I’m
sitting in the middle, unusual ground for your scribbler to occupy but
delighted to have around me the excited gabbles, mutters and squeals of
Mallorcan families.
Creperia
Gelateria Es Cucurutxo is my new my favourite place. A short stroll from here
will bring you to the gently posh harbour of Porto Colom on Mallorca’s east
coast, where well-ironed Swiss Germans sit looking disinterested, while
watching the masts of their yachts bob around in the marina as they eat
extravagantly expensive restaurant food (€16 for a dessert? Who are you
kidding? Equally, oy, what a dessert!)
Stroll
as far the other way from Es Cucurutxo, and you’ll be greeted by the familiar
sights of mass tourism, thankfully without the masses. Cala Marçal is a tiny
place, built around a teardrop beach, but although the scale is small the style
is high-rise all-inclusive cheap family holidays.
The
Snapper and I don’t belong in either camp, so we’re thrilled to have our own gaff,
with its private wee pool.
Mostly
we’re just incredibly thankful to be having a holiday.
Many years we can’t
afford it but this Summer the financial issues were outweighed by the needs of
your Scribbler. I had to have a break, and so we did; a most wonderful and
mysterious holiday in which everything was mirrored by an opposite.
Before
arriving in Mallorca we enjoyed a full-on weekend celebrating the birthdays and
existence of several members of our families. Staying in 3 different hotels in
5 nights we enjoyed every manic busy second.
More of that next week, but for
now we’re here, in the calm oasis of Porto Colom, where we do nothing at all
for a week in our yin-yang holiday.
The
air is hot but the breeze is cool.
The
side roads are massive but there are few cars.
Over
in Porto Colom they pay up to €200 for dinner, while 1 km away in Cala Marçal
you can eat half a chicken, chips and salad, drink two pints of John Smiths and
still have change from €15.
In the
mornings I nip off to Cala Marçal to pick up a paper, but sadly only the
Germans in Porto Colom get a chance to read news.
Evidently there’s no market
in Cala Marçal for print journalism, so I pick up a red top tabloid and wait in
the queue in the supermarket as a man with scarlet legs pleads in shouty
English for a Factor 30 cream, while the local shop assistant tries patiently
to explain that it’s a little late for that.
Behind
me a man with a broad Yorkshire accent is repeating over and over:
“The
tap. It’s broken. Broken, the tap. No water. Broken. Tap. Do ya gettit? Tap
broken. No water.”
As his
Mallorcan host tries to explain that he understood the first time, I slip out
feeling incredibly lucky not to be stuck in those flats. Equally, I’m glad
we’re not as stiff and nonchalant as the rich yachters of Porto Colom
We
enjoy sitting in the middle of this bay with two ends; a place where normally
I’d expect to be driven crazy by the screams of the children or the noise
levels of the adults but instead, I love Es Cucurutxo.
Waiters
at both resorts all greet us asking
“German or English menu?” yet here at Es
Cucurutxo the menu is in Mallorcan, Spanish and then other languages. Here at
Es Cucurutxo I can believe I am in another country. I crave neither the highest
gourmet standards of northern Europe, nor to eat the same food that I do at
home.
Here,
midway between the posh and the touristy, life feels perfect. There are one or
two tourists like us sitting outside too, but mostly it’s just young mums
checking their watches while sullen kids read comic books; toddlers running and
laughing and screaming; clouds of cigarette smoke; coffee, Mallorcan wine at
Mallorcan prices and mind-blowing ice cream that might make a man dribble.
I give
thanks. I planned a holiday and it turned out exactly as I hoped. This year I
knew exactly what I wanted and got it. Thank you Internet. Thank you travelling
instinct. Thank you universe.
I
needed calm and as I write this, apart from the thing that's sucking blood from
my ankle (no, not the Snapper) I am absolutely blissed out.
Earlier
our dinner at a restaurant on the quayside was destroyed by commentary of the
Germany v Ukraine game, pumped from the screen behind our table, two seconds
later echoing from the screen in front of our table.
We
tried to focus on the view, the yachts, that lovely old church on the other
side of the bay and
“Levvan
levvan dovski dovski ooohhh ooohhh dass varr dass var nicht nicht so slecht so
slecht!”
It
felt like left-field CIA torture.
“Hey,
these two are tough. They didn’t respond to 'The Devil Went Down To Georgia'
played backwards on a loop at 359 decibels? Okay, hit 'em up with time lapse
German echo treatment!”
The
food is excellent but my attempts to speak Spanish to the waitress falter as
she turns out to be German.
Just
for second I feel a mite relieved. Evidently the English are not alone in
liking to go abroad to eat their own food served by their own people.
Disoriented
by the cacophonous commentary, we skip dessert and head home, to sit on the
high balcony watching sunset's hues scatter over distant mountains.
Soft
strains of a neighbour's blues guitar deliver a subtle soundtrack to our
evening.
A
crescent moon above dances with Venus by her side.
I turn
to the Snapper and whisper
"Bloody
splendid love…” as I exhale
deeply.
©Charlie
Adley
19.06.16.
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