Someone recently asked me why I upped sticks and moved lock, stock and paella pan from the beautiful West Country in UK to the Balearic Island of Mallorca? Good question. But more often I think - why didn’t I do it earlier?
In reality, the pivotal moment came around 18 years ago after a protracted period of playful pondering, culminating in the commitment to finally re-locate and actually live the dream instead of merely talking about it - like all the time!
Yet my love affair with Mallorca began well over thirty years ago, with friends returning from a week’s holiday in Puerto Pollensa, located north on our illustrious island. Other Half had previously visited the famed Balearic Island during pubescent youth, with fond memories of cerulean seas and white sandy beaches. I on the other hand, was a Mallorcan virgin, so it all really kicked off with John and Carol!
“You must go,” they gushed. “It’s blinding.” “Must we?” I mumble, not sure if I actually wanted to be ‘blinded’, let alone packed off on a plane to Mallorca with its then shady reputation for riotous revelry! I immediately thought of those advertised ‘fun in the sun’ romps, ‘kiss me quick’ hats, drunken lager louts with dodgy tattoos and chips with deep fried mars bars thrown in for good measure. “No thank you very much!”
“But it’s nothing like that,” my friends insisted. Yet sadly, over past decades, dark seeds of bad publicity surrounding Shagaluf, Arenal, had drifted across the pond and been firmly planted in the furrowed fields of my misguided mind. I was definitely more Madrid than Mallorca. More Amsterdam than Alcudia! More Paris than Palma!
“Give it a try,” they said. “You’ll be surprised.” So I did. And I was!
My friends were John and Carol Fish. Their real name is Bates, but they ran a wet fish shop out of Billingsgate so the moniker kind of stuck.
Being in the business John knew all about ‘Bacalao - that’s Spanish for cod, with or without chips, and usually served here in Mallorca on a bed of sauté potatoes and grilled red peppers, topped with a golden gratin of alioli (garlic mayonnaise) before deliciously drizzled with the nectar of nature’s honey. Yum!
“It’s amazing,” recalled Carol, getting dewy eyed at the memory. “Fresh fish counters everywhere. Seafood restaurants to simply die for. So much choice.”
“Beautiful beaches,” added John. “Glorious mountain drives, quaint villages and wall to wall sunshine. There’s even a wild bird nature reserve.” I forgot to mention that John is a bit of a ‘twitcher’ on the quiet, with a keen eye for a nesting linnet.
Courtesy of Saint Google, Other Half flipped through the online travel websites and booked us into the seafront Hotel Uyal, Puerto Pollensa, for one week. The beach outside the hotel had not yet been imported, and boasted huge granite rocks and magnificent boulders which foamed and scattered waves with the gentle onslaught of the incoming tide. Sheer bliss!
Shady Pine Walk was an abundant avenue of lush, evergreen pines, dipping their arched branches across the paved pathway into the adjacent sea. It was super peaceful. It was beyond tranquil. It was an instant hit, and we both tumbled head over heels into the embrace of Mallorca’s undoubtable charm.
Being obsessed with the experience of new cultures, we travelled the world, yet always made a point of visiting Pollensa at least once every year. And always felt the cozy cuddle of the island whenever we returned; for even back then, Mallorca already felt like home!
Over the years Puerto Pollensa, like many things in the modern world, has changed. Yet it still remains a gentle, appealing, low rise, classic resort full of Mediterranean charm and happy memories of those first charismatic visits.
Then, like most frequent visitors, we began to casually browse the estate agent’s windows. We took the bait, and enrolled in our quest of ‘living the dream’. Yet, after failing to secure that ‘perfect’ property, we decided to build one. Not with our own hands I hasten to add, and graciously employed the creative genius of island professionals.
It took a good year to find suitable land. And almost another year to process the required paperwork (remember, this is Mallorca and everything moves at its own pace); then a further year to build, before a further two years to get the dream house just perfect. The problem being, there is so much inspiration to be found here on the island, it was almost impossible to make a final choice on anything. Our personal tastes changed constantly with the seasons, whilst décor and interior designs drifted with our current mood. Plus, being continental by osmosis, our English style soon flew out of the shuttered windows in favour of a more fervent, Mediterranean flair. We swapped John Lewis for El Corte Ingles, and the fun began. The constant excitement of building and furnishing a new home abroad is like permanently living on drugs. Your entire being is on an indescribable high under the occupation of retail therapy, and whether buying or browsing, it’s intoxicating.
Our stone built ‘finca’ with its infinity pool and slick terraces nestled within a 15,000 sqm plot resplendent with shady carob, fig and almond trees. We planted colourful oleanders to grace the sweeping drive along with a scattering of orange, pomegranate and lemon trees.
However, keeping things in a realistic perspective, achieving our dream wasn’t without its fair share of angst and sun-baked stress. Building a new house within the specific and confined regulations of Balearic beaurocracy, whilst stroking the beaming brow of local legislation who deal a testing frown upon anything ‘forestero’ (foreign), was frustrating to say the least. Also, re-locating to a different country with a completely different set of fiscal profiles was also very interesting. Settling in took time, but believe me, the island and its vivacious culture and traditions, along with its incredible diversity was well worth the move. For us, it was never about fun-packed beaches or throbbing tourist hot spots. It was always about the contrast of a constantly changing coastline and soaking up interior landscapes that lifted the soul. We fell in love with dramatic rocky coves; gin clear waters lapping lazily against graceful sweeps of sugar-soft sand; lush pine woodlands; and the backdrop of verdant mountains. Thankfully, none of that has changed one bit. It’s still the same, beautiful island.
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We fell in love with dramatic rocky coves; gin clear waters lapping lazily against graceful sweeps of sugar-soft sand; lush pine woodlands; and the backdrop of verdant mountains. Thankfully, none of that has changed one bit. It’s still the same, beautiful island. We are all entitled to our opinion but my first thought on reading those final words of the piece above was - Are we talking about the same island. Yes geographically, physically the mountains are still the same, there are some pine woodlands and no doubt some hidden( very well hidden) coves where gin clear waters lap onto pristine sand. But these rare gems apart just the population figures between 1970 and 2020 tell you the plain truth. Along with the population the traffic, the pollution, the noise, the overhead planes ( both noise and pollution) , need I go on. Those of us who were very lucky to catch the last vestiges of " La Isla de la Calma " know that it is not the same beautiful island that it once was, that is lost and gone forever.