Hill towns and orange blossoms

For the last few weeks I’ve been sitting down to finish the second part of the posts from our Mallorca trip. I’ll look at the dot points and the photos I’ve collated, and a wave of indifference will wash over me. It’s not from a lack of things to say, but the energy to put towards anything that isn’t related to the move. Or The Move, as it’s written in my mind.

So rather than a longer, more usual post about our trip, I’m going to have a shorter set of snapshots, to conjure up the moments that stuck with me.

The train from Palma to Soller, winds over and through small farms and mountains with glimpses of pine-clad mountain sides and groves of ancient olive trees. Rolling along on the old wooden train it felt as though we were travelling through time. Soller itself is a small town sitting in a valley surrounded by mountains. At the end of every street we could see them looming above us, blocking all views except to the sea. It was orange season, so as we walked along the old streets we caught gusts of orange blossom perfume, which almost knocked out all my other senses. In the market, just prior to enjoying a delicious lemon and cinnamon icecream, I bought a pearl necklace hung on a thin string of woven flax, which looked as though it had been strung on a beach.

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Soller

Deia is also in a valley, though sitting on the top and sides of a hill rising from the centre of the valley. Restaurants, tourist offices, craft stores and delis, mostly closed for the Easter holiday, wind around the base of the hill, and then houses line the street that climbs to the top, where a small church and cemetery have pride of place.

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Deia on the hill

A famous resident of the cemetery is Robert Graves, whose grave has a little collection of flowers from visitors. Other graves, locals I guess, are marked by names and dates scratched into cement on the ground. There was no reason given for this that I could see, perhaps there wasn’t enough stone or money.

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Robert Graves' grave

The next day we devoted to Alcudia, which we reached by a bus that crossed the island, passing through one town that we were glad we had decided not to visit. Here’s a recommendation for possible visitors: don’t bother with Inca. Our destination was much more enjoyable, and even included Roman ruins. The ruins were the foundations of houses, the remnants of the forum and a theatre, spread out across fields of grass and flowers. It was hard to imagine the scale, but I could at least see what their view would have been, of the thickly green hills and wide blue sky.

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Polentia

From the ruins we wandered through the old town of Alcudia, which reminded us of Victoria on Malta. There were limestone houses and cobbled streets, with narrow windows and a feeling of the residents shutting themselves in from the world of the streets. Down one street we found a restaurant and there enjoyed the best meal of our holiday, local food and absolutely delicious.

On the bus back to Palma we both fell asleep, and though we had an early wake up for the flight the next morning, we got a chance for one final walk around Palma, to see the cathedral and feel the warm, spring air. Then we left, the sights, tastes and sounds coming with us to cloudy Gothenburg.

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