Mallorquína, Serra de Tramuntana.
Sunday morning in Pollença, 3rd October.
To a bustling Roman era market town escaping Palma on the first bus 301 at eight.
BOC Hostel wasn't a party place (they said), but, it being Saturday evening, the younger others in room 3G were out until around 3. Then, at around 4, some heavy bass began kicking out in the park behind the Hostel. It didn't last long, and I drifted back to sleep until after six, when I abluted and went searching everywhere for coffee on a Sunday morning. Discovering a microbrewery next door to the hostel didn't help either - Adalt which means attic or above or something. It took me a long time to discover a café and recover some poise.
A helpful assistant at the BOC Hostel tried, unsuccessfully, to contact the Roma Pont Refugi and she read somewhere they needed 5 days notice to book a night online.
Rather than beat about the bush I got off the bus, at its terminus, sped to the other side of Pollença, first mistakenly heading up to El Calvari - watching from high above the town - then back to the bottom on the other side, near the Pont Romá, where the door hung open and two senyora and one senyor were drinking tea on the back patio.
As the church clocks struck nine I've dropped my backpack and made my bed knowing tomorrow I'm heading westward on an easy meander to Son Amer Refugi, near to Santuari de Lluc, with a place already reserved on stage one of the GR221 thanks to the helpful assistant.
My body requires a shower and a siesta to clean off the sweat and grime gathered between the early A1 Leeds Bradford Airport bus, the Ryanair flight and a crappy night's sleep. The one thing I left behind when I packed my bags on Saturday morning was shower gel so I hope that there is something in the cubicle and if not vigorous hands and hot water will do!
But it was cold. Too cold to hang about long in. But I'm less sweaty...
Afterwards I've returned to the centre to find a brunch-breakfast. Coming into the centre from the bus stop I'd passed a bakery opposite the Convent de Sant Domingo, with some folks having Tostadas con tomate, so I returned there for a Zumo de Naranja and Tostadas.
Then, around noon, turning down a few backstreets on Carrer del Jonquet there is a huge Sunday market is pulsating to the beat of many feet and the rattle of monies passing hands.
Looking at various food items I am forcing myself to hold back until later, but I've replaced the emptying vial of citronella I've begun carrying which helps to ward off mosquitoes.
Last time, walking from Narbonne to Lleida, I discovered that taking an antihistamine in the morning, and then applying a little citronella during the day, helped protect me from the overly keen Asiatic Tiger Mosquitoes. These mini-beasts are getting to be a nuisance for me when I visit the Mediterranean basin, and its not going to be long until they hop, like illegal immigrants, onto a boat and risk the Channel.
*
Monday afternoon in the Refugi Son Amer, 4th October.
Finished for today. An easy four and half hours if I'd have slept well. There was a gale running through the valley and throughout the Refugi Pont Roma and water pouring into the dry stream bed - known locally as a torrent for good reason as there are no rivers as such on the island. And some local liquor(Mesclat) eventually sought refuge in the form of dry retching around four thirty in the Baños. Yesterday was difficult in that lively tourist town for me to keep away from the demon drink. But today will be fine as I'm miles for anywhere. Tomorrow I'm further away from anywhere at Tossals Verds - which is truly isolated - so, as suggested by the host in Son Amer, booked the equivalent of a 'pension' with lunch, evening meal and breakfast @ €45.
Coming down to the Refuge de Son Amer, near to the Abbey, I followed the trail of Arbutus unedo(Strawberry Tree) fruit, which were ripe, falling to the ground and perfect at the end of this tired day.
Around one this afternoon I approached the Refugi, which is a huge medieval structure. Looking around the equivalent of a Manor House it was once a grand Finca for a minor aristocratic family, but now it only sells awful Mahou Classic and I am too late to get lunch.
After making the bed I descend the slippery trepidatious GR221 from the Refugi to a restaurant besides the information centre and carpark outside the gates of the monastery Sanctuari de Lluc - Ca s'Amitger. Too late for Menu de Dia, and most of the items on the grill, I tuck into a tasty Lomo steak, salad and frites.
As I was finishing the last morsel the heavens opened and I watch it satisfied, pompous and arrogant.
Without fear I set off into the heaviest of the downpour assuming it would be fine wearing the new replacement outerwear I'd bought prior to this trip. Assumption makes an ass of us all... It's not water resistant. Oh the pity! It needs proofing to be water resistant. Earlier in the day it managed in the lighter rain, but this was a torrent - filling all empty spaces hastily. Suddenly lots of negative thoughts enter my mind. I'm far from anywhere to pick up a poncho and I'm quite tired from Mesclat, gales and shutters banging all through the night.
Before supper I have a thorough investigation of Refugi. It lacks a communal lounge area - as did the one last night -but it has lots information about the Serra de Tramuntana, the development of the GR221 and has a large educational space in an annex attached to the dormitory.
Finally happiness replaces fear as our host presents me a huge silver platter of food. A great chicken and potato supper and now I'll have a booze free good night's sleep? Tomorrow is another day.
***
When did I become so habituated to two coffee's in a morning. One sugar and a strong black espresso/solo/largo. The sky is blue this morning. There are some clouds in the north, behind the Monastery, but around the medieval Son Amer it's green forest and blue sky. But I'm happier and sober this morning.
Comparisons between Pont Romá and Son Amer are hard to find. They are both a little utilitarian and functional, they are both too expensive for Mahou Classic (€2.81) and all the staff are dressed in white, but there is something about the location of this Finça/Manor House. Those in control back in Feudal times surrounded themselves in a tranquility which belighs the barbarism around it socially and culturally: Life was nasty, brutish and short. It's still nasty and brutish but life seems to get longer and longer in our time of plentiful resources.
Here comes breakfast...
100% better this morning. The weather yesterday (and the Mesclat) got into the darker corridors of the mind. And to know I needed to proof the Anorak prior to use is bloody annoying. It's Mallorca so I pray it will be sunny for the remainder of my time, it's not cold. Cool, but hardly frigid.
***
Thursday afternoon in Sóller, 7th October.
Soon three days pass and I'm very fatigued and also considerably frustrated that the two Refugi after Muleta are closed. It's impossible to climb the mountain behind Deia without any idea where might be sleeping so I caught the bus back to Sóller to spend a night in the Youth Hostel... The GR221 is literally over my budget if I am forced to stay in Hostal accommodation as it's €75+. Even the Monastery at Lluc was slightly too expensive at €35 for just a bed. The Catholic church definitely knows how to make the coins flow.
Two very tough days from Son Amer to the Refugi yesterday, above Port de Sóller,. I am a little overwhelmed by the distances, without any means of breaking up the day for repase or respite, unless I carry yet more weight in the form of pies?
Wearing sandals over the 'Pedra Way' is also way too difficult as it's constantly jumping from one stone to the next. Everyone else walking the route are traveling lighter and I know they've organised their baggage elsewhere. My calf muscles are going to pop if the mosquitoes don't suck my body dry first.
Mallorca is a rich island and I'm not sure it suits my simple expectations on the Camino - there are no Albergue or Gite d'Etape equivalent, except the Refugi - who don't offer any self catering options.
In the central square of Sóller I just stopped for a small plate of Tapas which they decided was the Grande option so charged me an exorbitant £8.50 for a handful of croquettes and an equally minute portion of pimiento padron both on the same plate. But I should know better than chose any establishment on a Plaza Major, like the one in Sóller, (with an antique, pointless 'quaint' tram system passing through it) where they are only interested in tourist dollars and probably don't get any raised eyebrows from the middle class European tourists who will pay anything for Artisanal Ice-cream.
Walking to Deia, after I'd found the coastal path impossible to follow without double checking I didn't fall off a cliff, there were literally hundreds of day tripper walkers in intensely bright garments. They sounded either Scandinavian or German and like army ants they just kept on coming. It's not real at all. It's just like Ambleside but warmer here, with much larger rocks to go sweating upwards and downwards.
In each of the four council run Refugios the breakfast has been identical and the unhappy host/hostess has been obligatory. So I'm heading to the local Artisanal beer bar to find fault with that too...
If money was no object I'd just drink expensive wine.
Rich people, who hardly break into a sweat, in all the most expensive gear and I can't even afford a pair of replacement boots that I'd use every day!
People with walking sticks look like robots... And they're mostly German!
Then a guy nude to the waist runs along the via and I know humans are twisted beyond the anvil... No amount of hammering makes any difference!
***
Walking back the way I approached Sóller yesterday and I'm in a little cosy establishment El Molino(the mill) to eat Patatas Bravas and drink local plonk.
***
After way too many glasses of wine any attempt to reach Esporles in one day is impossible! Back I came from 'exclusive' Valldemossa - where Chopin banged his keys day in and day out - winding down the twisting slippy slope from on top of Es Caragoli - to Sóller and a quiet night in!
It's not anything. The music is interesting, but where he wrote the scores or verses is actually meaningless. It's like visiting Abbey Road because the Beatles crossed the road there... I don't understand what people require from 'seeing' a casa of a famous person? Do they hope something will rub off on them and not just rob them instead. I recall going to Hampton Court Palace back when I was guilty of traipsing every whither pointlessly and staring at the 'actual' bed William the 3rd slept in... Or was it Charles the 2nd... It's a fucking bed. He was asleep so wasn't killing Catholics or Protestants or both...
But I must return in a peasants carriage - a urban bus - to walk up yet more mountains for absolutely no reason I can see. It's a good form of exercise and exorcism, but it's nothing else. I should just stay put and get fat. Death will take me either way...
Gosh I'll be sober on a Saturday morning tomorrow!
***
Saturday
Strange day was Saturday. The morning was pretty simple, after leaving Valldemossa, up through the oak forests which covered the two 'hills' between it and Esporles, where I was kept plenty full with Strawberry Tree fruit, then I gently entered Esporles. On the High Street there was a full flowing Mercat, I think the same folks who set out their stalls on Sunday, back in Pollença, but next to it there was an almost continual hubbub of traffic - with a whole subset of 'rally cars' vrooming most of the afternoon. There I had to wait 3 hours hemmed in with a wedding party also in full flow and a lot of kids messing around a playground. After the previous few days up in the Mountains, at Son Amer and Tossal Verds to be confronted by traffic and people everywhere I looked was a shock. Then I went and checked into a Backpackers where it was filled to the rafters too. I seriously thought I would be suffering a migraine anytime soon.
I showered and went back out into the melee, where I was invited by a German and Belgian to join them, which was nice, but before long a group of English 'southerners' - cockney effing and blinding - sat directly behind me. After a hasty Alhambra Rojo Cervesa and plate of Pa Amb Oli (cheese, Jamon and tomato open sandwich) I had to seek solace back in the Dormitory. I found listening to the Flemish accent and trying not to listen to the Southern voices impossible while all the time Harley Davidson and Rally cars were flying passed on their way to God knows where!
***
And that's it. No more walking this trip. I feel a sunset coming on if I can get to Sant Elm Sunday afternoon from Palma, I was told there is a Hostal at €60 for dinner, bed and breakfast and an West facing vista. The last three days of the six have been 'half' days as I found it hard to keep going in the afternoons when I really didn't know where I was going to find a cheap bed... It's Mallorca. It's quite beautiful, but I'll stick to El Camino highways and byways where, while there might be a hill or mountain, or two, it's more likely you'll follow churches, monasteries and abbeys and/or rivers, streams and canals. Mountains are for the eagles? I daren't cling on their backs. I belong to the Valleys!
***
Sunday
Do I need to watch the sunset from Sant Elm? Perhaps not! At €120 it's extortion. The Belgian didn't book in advance? I guess he must've. It's Sunday morning. I didn't expect that... On the bus back to Palma to stay again at BOC Hostel. Last Sunday I went away from it and enjoyed several moments of calm amongst the stones and rocks.
The bus 202 is on a go slow as it follows in the wake of cyclists and passing a dried up torrent d'Esporles to the left which I assume goes into Palma?. Last Sunday I caught the first bus out of Palma this morning it's the first back there...am I making a mistake?
And then I turn a corner in Palma and the drums are bashing out a fine rhythm. That fine Brazilian baterias drum band beat. Oh, but if I was not furious that there is a Marathon going passed everywhere and DJs play on ever street corner. I love baterias. From the first time I saw and heard and got swept up in the pounding rhythmic state in Barcelona on Saint Jaume 1st, to another occasion in Santiago de Compostela (after I'd completed my first Camino) and in San Cristobal de la Casas on the evening on which Mexico played Brazil in the 2014 world cup ... I sit on the Ramblas drinking Zumo Naranja watching less and less folk pass by pounding their own rhythm pace. Perhaps I should head back towards the Plaça Major? It's all too much! The waiter has squeaky shoes! Oh the humanity! If I went there I'd probably be robbed more than I am likely drinking coffee and Zumo Naranja on Las Ramblas.
***
After a few hours walking towards the runners in this race of death - it is the day of the Palma Marathon -I got to the hostel in one piece, but so excitable I've no explanation... Perhaps after several days of being an alcohol free, walking up mountains like one of the possessed and looking down on clouds my testies were too full of testosterone ... Then I reached the BOC Hostel, again, dumped my bags and found two fraulein either side of my needs... Then I drank a warm offering: a crappy Cervesa and headed upward to find a douche and scrub my douche bag clean... and let it all hang out.
***
Bar Dia I find true Mallorquína Raciones and cuppa vino... Then I am in the stready decline from the last six days of positive walking experience. It's the other me! The one always waiting on the bridge like a troll to pounce on me!
***
Breaking out of the loop. The loop which begins with dry retching and ends in mostly bowel movements. Two espresso largo and French morning patisserie and I stare blank at the TV hanging, like an object of beauty, upon the wall of Café Venecia, circa 1934, after two plays of the weather I got up, paid and left the speedy news channel, flashing nothings at Vermut dazed eyes. The lava pouring down La Palma suggests to me humanity is literally meaningless (isn't it obvious we are pointless?)
Now I'm sat at the bar of tonight's sleep over: Jose Mari Youth Hostel. The swines already took payment for tonight two nights ago and I hate, when I'm on a very tight, daily, budget that they do that... But at nine my feet led me here and I'm about to continue the loop with Zumo de Naranja to clean out the very last badness.
***
Walking along the bastion in front of the old of Palma de Mallorca, I cross Passeig del Born and Avinguda de l'Argentina then I am back in the area of the Mercat de Santa Catalina which I saw yesterday morning briefly. After eating a Açai bowl(€6) and drinking Aigua con gas I feel a little less fraught. KMZERO. They're playing Lemon Jelly in el perrito, with the pissing dog on the wall outside, and it's very middle class and 'kewl', but it's definitely cleaner than what wasted me yesterday afternoon/evening and Lemon Jelly takes me right back into the mists of time when Dungeon Keeper was my favourite waste of time. That's back in 1997 which seems such a long time ago!
An Açai bowl is a brilliant hangover cure. Now I feel ready for a fine day...
Left the suburbs to go up to the castle I spied overlooking the port. On a Monday it is closed! Walked up six hundred and sixty six steps, getting closer to heaven, nearly touching the sky, and just found out it was the devil sat on top, like Shelob in her lair, watching her minions below! She'ss barring our way... Castell de Bellver.
The final moments of the day before. My perambulation took passed a few "recommendation". A vinyl shop or two, a huge traditional eatery: Celler de la Premsa. I wasn't looking for it or the record shop, the restaurant (but I'm missing out meat today) or the English Language bookshop, which just popped out of the wall on Carrer d'en Morei, but I'm getting used to Palma de Mallorca. Truly I would return and stay in Santa Catalina after walking elsewhere. In off season... Is there really an off season in the Mediterranean? The old guy who runs the bookshop, 78 and from South London, has three floors with a jumble of everything from Russian literature to eroticism. I thumbed through a few mucky spines before I laid my grasping paws on The Sleep of Reason, by C.P. Snow. I know it not, but in a traditional orange Penguin sleeve I thought 'yup' and straight away the other me pops out. Sat on the corner reading literature, watching the skirts and wondering if I can hang back from Vermut ... No I cannot.
Final morning it's chilly. During the evening I was forced to put on a layer. Maybe I'm becoming accustomed to the local climate, being in Spain and Mallorca for a while recently. But it's the end of this way for a couple of months. At some point I really want to return to the 'actual' el Camino, not the several minor paths, where finding accommodation is harder, which I have been upon during Covid. Northern Portugal is definitely calling me back to walk between Porto and Santiago. Perhaps in January or February. My 50th birthday pilgrimage? Such a pity my girl can't be with me on The Way - it's not fair on a dog to make them walk so far just for companionship. She's my girl, but her life is Wetherby and environment. She gets plenty of fun as well as adventures.
Today is Spain's national day. I've packed my sandals away and put on walking boots for the first time: the soles are coming off so aren't reliable in wet weather. Now I'm eating a fine Tostadas con tomate at Bar Sa Gerreria on Carrer de l'Escola Graduada. Is the Spanish national day meaningful to a disintegrating state? What am I to do with these boots? Move on to Plaça Espanya and wait patiently for disintegration on all fronts as I ponder the journey back to Northern Europe alongside another Zumo de Naranja and café solo in Café Cristal and the second chapter of C.P. Snow The Sleep of Reason.
*
With less than an hour to go before departure I am forced into the gate A14 with the others heading back to Leeds. We've all got our own ways of coping with the bordem. Those used to one more morsel are shoving fast food down their necks. It's too easy isn't it? I've a packet of breakfast biscuits leftover from Muleta and a flask full of water dispensed from a font by the toliets for during my flight. Breakfast this morning was enough for me as the Tostadas was integral - a whole piece.
Looking out of the cabin at the scale of the planet below none of my fears, worries, arrogance means anything. Like the effect that the volcano on La Palma has on reality it's hidden from our eyes coming from beyond the World. What it does is beyond our comprehension. We might examine it, as we do forever in our research facilities, but I can never get over the fact we're within something we can never behold in its entirety: the cogs and gears at work are not the gears and levers we play with. So does anything matter? All the pressures I allow to disturb me are definitely in mind. There is nothing else to it. Change my mind and I'd change everything. That's so obviously.
We're coming down towards Leeds Bradford Airport now and I am told it's a miserable drizzly day. From up here I can witness only the rays of the sun picking out features of the broken clouds. Looking down on the Mediterranean, as we left Mallorca, I could see currents and features on what, down there, seems a solid uniform mass. What is down there? It's definitely not what my eyes are telling me. The words the captain spoke are not true either. It's too simple to look on all that and summarise it in a couple of disheartening words. It's simply amazing really. What it's doing is beyond us. It might be raining on the pavement, but I can not pass judgement on it. It's neither good or bad.
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