These City Walls (Only To Be With You)
Feb. 16th, 2020 10:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
millionreasonsMajorcans (or Mallorcans or Mallorquins) are in thrall to Barcelona. They drink Barcelonan beer, buy Barcelona chocolate, support FCB. This is possible because Majorca was in the Kingdom of Arrogan and Catalonia (now the autonomous region of Catalunya) and as such, the locals also speak Catalan, or rather they write Catalan - there are translations on official signage and pa amb olio (rather than pan y aceituna) in every cafe. Mallorcans are actually tri-lingual, everyone speaks English also although most of the Brits seem to have been shunted down the coast to Magaluf; Palma doesn't feel too touristy, there are only groups of OAP Germans, and they're reasonably unlikely to drink too many WKDs and show their pants in the street.
We do the old town: the nunnery, where I am too scared to ring the bell to purchase nun-made croissants or nun flavoured ice cream. Mind you the croissants are €4 each, the sisters are chancing their wimples a bit. Instead, I have a pumpkin jam brioche from the San Cristo bakery, which is...not to be repeated. There are a pleasing number of cafes in Palma: hipster, where a cafe con hielo costs a kidney-watering €4.50, to abuela bakeries to trad. Spanish places to those selling pork pies. Inside the nun's chapel, there is a tiny rose window and whenever god shines his light the sun shines, it creates a coloured halo effect around the baby Jesu's head.
Thus to the city walls, then the beautiful Arab baths with the light pouring in from the holes in its ceiling, and its attendant garden. Out of the Medina-esque old town to the wide boulevards of the seafront, with its tilting windmills, marina (yachteria), some art, the ex-city moat (now a green flowing river, here is so much more lush than Andalucia or Almeria), the palms of Palma, the wide avenue of Passieg de Born with its posh shops and restaurants where a risotto costs €33 (after seeing Zara and Massimo Dutti, Dave comments that we might as well be on High Street Ken).
*
We take the 1920s train to Soller on the north coast. It has Agatha Christie style light fittings, lots of polished mahogany. I try not to exhibit any stereotypes that will lead me to become a suspect when the train goes through a mountain tunnel and there is a scream and Colonel Carrington-Smythe is found with a dagger in his back. My legs are not art deco length however and it's a little cramped (but not as uncomfortable as a rush hour Thameslink train). We travel through a landscape of lemon and almond groves, gnarled olive trees, baby sheep and horses, dry stone walls, woodsmoke fires.
Soller has a beautiful church, stark against the mountains, a cluster of cafes and shops around the placa, and then peters out when you get more than 500m from the train station, as that's the real reason for people to visit. We look into the art gallery that's in the train station, awash with Miros and Picasso ceramics (imagine that at Liverpool St).
We take another vintage vehicle, a tram (I'm on the other side of the road when the tram comes in and have to run across to it, trying not to do a Gaudi in front of the tram) down to Port de Soller, rattling past people's backyards: prickly pears and plants in pewter pots, chickens, cats, bullrushes, an occasional pool, broken down barns, a donkey. Candles hanging from trees. Port de S is the seaside, the Riviera without the tourists or the old men trying to con widows out of their savings. There are, however, a couple of cats working a grift, miaowing next to tables until diners give them some scraps. I try a beautiful blue eyed boy with some carrot and it goes as well as you might expect.
We have gazpacho and tumbet (Mallorcan ratatouille and delicious) at a harbourside restaurant and walk to the lighthouse and around the beautiful curve of the bay. I suggest that we just ring up work and say we need to quarantine ourselves for another fortnight, then plan our new life (Dave: fixing OAP ex-pats Windows 1998 PCs and listening to them complaining that their married daughers never visit, and I will learn to drive the tram, although I suspect that's a job that gets handed down from father to son, and women and foreigners don't get a look in. Or we could just do a Reggie Perrin and leave our clothes on the beach, disappear.
Back in Palma, we notice that in the main square outside the station (Placa Espana) are McDonalds AND Burger King AND Taco Bell. The Spanish went to Mexico, invented Mexican food from the Aztecs, the Americans got hold of it and sold it back to Spain. Sort of like the Beatles, in reverse. Although talking of Spanish food, the Espanols, unlike the Italians, don't have ridiculous rules about the time of day when you can and can't have a cafe con leche. Majorcans even have el flat white (Ethiopia to Italy (via Turkey) to New Zealand to UK to Spain). There are also a lot of tattoo shops in Palma; i.e. no need to go all the way to Magaluf to get a cat's bottom tattooed around your belly button.
An aside: before we went to Gran Canaria and visited Casa Colon (a 15th century house, in which Chris C might have stayed on his way to not find America), I didn't understand why there were so many Calle or Carrer Colons in Spain, thought it was some translation of passage, but anyway, it's just the Spanish name for Columbus, although I didn't twig until now that colony and colonising and colonial must come from the same source word.
We eat at Cafe L'Antiquari, a small cafe-cum-bar, where we end up with veggie tapas and a free drink after the waiter forgets our order, which is a very nice thing to do for obvious tourists.
*
The weather has gone from Take Off Your Cardie And Get Some Vitamin D to overcast so we do some culture; first up is the cathedral which sits high up above the waterfront staring intimidatingly out to sea, guiding sailors back and repelling pirates. It was built on the site of a former grand mosque and it seems to be saying: Invade us at your peril, putas! Like castles in England, muses David. Or Leeds Town Hall (me).
Gaudi was here from 1901 to 1914, to lead pn the refurbishment of the cathedral, before falling out with the cathedral burghers and leaving it unfinished. Bit of a theme going on here, Gaudi! The cathedral originally took four centuries to build, which I guess puts Crossrail into perspective.
You can see his Gothic-meets-moderne influence on some other buildings here, designed by him or his acolytes. In the cathedral, he did at least finish the altar. Above is an array of lights that turn on and off at intervals, representing the crown of thorns. There are two gorgeous rose windows , the colours when God shines his light the sun shines through the windows dance on the columns - an analogue light show. There are 8 columns because Jesus rose on the eighth day (according to a video playing in the pews) - I'm not entirely sure that's true, Catholics! It's all very tastefully attractive, not the over the top Catholic church that gild the lily somewhat. We also see some relics (old bones) in the presbytery, inc. one from St Pantaleon, who invented trousers (sort of). Fortunately, there are no cartoon dogs around to steal the bones and bury them in the cloisters. There's also a goth chapel, designed by Miquel Barcelo, with black stained glass windows, and ivy and bat motifs climbing the walls. As well as Gaudi and Miro, there are numerous small art galleries here, a public modern gallery and street art on the walls, including painted-on cans attached to the walls of the old town, although this might be to guide people back down the windy Mediaeval streets, which nonetheless feel safe at night with LED gas-style lamps and not too many cars forcing their way down the cobbles. I try to take in a deep breath of car-free air but unfortunately the alleys smell of urine (cat and human).
We have a brunch break in Rapha cycling cafe, which is exactly like London's version(s), down to the posh handwash in the lavabos.
We also visit the Palau March, an ex-convent, built on the site of an Arabic salt factory, rebuilt in an art nouveau style in the '40s, part financed by the British who paid Senor March, who had Franco's ear, to persuade the Generalisimo to keep Espagne neutral during the war. Anyway, upstairs is a mock up of a Nobleman's villa, downstairs is a lovely courtyard with Hepworths, a Rodin and Moores, but most of the ground floor is taken up by 18th century Neapolitan biblical scenes along with a few Dalis. We pretty much have it to ourselves.
I think since our government part-paid for this place, we should've got in free, but it's next door at the Palau La Almudaina, the old Moorish castle turned royal palace, that we enter gratis with our European passports. Take that, blue passport Brexit idiots! Talking of idiots, the guidebook recommends an English language 2nd hand bookshop, which I thought worth a punt. As I go in, the chain smoking, London-born owner asks me if I'm looking for something, I say no, just browsing, at which point, he goes into a long sob story about how no-one buys books any more. He seems a nice old gent, so i try hard to find something amongst the Lee Childs and Marian Keyes probably donated by holiday makers for something I want. I find an Alan Warner book and take it to the counter and am charged €10 for a dog-eared paperback (with a coffee ring stain on the cover) since (I realise too late) there are no prices marked: it's whatever the owner thinks he can get out of you. So if you want to finance a baby boomer's retirement in the sun, go to Fine Books on Carrer d'En Morei.
In the evening, we visit Lorien, a craft beer place, which serves, amongst other things, Mallorcan stout, which is very nice, but seems sort of wrong: sunny bright countries should make light lagers, gloomy rain filled places like England & Ireland should do the dark beers. We eat at a nearby Korean place (in honour of Bong Joon-ho (also it's quite near to the bar)), next to a gas-fired heater shaped like a log fire table. The Mallorcans are like the Australians, determined to be outside at all hours.
*
Staying fairly central means that everything is a ten minute walk away, so somewhere that is, say, 25 mins now seems like an awful schlep, despite considering that a very reasonable distance back home. Nonetheless, we cycle out on heavy hire bikes to L'Arenal, a 15 km ride east up the coast, past the glittery, sparkling sea, sail-less windmills, a black cormorant on a rock in the sea, a monumental pyramid, past the end of the runway of Palma's airport, past the lovely beach of C'an Pere Antoni to the equally lovely seaside town of Portixol with its whitewashed headland hotel to the less lovely Gentilissimo, through to the decidedly unlovely C'an Pastilla (Burger King, McDonalds, another Burger King) resort to the down at heel S'Arenal where we find a place doing bog standard but pretty tasty tapas (patatas, padrons, tortilla) amongst the pizza-paella-pasta places. Pastilla is Germaniaburg, little Frankfurt, lots of cafes doing kaffee und kuchen and some Bierkellers. The English have Magaluf, the Germans have taken Pastilla; I guess Palma is the neutral zone.
In the evening, we meet Dave's university friends, whose holiday crosses over with ours tonight only at Bar Espana and have more delicious trompet, fried cheese, spinach croquetas and a sort of Spanish take on flatbread pizza, as well as a little too much wine. I get a bit confused coming out of the toilets and have to be guided back to our table by the owner.
We do the old town: the nunnery, where I am too scared to ring the bell to purchase nun-made croissants or nun flavoured ice cream. Mind you the croissants are €4 each, the sisters are chancing their wimples a bit. Instead, I have a pumpkin jam brioche from the San Cristo bakery, which is...not to be repeated. There are a pleasing number of cafes in Palma: hipster, where a cafe con hielo costs a kidney-watering €4.50, to abuela bakeries to trad. Spanish places to those selling pork pies. Inside the nun's chapel, there is a tiny rose window and whenever
Thus to the city walls, then the beautiful Arab baths with the light pouring in from the holes in its ceiling, and its attendant garden. Out of the Medina-esque old town to the wide boulevards of the seafront, with its tilting windmills, marina (yachteria), some art, the ex-city moat (now a green flowing river, here is so much more lush than Andalucia or Almeria), the palms of Palma, the wide avenue of Passieg de Born with its posh shops and restaurants where a risotto costs €33 (after seeing Zara and Massimo Dutti, Dave comments that we might as well be on High Street Ken).
*
We take the 1920s train to Soller on the north coast. It has Agatha Christie style light fittings, lots of polished mahogany. I try not to exhibit any stereotypes that will lead me to become a suspect when the train goes through a mountain tunnel and there is a scream and Colonel Carrington-Smythe is found with a dagger in his back. My legs are not art deco length however and it's a little cramped (but not as uncomfortable as a rush hour Thameslink train). We travel through a landscape of lemon and almond groves, gnarled olive trees, baby sheep and horses, dry stone walls, woodsmoke fires.
Soller has a beautiful church, stark against the mountains, a cluster of cafes and shops around the placa, and then peters out when you get more than 500m from the train station, as that's the real reason for people to visit. We look into the art gallery that's in the train station, awash with Miros and Picasso ceramics (imagine that at Liverpool St).
We take another vintage vehicle, a tram (I'm on the other side of the road when the tram comes in and have to run across to it, trying not to do a Gaudi in front of the tram) down to Port de Soller, rattling past people's backyards: prickly pears and plants in pewter pots, chickens, cats, bullrushes, an occasional pool, broken down barns, a donkey. Candles hanging from trees. Port de S is the seaside, the Riviera without the tourists or the old men trying to con widows out of their savings. There are, however, a couple of cats working a grift, miaowing next to tables until diners give them some scraps. I try a beautiful blue eyed boy with some carrot and it goes as well as you might expect.
We have gazpacho and tumbet (Mallorcan ratatouille and delicious) at a harbourside restaurant and walk to the lighthouse and around the beautiful curve of the bay. I suggest that we just ring up work and say we need to quarantine ourselves for another fortnight, then plan our new life (Dave: fixing OAP ex-pats Windows 1998 PCs and listening to them complaining that their married daughers never visit, and I will learn to drive the tram, although I suspect that's a job that gets handed down from father to son, and women and foreigners don't get a look in. Or we could just do a Reggie Perrin and leave our clothes on the beach, disappear.
Back in Palma, we notice that in the main square outside the station (Placa Espana) are McDonalds AND Burger King AND Taco Bell. The Spanish went to Mexico, invented Mexican food from the Aztecs, the Americans got hold of it and sold it back to Spain. Sort of like the Beatles, in reverse. Although talking of Spanish food, the Espanols, unlike the Italians, don't have ridiculous rules about the time of day when you can and can't have a cafe con leche. Majorcans even have el flat white (Ethiopia to Italy (via Turkey) to New Zealand to UK to Spain). There are also a lot of tattoo shops in Palma; i.e. no need to go all the way to Magaluf to get a cat's bottom tattooed around your belly button.
An aside: before we went to Gran Canaria and visited Casa Colon (a 15th century house, in which Chris C might have stayed on his way to not find America), I didn't understand why there were so many Calle or Carrer Colons in Spain, thought it was some translation of passage, but anyway, it's just the Spanish name for Columbus, although I didn't twig until now that colony and colonising and colonial must come from the same source word.
We eat at Cafe L'Antiquari, a small cafe-cum-bar, where we end up with veggie tapas and a free drink after the waiter forgets our order, which is a very nice thing to do for obvious tourists.
*
The weather has gone from Take Off Your Cardie And Get Some Vitamin D to overcast so we do some culture; first up is the cathedral which sits high up above the waterfront staring intimidatingly out to sea, guiding sailors back and repelling pirates. It was built on the site of a former grand mosque and it seems to be saying: Invade us at your peril, putas! Like castles in England, muses David. Or Leeds Town Hall (me).
Gaudi was here from 1901 to 1914, to lead pn the refurbishment of the cathedral, before falling out with the cathedral burghers and leaving it unfinished. Bit of a theme going on here, Gaudi! The cathedral originally took four centuries to build, which I guess puts Crossrail into perspective.
You can see his Gothic-meets-moderne influence on some other buildings here, designed by him or his acolytes. In the cathedral, he did at least finish the altar. Above is an array of lights that turn on and off at intervals, representing the crown of thorns. There are two gorgeous rose windows , the colours when
We have a brunch break in Rapha cycling cafe, which is exactly like London's version(s), down to the posh handwash in the lavabos.
We also visit the Palau March, an ex-convent, built on the site of an Arabic salt factory, rebuilt in an art nouveau style in the '40s, part financed by the British who paid Senor March, who had Franco's ear, to persuade the Generalisimo to keep Espagne neutral during the war. Anyway, upstairs is a mock up of a Nobleman's villa, downstairs is a lovely courtyard with Hepworths, a Rodin and Moores, but most of the ground floor is taken up by 18th century Neapolitan biblical scenes along with a few Dalis. We pretty much have it to ourselves.
I think since our government part-paid for this place, we should've got in free, but it's next door at the Palau La Almudaina, the old Moorish castle turned royal palace, that we enter gratis with our European passports. Take that, blue passport Brexit idiots! Talking of idiots, the guidebook recommends an English language 2nd hand bookshop, which I thought worth a punt. As I go in, the chain smoking, London-born owner asks me if I'm looking for something, I say no, just browsing, at which point, he goes into a long sob story about how no-one buys books any more. He seems a nice old gent, so i try hard to find something amongst the Lee Childs and Marian Keyes probably donated by holiday makers for something I want. I find an Alan Warner book and take it to the counter and am charged €10 for a dog-eared paperback (with a coffee ring stain on the cover) since (I realise too late) there are no prices marked: it's whatever the owner thinks he can get out of you. So if you want to finance a baby boomer's retirement in the sun, go to Fine Books on Carrer d'En Morei.
In the evening, we visit Lorien, a craft beer place, which serves, amongst other things, Mallorcan stout, which is very nice, but seems sort of wrong: sunny bright countries should make light lagers, gloomy rain filled places like England & Ireland should do the dark beers. We eat at a nearby Korean place (in honour of Bong Joon-ho (also it's quite near to the bar)), next to a gas-fired heater shaped like a log fire table. The Mallorcans are like the Australians, determined to be outside at all hours.
*
Staying fairly central means that everything is a ten minute walk away, so somewhere that is, say, 25 mins now seems like an awful schlep, despite considering that a very reasonable distance back home. Nonetheless, we cycle out on heavy hire bikes to L'Arenal, a 15 km ride east up the coast, past the glittery, sparkling sea, sail-less windmills, a black cormorant on a rock in the sea, a monumental pyramid, past the end of the runway of Palma's airport, past the lovely beach of C'an Pere Antoni to the equally lovely seaside town of Portixol with its whitewashed headland hotel to the less lovely Gentilissimo, through to the decidedly unlovely C'an Pastilla (Burger King, McDonalds, another Burger King) resort to the down at heel S'Arenal where we find a place doing bog standard but pretty tasty tapas (patatas, padrons, tortilla) amongst the pizza-paella-pasta places. Pastilla is Germaniaburg, little Frankfurt, lots of cafes doing kaffee und kuchen and some Bierkellers. The English have Magaluf, the Germans have taken Pastilla; I guess Palma is the neutral zone.
In the evening, we meet Dave's university friends, whose holiday crosses over with ours tonight only at Bar Espana and have more delicious trompet, fried cheese, spinach croquetas and a sort of Spanish take on flatbread pizza, as well as a little too much wine. I get a bit confused coming out of the toilets and have to be guided back to our table by the owner.
