End of Mallorca

We're in Port de Pollenca right now, staying in an interesting little spot called Hostal Paris. The owners seem to be expats who are living their dream by running a little establishment in a Spanish sea side resort. Not that I have asked them, but I am enjoying thinking it, and see no need to correct myself with the truth by asking. They are friendly and seem like genuinely nice people. It’s 30 euros a night for our twin bed private room with en suite “bathroom.” This is a pretty good price in comparison to many other places. The breakfast (included in the price of the room) is not bad at all and to a starving soul like me it is manna. There was this morning the most delightful baguette bread, baked fresh and still warm, with real butter (how I hate marge) and some ham (not the disgusting polony like stuff the other place served up), cereal, yoghurt, jams, coffee, orange juice (but from a carton, not the nasty mix-it-up stuff that hotels always try to water down to the greatest extent possible…) and that baguette was the best bread I’ve had since I left SA. The building is somewhat run down. The shower in our "bathroom" is tiny - approx 2 foot square. N cannot stand in it without the shower curtain wrapping itself around him. The toilet marginally overhangs the shower rim. There is JUST enough space to close the door without actually climbing into the shower, if you squish yourself into a pretzel shape. When I look out of the bathroom window I can see water running down the outside wall opposite me. I presume that one of the other bathrooms is not very well water-proofed. All this, however, is pretty much what befits our price bracket. 

There is sometimes a smell of petrol. I figured out this morning that there is a petrol station nearby - must be the tankers offloading or something. But I like the place. You can see that the owners make an effort. There are some English books to read in the lobby. And there is a very Jikky smell in the loo. Although I do not like Jik, I do like the fact that they use disinfectant.

The hotel is about a minute’s walk away from the beach, which has the warmest water of the trip so far and no waves, resulting in a delightfully relaxing swim. I have been totally enjoying the opportunity to sleep in a real bed, despite the mattress springs that poke me in the back the whole night. And it is blissful to look outside at the blazing heat and be tucked away under cool plaster, with a slight breeze blowing through the room. Last night, however, the room was super heated, because we closed the window. Somewhere about 03:30 I soaked my towel in water and slept with it. We closed the window because of the mozzies. The damned things feast on me. Why me? I swear they have radar that picks me up about 7km away. They drop what they are doing and beat their wings to ribbons in their attempts to get to me ASAP!!!!! And they phone all of their nasty, biting, vicious friends along the way. “Woo Hoo! Feeding frenzy in room 207 guys!” They bite me. They raise welts raise all over me. I itch. I hurt. I can’t sleep through it. However, last night the room was so hot without the sea breeze that I couldn’t sleep anyway. Maybe tonight I will leave the window open and be bitten and sleepless instead of hot and sleepless. N would probably prefer that option and he was very good about last night’s sauna effect – didn’t complain at all. 

Tomorrow night we leave our island and fly back to Italy. Aims: Dolomite mountains, via ferratti, more climbing, hot water spring place, caves, day trip to Venice, try not to spend too much money. The last one is looking unlikely. Camping anywhere in the north of Italy is just ridiculous. Exorbitant. We’re unthrilled and will continue to look for more options.

And now for the requisite holiday snaps to make people jealous. (Well, why else does anyone go on holiday?)

Distant view of the beach we swam at one day after climbing. You have to walk down an extremely steep hill to get there. And back up again after swimming.

One of the incredibly dodgy bolts we keep finding at the crags. Salt water corrosion and all that. No, we don't climb on these bolts. We find other routes.

Unphotoshopped sunset view from the watch tower at Formentor.

Yacht anchored off the Formentor coast, also seen at sunset from the top of the watch tower.

More Lluc

Ok, I’m bored. Today was another rest day. N managed to step on a sharp and pointy piece of wood yesterday at the crag. It went through the sole of his strops and into his foot, making walk-in’s, tight climbing shoes and sweaty climbing feet a bad idea for the next day or so. So today was spent in the picnic area of the Lluc sanctuary. After staying in the sanctuary itself for three days, we decided that we’d indulged ourselves in enough luxury and it was time to look after the coffers again. We are now staying in the Lluc campsite. It’s ok. Most of the tent sites are flat, dry, unshaded and dusty. We have scavenged ourselves a fairly nice little spot against the wall. It’s shaded from most of the day (gets late afternoon sun) by some big trees and it’s far enough away from most other campers that noise isn’t an issue. It is on a slight slope, but we figured that we’d cope. We do, but each night does involve a certain amount of leopard crawling back up to the top end of the tent. The toilets are awful. Truly nasty. I was lulled into a false sense of happiness when I accidentally went into the men’s toilets the first night and found the one clean loo in the entire place. After that, I have been so appalled by each of the toilets I have attempted to use that now I just prefer to walk the 300 metres or so to the sanctuary, where there are clean public toilets. The good thing about this campsite, though, is that it’s free. And so we soldier on….

Just next to the sanctuary and the campsite, there is a large picnic area. It is filled with grey rocks, shady trees and olive trees. I love olive trees. They are the most beautiful things. Well, the old ones are. They get all gnarled and wizened and twisted. They make incredible shapes and you can see things in the wood. N has decided that olive tree gazing is my substitute for looking into the sky and making pictures out of the clouds. Soon I will post some olive tree pictures. But not yet because they are still on my camera.
So yes – we spend our rest days, and afternoons when it is too hot to climb, in the picnic area. N sets up his solar panel and we both take out our computers. N works and I write. Or email people. Or blog. Or edit photos. N is happy as Larry, puttering about with his gadgets and tweaking them to get the angle of the sun just right. And I am happy because I usually have a glass of red wine in reach of my paws as I type. Today, though, I have reached saturation point. I have emailed. I have written. I have done stuff. It is hot. The benches are uncomfortable and the only other thing to sit on is rocks. There is no green grass. There is nothing to lie down on comfortably. My bum is sore from the benches. There is nowhere to go. There is nothing much to do. I am bored and unimpressed. My faintly grumpy recommendation is that you don’t go to Mallorca in the dead heat of summer, when the island swelters every day and the tourists swarm. Most particularly, do not do this if you are not going to stay in a nice room with air-conditioner. And showers. And toilets. If you have no room, no air-con, no showers, no toilets, no fridge, no chair and no comfy bed, Mallorca kinds of sucks at midday. There is a reason that all the Mediterranean folk siesta…

On a more positive note, I would still rather be here than at work. 

Since I am lacking in inspiration today, I shall just share a few arbitrary points:

I wrote an email to my mom today. N has been doing his best to pester me as I write. I think he is bored. He has been trying to sneakily type randon letters into my email. He finally managed to type an "n". I deleted it. He is now threatening to tell my mother that I deleted the letter that he typed to her...

Europe is a very dirty place in many ways. Everywhere you go people are peeing and poohing. Toilet paper lies around every rock. People seem to drop their pants as and when they please. 
Are South Africans any cleaner? Our country does not have loo paper around every rock. Does this mean that we are better behaved in SA or would our country look the same if it was as densely populated as Europe?
Europe does, however, have a massive recycling effort going. Everywhere you go there are rubbish bins. But not just bins – often 4 different kinds of bins. Yellow for plastic, tins and tetrapaks; green for glass; Brown for organic waste and black for irredeemable rubbish. It would be so cool if recycling were this widespread in SA. But it’s unlikely to happen until we have as much of a space and a “where are we going to put our rubbish???” problem as Europe does. 

South Africa has a bigger range of foodstuffs than I have been able to find in Italy or Spain. We have been to both small café type shops and larger super-markets. SA wins hands down. Peanut butter was all but impossible to find in Italy. (Fortunately we have found a supply in Mallorca – N was starting to twitch with desperation.) Marmite or anything of the sort? No such luck. Salt and vinegar chips are just about impossible to find and when you do find them they are bland and you might as well not bother. SA has a huge range of chip flavours which are not found here. There are no blue Doritos. Biltong is clearly wishful thinking. We’re quite well catered for in SA in terms of the variety of foodstuffs we get. I will admit that Italy kicks our butts in terms of ice-cream varieties. And in terms of mozzarella cheese, but who cares about cheese…

More Monastery

It is day 3 in the sanctuary today. We aren’t doing very much except sitting in the room and working. N is working on real work (nice for him that he can ean a salary while he travels…) and I am editing photographs, doing our expenses and sending emails. I am also getting stuck into a litre of wine. I picked it up on the shelf of the super market assuming it would be re-sealable like all the others I have bought. Only it wasn’t. So now I have to finish it before we leave here. Oh the hardship!

Flowers on the magnolia tree that we see while sitting in our room:

Yesterday I commented that no one in the sanctuary has tried to convert me. Well, I think the building might be trying. I have mentioned before how I often have songs in my head. They pop in unbidden and then go round and round and round. Right now there is a duel to see who gets more airtime between the sung version of the Lord’s Prayer and Onward Christian Soldiers. Quite honestly, I wish they’d both just get lost already – I’ve had enough.

It’s a good thing that we are leaving here tomorrow. We have just about run out of food and there is no town within miles with a supermarket. We have a packet of snacky things (sunflower seeds and peanuts) and a packet of fried and salted corn (like bar snacks) and peanut butter and one tin of tuna. We have eaten so much corn in the last few days that I don’t want to see it ever again. Last night I ate a tin of sardines and a spoonful of peanut butter for supper. I nearly cried when we got to the restaurant and it was closed and we had to come back to the room for that nasty meal. I will eat at the restaurant tonight come hell or high water. In the meanwhile I am wrestling with my conscience about the tin of tuna. N is asleep. The great debate is about whether I should gobble it up before he awakes. I think that if I hadn’t already filled up on a disgusting amount of corn, there would be no debate…
Poor me – I shall clearly have to stave off the hunger pangs with another glass of wine.

Mangers at the monastery from the days when you could only reach here by foot or by horse:

 So tonight is our last night in civilization. Tomorrow we leave the sanctuary for the cold, hard world again. No more flushing toilets. No more hot water on tap. No more comfy beds. Back to mosquitoes and heat. Bother. I think I need more wine. And perhaps a little stroll in the botanical gardens.

Mallorca - Rock, Sun, Heat, Mountains, Monasteries

I am staying in a monastery. Well, maybe it’s really called a sanctuary. Hard to tell with the language barrier. Either way, I find it delightfully ironic, since I am not exactly a believer. I don’t think anyone really cares about that. As long as the tourist euro is spent, they do not care where it comes from. It seem to make no difference whether it is an unblighted euro, handed over by a righteous, pure hearted, Christian minded, chaste and godly little soul or a tarnished euro, handed over by... well, um… by me.
Maybe they whip it through a quick blessing ceremony to clean it up. Who’s to say the church doesn’t launder money….

But there are no monks. I was quite looking forward to sitting here of an evening and listening to eerie singing and chanting resounding over the mountains. Kind of like a live rendition of Gregorian Chants. No such luck. The closest we have come is the bells, which ring an interesting pattern for the evening mass. Or service – whatever it is called. I haven’t even seen bishopy sort of folk, gliding serenely down the ancient stone corridors in beautiful gowns. Hell! (Um, I mean “heck” of course.) Not even a black gowned priest furtively following tight-bottomed choir boys down the corridors. Nothing! No monks, no priests, no chanting and no choir boys. (They are on holiday, according to a notice on the notice board – hey, maybe that explains the absence of the priests…) I haven’t even had to fend off an attempt at religious conversion. There have certainly been no lively theosophical debates. I am feeling almost swindled on the religious dogma side of things. 

Apart from the grievous let down on the religious dogma side of things, it is really quite nice here. The sanctuary is in the middle of the mountains of Lluc. Because of the altitude we have somewhat escaped the baking heat that plagues this island everywhere else. And the mosquitoes!!!!! There are no mosquitoes! Maybe there is a god up here… This could possibly be the one thing that might effect my conversion. I have not been bitten once since I got here. Well, not by a mosquito anyway.

Monastery of Lluc from the hills above it:

Closeup of the Clock:

 We are staying on the 2nd floor of the sanctuary. The walls are thick stone. We look out onto the courtyard, which is filled by a gorgeous magnolia tree. There are thick iron bars over the windows. They make me want to reach my arms through them and wave them madly, shouting to the tourists below “Help me! I am being held here against my will!”

Yesterday we wandered through the church. The first room is disastrously cluttered with paintings, frescoes and other evidence of religious devotion. Alarmingly cluttered as far as I was concerned. Very Baroque. Faintly redeemed by two simple granite fonts. I have a horror of clutter. I must say, it did have a very beautiful ceiling thingy. I’m not sure what you call those domey, turrety bits on the tops of churches. Cuppola? That might be the Italian word. Anyway, on the inside they usually have a bunch of paintings and then some windows to let in the light. The church had one of those that I found quite beautiful. 

Gorgeous ceiling:

 I was generally much more taken with the back room. A simple affair, furnished with plain wooden pews and an abundance of lights. Lights with iron light shades that have patterns cut out of them. Lovely. 

Back room and lights:

The sanctuary is very pretty, but I must say that I am somewhat more of a fan of the 'church of nature" (that is such a twee phrase that I find myself compelled to do the inverted comma thing) and find more evidence of godly activity in the splendours of nature, such as the view of the sunrise from our campsite of two nights ago, and the mountains and the sky and the clouds that we saw on the drive here.

Sunrise over the mountains of Lluc:

Lake at the Gorg Blau: