Saturday, September 12, 2020

The Magical Isle of Majorca

 

The Magical Isle of Majorca

Barbara and I often traveled on holiday with her first cousin, Ken Wootton and his wife Hilary. We have been on many trips with them, Scotland, Spain, the US and elsewhere. On one memorable occasion we took a two week trip with them to to Barcelona and the Balearic island of Majorca off the east coast of Spain, part of the region called Catalan, a section of Spain of which the inhabitants heartily wish they were not. The Barcelona part of the trip is another story—interesting but different.

We took a short flight from Barcelona to Palma, the capitol of Majorca and, I presume, of all the Balearics. It’s a bustling city of about 250,000, and is the primary destination of most of the tourists. They have all of the beaches and most of the hotels. Majorca has an area of only about 1400 sq miles but is very mountainous and heavily forested. The local population is a little over one million but during the holiday season it is literally overrun with English and Germany tourists, in about equal numbers. In some of the villages, for example, all you hear is German, in others English. If you hear the local language it is Catalan. If you try to speak Spanish they will correct you.

On landing Ken went to the rental car spot and got our Renault, an SUV, a very ;nice car. We loaded our baggage and took off for our resort rental at Binorella, 20 miles north of Palma. This was a hair raising experience since Ken was not used to having the steering wheel on the ‘wrong’ side of the car, and even worse, he had to try and stay on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. Hilary nearly expired from fright. I didn’t do much better. Binorella is a gated resort with attached units, two floors, with two bedrooms upstairs and kitchen and living-dining area below.l We were arriving in September and the place was emptying out as people began returning to England to start school and return to their jobs. While unloading I asked Ken for the car keys to unlock the rear--and never gave them back--much to the relief of Hilary.

In the weeks time we had we drove about 400 miles in our sightseeing, most of it at fairly low speeds. Majorca is a mountainous island with a network of fairly slow roads. It’s been occupied by various civilized cultures for about 6000 years due to its obvious strategic location; Carthage, Rome, Etruscans, Moroccans.Cordovans. They have all left their traces. It’s an easily defended island since it seems to be all cliffs and rough approaches from every direction except at Palma.

We, of course, had to drive over the mountains to the north to the church and town where Chopin and George Sand spent three months in the winter of 1838. The locals all thought Chopin had TB. He did not but they were tired of hearing him cough so encouraged the two to leave. Which they did. But during those three months Chopin finished his most famous works, his etudes. Although no one wanted him there at the time now it’s a big tourist attraction. Over a million Brits have been to see the place.

The drive over those mountains was the most exciting part of the day. There were many very tight hairpin turns—21, 51, 41-- some number ending in one. One of my companions counted them on the way back. On each one I had to turn the steering wheel all the way to its stop to get arouond the curve.

One of our many expeditions was to the small town of Petra, very nearly in the center of the island. This place was of special interest because it is where Father Junipero Serra lived. It is also the center of the famed ‘Majorca Pearl’ industry. As we approached this town we saw a brightly lit modern building on the edge of town. Signage identified it as a pearl merchant establishment. We stopped and had a look at the jewels. It was all beautifully displayed and the quantity was completely overwhelming. We didn't buy anything. Majorca pearls are entirely artificial so it is not necessary for the makers to be anywhere near the sea.

The town center consisted of old buildings crowded right up to the road’s edge in most places. There were no electric poles. The wires were just strung from building to building. We parked at the curb where there was a no parking sign---there were no parking places anywhere—and had a very nice lunch. When we returned to the car we had a ticket on the windshield. I told Ken not to worry. We were leaving in a couple of days and they would never catch us. He worried anyway. Across the street from the restaurant was a museum. We specially wanted to see that since that was all about Fr. Serra. It was locked up tight so we went next door and roused someone. A lady came out and said she would open the museum for us. How much? Fifty pesetas each—two pesos total. We didn't have that small of amount so we made a donation to the museum. Inside we saw the tiny room that Fr. Serra slept in with the very plain bunk he slept on, almost like a camp cot. In another much larger room was a complete set of beautiful large models of all the missions that he established up the coast of California.

Before leaving we felt we should look out over the Med from the eastern most point of the island. There was good parking and a trail led up a steep rise to a special lookout. Hilary, as usual, was the only one with energy enough to make the climb. The rest of us gazed out over the sea from the parapet in front of the car.

I took some video but have only one still—a shot of Barbara waking up at Binorella, ready for another day. We did have fun. Oh yes==the ticket never got paid.


 

 

 

 

No comments: