It must be 25 years since we first visited Mallorca. All those years ago, a good mate had come back raving about this compact little island off the east coast of Spain. So, we decided to arrange a weekend break while my parents were in the UK and would look after the kids. I remember very little about it, if I’m honest. Our hotel in Palma was a disaster. They had lost our booking, and we were reduced to sleeping on camp beds in what was basically a hallway, while a day trip into the hills made me horrendously carsick. This trip, however, promised to be more successful. Another good mate was turning sixty, so a collection of his oldest friends was gathering in Deia to help him celebrate. And we had booked well in advance this time to avoid camping in a hallway!
Mallorca, also spelled Majorca, is the largest and most popular of the Balearic Islands. Like many Mediterranean islands, it has changed hands several times over the centuries: the Phoenicians and the Romans, the Vandals and the Moors all took turns at colonizing it, each new invader imprinting its own culture, religion, infrastructure and economy. In 1229 it was conquered by the Catalans, and despite revolts, plagues and piracy, Mallorca has remained in Spanish hands since. In 1984 the new Spanish Constitution granted the Balearic Islands regional autonomy. Since the 1960s, however, tourism has boomed, and Mallorca has been invaded afresh, by legions of tourists.
These days, Mallorca, like its smaller neighbour Ibiza, has become hugely popular with the Northern Europeans, who flock to Mallorca all year round. With a population of just under one million, this number grows exponentially during the height of the tourist season. Some visitors come simply for the sun, others to enjoy the food. Those with more active aspirations may hike or cycle through the mountains. We, however, were looking for more sedentary occupations, while rather hoping the number of visitors might have dropped off by late September.
From London, it is only a two-and-a-half-hour flight to Palma – think Adelaide to Brisbane if you are an Aussie. Nonetheless, it was like landing on a different continent. Discarding our fleeces and raincoats at Luton Airport, we cheerfully left behind a wealth of flat grey pancake clouds that were bleaching the colour from the patchwork landscape. Ever hopeful, I had even packed my bathers and suntan cream.
Landing in Palma, we easily found a bus to the city centre. Another bus took us out to the rugged north-west coast, and the small, salubrious town of Deia. At 50 euros or more for the 40-minute taxi ride, five euros for the bus seemed a better option and hardly took any longer. And the road twisted and wiggled just as much either way.
Deia is tucked into a steep sided canyon within the Serra de Tramuntana Mountains. Cobbled lanes wind like tangled wool between shuttered houses that clamber up the sides of the canyon. A wooden boardwalk along the main road keeps pedestrians safe from the steady flow of traffic: huge, unwieldy coaches; teeny weeny fiats; muscley cyclists; trucks and taxis.
In late September, Deia’s terracotta tiled roofs and sandstone walls are still aglow with late summer sunshine. Vivid blue trumpet flowers and bougainvillea in hot pink and vermilion climb the limestone walls. Brightly coloured sundresses hang outside the numerous dress shops, captivating the tourists, like a spider’s lacy cobweb attracts its prey. On our first morning, while the One & Only deals with a business call, I heed the siren call of these pretty boutiques, and return with a bag of dazzling summer dresses. Well, it will be summer again by the time we get home.
On down the boardwalk, and around a bend, it is possible to glimpse an ultramarine sea. Across the valley, terraced hillsides look a little neglected. Perhaps it is just the end of summer, or maybe tourism has replaced the age-old agricultural economy. Abutting the houses, however, there is still an assortment of fruit trees: oranges and figs, tomatillos and avocados, peaches and the ubiquitous olive.
The dry, crusty landscape here reminds me of home, but the architecture suits its environment far better than our cream brick bungalows. There is little room or occasion for lawns here, although a couple of grassy strips suggest the odd English settler. Deia has been designated a world heritage site, so any new buildings must adhere to strict regulations to ensure they blend into the surroundings as effectively as the older ones. At the tail end of summer, the creek that trickles along the bottom of the canyon now contains only a dribble of water. Wine, however, cascades down the throats of the still-prolific visitors.
There is a broad range of accommo-dation, and our group of revellers can choose from the five star Residencia that squats like a sultan in the centre of town, to the more modest family run hotels that cling to the hillside and require guests to clamber up or down the steep public stairways. Wherever you stay, there will be the ubiquitous view of terracotta-tiled rooftops, blue wooden shutters and olive trees. And everyone can find a comfortable chair or stone wall from which to observe the sun make its way slowly over the lip of the mountains, throw out the morning shadows and immerse the valley in full afternoon sun. The One & Only won oh-so-many Brownie points for finding us the perfect family run hotel in a rustic stone villa only three minutes walk from the main road. Villaverde provided us with a simple and comfortable apartment with its own small terrace, where we made ourselves totally at home; the perfect haven in which to relax and unwind between all the merry-making.
For many years, Deia has been attracting the creatives: artists, musicians and writers come from all over the world to settle here, the hilltop cemetery sporting many Anglo names among its native inhabitants – the English poet Robert Graves, for example (no pun intended). According to its website, Deia is also the gastronomic capital of the Mediterranean. In which case, I would recommend not visiting at the end of the silly season, as many of the local chefs and waiting staff are obviously exhausted and sick to death of feeding tourists. Having said that, we enjoyed two great celebratory meals, where we had few complaints about either the food or the service.
It can be an adventure simply to reach Ca’s Patro March. This rustic and popular restaurant is balanced precariously over the sea at the end of a narrow, snaking road along which locals drive recklessly, and visitors manoeuvre carefully. The One & Only went ahead to swim before lunch. Don’t expect along, sandy beach, however. Instead, it is a steep descent to a rocky cove, where you must clamber over the rocks to reach the sea. So, it was probably wise to go early, thus avoiding a drunken descent after a heavy lunch and many bottles of wine – a sure recipe for disaster. Meanwhile, I took the precaution of hitching a ride in a friend’s car, to avoid a hot and dusty walk from town.
Hanging off the edge of a cliff above a cerulean sea, this outdoor restaurant has one of the best locations in Deija, which is not short of great views. It is also highly popular, so forget about a spontaneous visit and be prepared to book well ahead. Trip advisor provides mixed reviews, and our experience was similarly mixed. Simple and unfussy, the food was excellent, and the service was mostly friendly, although the icy welcome we received from the hostess was enough to make me flee for the safety of the car. Everything improved once we were seated above the sea with good friends and a glass of wine. And it wasn’t too long before generous platters of seafood began to arrive. While I would recommend it, for the food and the location, I would advise a taxi, to avoid a challenging search for a park or an equally challenging post-prandial trek back up the hill. And some excellent conversation to keep you entertained while you wait to be served. Also, take cash. Then you can relax and drift through an afternoon of good food, good company and great views.
Restaurante Es Pi – Sa Pedrissa is a beautiful finca or rural estate, dating back to the 17th century. Three kilometres along the busy main road from Deia, I would recommend booking a taxi again. There is little or no pavement – and it’s a long way in high heels!
From this amazing eerie above the sea, we found ourselves on a broad terrace overlooking both the Mediterranean and the mountains. Serenaded by a friendly Spanish guitar player, we soaked up the atmosphere with our pre-dinner drinks, while gentle sea breezes tickled and teased. Eventually, we were guided to a long table on a higher terrace beneath the trees and served up a sumptuous feast of local produce and wonderful wines.
We were only in Deia for four nights, but it felt as if we had lived there for weeks. I imagine it will linger in our memories as a magical and very special place for much longer than our previous visit to Mallorca. And hopefully the same goes for the birthday boy!
*As always, thanks to the One & Only for sharing his terrific photos!