drink, feeling a little out of place in its hushed corridors and elegant reception. We were carworn, battered and dusty, and ready to sit in a heap and rest up a bit. This hotel was crawling with the beautiful and the best of Barcelona, and we couldn’t help feeling we were not quite fitting in. Still it was an experience, and a beautiful place, and worth a visit if for nothing else than the stunning flower arrangements in the lobby. After a drink in the bar, and a promise to ourselves to come back when we were a little less scruffy, we went back to the car and headed for the ferry port.
ANOTHER BIT ON A BOAT
This was the trickiest moment of our journey. Roads are mega busy, night has fallen, and the satnav takes us to a road closed by a barrier, and a mean looking policeman is waving us away from where we want to go. Luckily we’ve left lots of time, and the satnav rethinks and leads us through tunnels and around roundabouts, so we get to the port with time to spare. Which is a very good thing. Because there seem to be no signs and no way of knowing where we are meant to go and what we are meant to do. We just follow the herd, hoping that the herd is going where we are going. Graham stops and winds down the window to ask directions from a guy in a reflective jacket, who could be anyone but fortunately turns out to be someone who knows what’s going on. He tells us that we have to swap our printout ticket for a proper ticket or we won’t get onto the boat. We park and Graham goes off to do the necessary, comes back and informs me that I’ve got to go on board by foot.
This is going to sound daft, but it was a weird and rather unsettling experience, leaving him in the car on the dockside and heading off in the dark to a building in the distance, to stand in a long and extremely chaotic queue, which snaked in and out of the building and seemed uncertain whether it was a queue for Alcudia or Cuitedella. Turned out it was the queue for both; the ferry was dropping off in Alcudia and then going on to Menorca. Phew!! I stood at the back of it, played Tetris on my phone and tried to look unconcerned, while the people in front of me argued in angry Spanish, and children screamed around me.
Graham and I found each other on the boat and fell on each other with relief. We had to queue to hand in our ticket in exchange for the key to our basic but perfectly acceptable cabin. This ferry was not in the same league as the Brittany Ferries boat from Portsmouth but we were only on it for six hours. As we pulled away from the dock and slowly made our way towards open sea, we slid past a long, lean, multi-decked boat that was crying out to be stared at. It was moored alone against the quay, well away from any other boat. It’s five decks were lit up, and we could see spacious seating areas with fabulous furniture, a beautiful dining table with inlaid wood, a super cool bar. There seemed to be nobody on board until we caught sight of a couple of figures leaning on the rails, watching as our ferry went slowly past.
It was too dark to take a decent picture. But I found this photo online so you can see for yourselves. Because of course we googled the name!
It’s called Eclipse. And it turns out it’s one of Roman Abramovitch’s fleet of five. Five!!! This boat has two helicopter pads, two swimming pools, 24 guest cabins, 70 crew, several hot tubs, a disco hall and a mini submarine. How have we managed all these years without a mini submarine???
Once we were under way we found our cabin and slept. Up at 4.30am (!) in time to peer out of the porthole as Pollenca Bay loomed up and past us in the darkness, lights twinkling in the distance to tell us we’re nearly there. Back down to the car, dock in Alcudia, drive off ferry straight into dark streets, twenty minutes to our house; only sign of life in Puerto Pollenca at this hour is staggering teenagers weaving their way home after a long night at Chivas.
And we’re there. Three days journeying as opposed to six hours. A fair bit of time in the car. But what a great way to travel.
We’re in Majorca for just over three weeks. Weather unsettled for some of the time, but not so it’s a problem. We do what we usually do, which is enjoy ourselves. Make a few new discoveries: walking over to Cala San Vicenz before breakfast, eating tapas by the side of the lovely bay of Puerto de Soller, enjoying a spectacular dinner at the fantastic Marie Nostrum restaurant in Sa Pobla.
We spend a lot of time sitting by the water’s edge in our own lovely bay of Puerto de Pollenca, enjoying some truly spectacular sunsets, and telling ourselves for the umpteenth time that there really is nowhere else we’d rather be.
And all too soon it is time to think about packing up and going home. But the great thing is that this year the holiday doesn’t end when we leave our house to head for the airport. This year it started when we walked out of our front door in England, and will end when we walk back in again. The getting there and the going home are as much part of the holiday as the being there. Which means that, as the day approaches when it’s time to leave, we don’t feel blue at the thought of it all coming to an end. Instead we feel excited at the thought of our journey home.
BACK ON A BOAT AGAIN
We leave on one of those perfect days you get in Majorca at the tail end of the summer, when the sun is just beginning to lose its intensity, the air is soft and clear, the wind has melted away so that the sea in the bay is as still and reflective as a mirror, the temperature in the shade is spot on body temperature, you feel completely at one with your surroundings, and very very happy. It’s hard to say goodbye on such a day. But rather than feeling sad to be going, we feel blessed to have such great conditions for travelling by boat, because we will get to see the island at its best.
Fifteen minutes drive to the ferry port. The same weird procedure where passengers have to go on board separately from the car. But this time when Graham and I say a temporary goodbye to each other it’s in bright sunshine and we’re prepared for it, so it’s not quite so traumatic! I find a spot in the bar on the top deck, and gaze out at people on sun loungers, sunbathing in their bikinis and swimming trunks (this is a ferry with a swimming pool!). Do I miss Palma airport? NO I DO NOT.
When Graham joins me we go and find a place to say a proper goodbye to the island. The boat slips gently out on a turquoise blue sea. We lean on the rail and drink in the view with our eyes. On a day like this one there simply cannot be anywhere in the world more beautiful than this glorious island of Majorca. And we feel incredibly lucky to be seeing it this way.
We watch for as long as we can, while the island softens and dissolves into the distance, until there’s no trace of it on the horizon. Then we find a spot to settle down and talk and eat and read for the six hours it takes us to reach Barcelona.
RETURN TO BARCELONA
Barcelona. It’s a wonderful town. The skies as we approach give a hint of what is in store for us. They’re eye catching, dramatic, beautiful.
We drive off the ferry and check in to the supremely comfortable, very friendly and welcoming, couldn’t be in a better position, H1898 hotel; located a matter of metres off La Rambla, the street that is the soul of Barcelona.
This is the old town, very different to the super modern and stylish Olympic area that we had visited on our way out. But equally as stunning. We have dinner on the roof terrace of the hotel: really good tapas (and we’ve eaten a fair bit on this trip so we know what we’re talking about!) and great views across the city. The tower of the cathedral is close by, piercing the roofline, changing colour before our eyes, one moment pink, one moment purple, one moment green; a light show to let us know (as if we didn’t know already) that we are in a pretty extraordinary place.
After dinner we go for a quick ramble down La Rambla (has to be done – walk and pun!) and then back to the hotel and our completely gorgeous bedroom. Oh, it’s a tough life!
Breakfast the next morning was in a class of its own. The spread that met us as we entered the dining had to be seen to be believed. It was tempting to spend the morning there scoffing. The pastry table in particular… OMG!!!
Still Barcelona was calling us. And we only had a few hours. So we enjoyed our breakfast, and then went out and strolled again up La Rambla, with its crowds and its street traders and its nifty flower stalls.
As we wandered Graham suggested going into the Mercado de la Boqueria. Now if I’m honest I’m a bit myeh about markets. In my book a somewhat overrated experience – too often they’re full of the same old tat. But not this one.
Then on to the cathedral to wander and marvel.
Next stop – a walk with Gaudi at the Gaudi Exhibition Centre. When you don’t have much time in a place you have to focus. So we did – on the unique architect who has had so much to do with making this city what it is. A Walk With Gaudi is a brand new museum/exhibition, right next to the cathedral, which takes you through the story of Gaudi, his life and influences. And it’s excellent.
We left the museum, grabbed a taxi, and headed to the Sagrada Familia. Because when you’ve been given such a great taste of Gaudi, you have to go and see his most famous building.
It is his unfinished masterpiece. Showcases his passion for the organic, the free flowing, the natural. The son of a coppersmith Gaudi had inordinate respect for the skill of craftsmen. So the fact that this building is work in progress, that the city of Barcelona is finishing the job Gaudi started, seems completely and utterly right, so that the cranes and the workmen seem as much part of the experience of the building as the building itself.
We headed back to the hotel, ate a light lunch on the roof terrace, and left Barcelona to drive north – making our way towards the extraordinary Marques de Riscal Hotel.
FINISH WITH A FLOURISH
Four hours drive, and we are deep in Rioja country: hills and valleys and a ridge of far mountains, vineyards on all sides, tractors pulling trailers loaded with crates of grapes, slowing the traffic to walking pace in front of us. We take the road to Elciego. On the hillside ahead and to the right something winks and flashes in the late afternoon sunshine.
As we drove towards it I wasn’t entirely convinced. Did I like it? I wasn’t sure. But the more time I spent with it, the more I liked it. Until I ended up completely smitten. You know the really great paintings, where the more you look the more you see. Well this building worked the same kind of magic. As we explored I could see the undulating hills and valleys of Rioja, wine pouring and flowing, red and white and rose, the foil peeling back from the necks of bottles. The gleaming surfaces reflected the sky, the scenery; the building shifted with the light, changing character from one moment to the next. It was utterly and gobsmackingly fantastic.
Our bedroom was super comfortable, ultra modern, teched up to the eyeballs so that even the curtains drew back at the touch of a button. Of course there was a bottle of wine to welcome us. And the windows opened out like an eye onto bodega and hills, framing the sensational view.
The only bit that didn’t work quite so well for us was the public space: the hotel reception, the Bistro dining room (where we ate an absolutely delicious dinner and drank, as you would expect, fantastic wine), the library/bar on the top floor. These areas with their towering ceilings were more high than wide; the white walls and minimalist decor, whilst completely in keeping with the building, felt a little lacking in character. We couldn’t escape the feeling that at dinner we were eating in a corridor. And the piped music that played everywhere – it was rather like being stuck in a lift.
We spent a very comfortable night, lay in bed the next morning and watched the sun come up on the hills, ate an excellent breakfast (although I was beginning to suffer from an overabundance of food) and headed to the stylish and elegant wine shop to stock up on a few cases before embarking on the last leg of the last leg of our drive.
An hour to Bilbao. We were going to stop at the Guggenheim Museum and add another Frank Gehry building to our list of experiences. But the traffic in Bilbao was stopstart, all the carparks we drove past seemed to be full, and we didn’t want to leave our loaded with goodies car on a street. So we drove past and had as good a look as we could, and then headed to the ferry port.
THE LAST LEG
You might have thought that this last stretch, twenty four hours on a boat, with all the fun stuff done, might drag. But it really didn’t. It was helped by the fact that it was a beautiful day, warm and bright and calm. It was helped by the fact that the ferry was half empty.
That night, in the restaurant, I was one of only two or three women. All around us motorbike enthusiasts and classic car buffs were enjoying their dinner. Conversation focussed on crankshafts and spark plugs and the best place to get a decent cup of coffee on the A3. My lovely lovely dad, who died four years ago this week, was a passionate lover of old motorbikes and cars. I grew up with these conversations. It felt very familiar and rather wonderful and the perfect way to end a memorable holiday.
A good night’s sleep, breakfast, a couple of hours playing Candy Crush (there… I’ve admitted it) and we can see land on the horizon. We go past the Isle of Wight and come into Portsmouth in sunshine.
Down to the car, off the boat, back to driving on the left, back to bumpy surfaces and lots of traffic. And in just under an hour we’re turning into our driveway. And it’s all over. We’ve had the most wonderful time.
Something so extraordinary has just happened that I’m sitting here wondering if I really saw what I thought I saw. Surely not! It couldn’t be! Could it? Luckily I’m not alone. If I was, I’d be telling myself I was seeing things.
Because I’m lounging on the sofa on our terrace, thinking about important things like where to go for lunch and whether my Candy Crush habit is turning into an addiction, when what looks like a cat slides under the gate and putters up the garden path. Most of the houses around us are unoccupied so maybe this thing that looks like a cat thinks there’s no-one home. Because it’s looking pretty relaxed. Until it catches sight of us, stops, stares, and slips away under the hedge while we’re still registering that this thing that looks like a cat isn’t.
The terrace in question is in Puerto Pollenca, Majorca. It looks out over a (very small) garden, with a gate opening onto the pool area we share with thirteen other houses about ten metres away from me. So we’re talking seaside, built up, urban – not pine forest, secluded, unpeopled. Which is the kind of habitat what I’ve just seen prefers.
Because this thing that looks like a cat is a Pine Marten. Honestly. I promise you. In Great Britain they are incredibly rare; shy, secretive creatures you might catch a glimpse of in Scotland if you’re very very lucky.
And I’ve just seen one. So close I could have reached out and touched it. Unfortunately I was too stunned to get myself together and take a photo. But even so…
You know that feeling? When you are so full you literally cannot eat another thing. Until somebody mentions pudding. Which is when PTS (or Pudding Tummy Syndrome) kicks in. It’s been happening to me a lot lately. On the bar crawl in San Sebastian, the following day in Tudela, and then a few days later in Sa Pobla, Majorca.
In San Sebastian it was the basque burnt cheesecake that I wrote about in my last post. Five pintxos bars visited in one evening before we ended up at La Vina, five different places where drink was drunk and food was eaten! And, as my kids used to say, I am full as an egg. No room for anything else. Until you wave a plate of the best cheesecake in the whole world in front of me. And I don’t hesitate.
Next stop – Tudela. Which is not the most prepossessing of places. But we’re searching out Restaurante 33. Great reviews on Trip Advisor for its food. And we’ve got a bit of time before heading for Barcelona to catch our ferry to Majorca. (And I’ve got hangover hunger from the night before!) So we settle in and go for their set menu. Which is a masterpiece of eight courses. Yes eight!
The plates are small and delicious but I’m struggling by five. By seven I’m completely stuffed. But then… Burnt milk! With chocolate delicious thing on the side!
All I can say is that you have simply got to try burnt milk. It’s up there with the basque burnt cheesecake in the list of puddings to bring on a very serious case of PTS.
And finally to Mare Nostrum in Sa Pobla, Majorca. Where I had one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.
No choice menu. Bread and aioli to start, then six exquisite courses. Each one is small and perfectly formed, and memorable in its own right. But still we’re talking five courses by the time pudding arrives. And, despite evidence to the contrary in the rest of this post, I’m really not the biggest of eaters.
But who’s going to say no to this…?
So. A marathon of eating. And you want to know what I’m thinking? PTS isn’t a curse; it’s a gift.
You know that proverb ‘you can’t have your cake and eat it’? Well here’s a question…. who says?
And another question…. why not?
I mean for crying out loud, you can’t get away from cakes at the moment, whether it’s baking them, eating them, having them, trying to stay away from them. And I bet you a tray of chocolate butterfly cakes with butter cream icing that with all the cake making going on at the moment there are plenty of people out there who are having and eating at the same time. No matter who says you can’t….
And you know something….. I reckon I’m one of them.
I came to this decision a couple of nights ago as I sat in a short sleeved shirt at 7.30 in the evening, guzzling a vast gin and tonic, with chilled out music wafting through the airwaves around me, looking out across the millpond water of Pollenca Bay. So Graham and I turn to each and grin and say ‘how lucky are we?’ And that’s when we have the ‘cake and eat it’ discussion. Cos someone has said to him that his trouble is that he wants to ‘have his cake and eat it.’ And after giving this a great deal of thought he has decided that his reaction is…. yeah, too damn right, you bet I do!
And this week we reckon we got it just about right.
We weren’t supposed to be there. I was meant to be hard at work, nose to the grindstone, garden designing my butt off. He was meant to be hard at work, nose to the grindstone, doing whatever it is he does when he isn’t having a wonderful time with me. But thanks to me putting my course on hold and him deciding that there is more to life than playing it safe, we booked last minute flights and went out to shut the house up for the winter.
Except for it was still summer out there. The weather forgot to change and we had blue skies and temperatures in the eighties. So you see what I mean – cake, have, eat. Simples.
So Pollenca this week was chocolate and coffee and carrot – all my favourite cakes rolled into one. Some had pink icing….
Some had red….
Some even had blue…. There were multi coloured cakes…. And cakes with no icing at all….
And I’m going to leave you with this image. Spotted yesterday as we walked along Pine Walk beside the water’s edge. You can’t see them all but there were actually three dogs in the boat with this rather gorgeous girl.Who knows where the four of them were going….But I thought you would like to share them with me. Because they’re fab. And when things are as fab as this, having and eating at the same time are…. well it’s obvious isn’t it…. they’re a piece of cake.
Back to earth, feet on the ground (I think!) after time away and stuff to sort out when I got home. And the long hot summer of 2013 feels like it’s drawing to a close. Might have drawn to a close already if the rain this week is anything to go by.
And you know what I say…. Bring on the autumn. Because the great thing about contrast is the way it allows you to appreciate the differences. Between the seasons, the moods, the good, the bad and the ugly. And one of the wonderful things about a really good summer is the way it leaves you ready and waiting for a really good autumn.
But I can’t let this wonderful summer go by without a last post dedicated to its fabulousness. And it’s another one of my ‘where would you be’ tributes to the most ‘where would you be’ place of all the ‘where would you be’ places I know.
My family started going to Pollenca in 1984. It was my parents who first went there and they liked it so much they went back. So then we went with them and the whole thing took off. Things out there have changed a bit over the past thirty years – mostly good things: the beach in the port has got bigger, the centre of the old town has been pedestrianised, buildings have been cleaned up and rebuilt, restaurants have opened and closed. And we’ve changed our allegiances as we’ve discovered more places to go and things to do.
But there is one thing that hasn’t changed. There is one place we have always gone to, and still always go to. And that is the bar at the Ila d’Or hotel. Three generations of my family have sat under the umbrellas with a drink in their hands, gazed out across the blue water of Pollenca Bay, and been at peace with the world.
We’ve gone with the children when they were small, and they’ve swum in the sea while we sat under the pines and ate calamari rings and french fries. We’ve drunk our coffee there in the mornings, we’ve eaten toasted sandwiches and drunk beer there at lunchtime, we’ve had a last thing on the way home night cap there. We’ve taken friends there, presenting it to them with an ‘aren’t we clever to have this on our doorstep’ flourish. We’ve laughed there, sometimes we’ve cried there.
And the thing is that it’s not because it’s really cool, or serves the best cocktails, or is where the beautiful people hang out. Because it isn’t any of these things.
It’s because it’s not any of these things that we love it so much. It’s tucked away at the far end of Pine Walk so most people who go to Puerto Pollenca don’t know it’s there. To get to it we leave our house and walk the hundred and fifty yards or so to the edge of the sea.
Turn left away from the centre of the port, stroll along Pine Walk. And there it is waiting for us.
The hotel is charming, easy, slightly old fashioned, in the same way that the family hotels we used to go and stay as children were. The waiters stay the same, same faces greeting us, same drinks appearing in front of us as soon as we rock up.
The view is always amazing….
Whichever way you look.
You should be there when the sun is going down…..
And there’s no better place for cloud contemplation….
So we sit down by the edge of the sea, and we pick up our drinks, and we look around us and we say……
Hs anyone out there noticed that this blog is drifting away from the original subject matter? (Does anyone out there care?) Gardens, gardening, garden design….. That was where this whole thing started. So what’s gone wrong?
Well I’m still right on it with the whole garden design vibe. But there are other things out there that just seem to want me to write about them. So…. I’m going to.
Twenty seven years ago, when I first started going to Majorca it was all sombreros and sangria. Magaluf’s reputation for sun, sea and twenty four hour drinking cast a long shadow, and even now there are people who raise an eyebrow when I tell them where I like to go for my holidays. Which is fine by me. The fewer people who know about the bits of Majorca that aren’t all about nightclubs and bars (which is most of the island) the better.
The northern corner of the island, where we have our house, grows in style and substance year by year. Signs are that other people are catching on to what a special place it is. And I’m getting rather worried that our secret won’t be a secret for much longer.
A big cause for concern is that the best home interiors shop in the whole world ever just happens to be up the road from us in Pollenca. It’s called Mestre Paco and it’s an Aladdin’s Cave of totally fabulous furniture and fabrics. I go there regularly – regardless of whether I need to buy anything – and wander from room to room, drinking in the gorgeousness, and wishing I had the money to buy everything I see there.
Things are displayed with effortless style. As if they just happened to come together without anybody really noticing how it happened.
Round every corner there is something to die for, another one of those ‘I want one of those’ items that makes me want to throw out everything I’ve ever bought for my house and start all over again.
The friends who come to stay look rather bemused when I tell them they’ve got to go to my ‘favourite shop’ while they’re out there. Especially when they find out I’ve dragged them off to look at furniture. But once they’ve been there they join the fold and become converts.