RICHARD DOVE takes a nostalgic trip to the Balearics

Tourists Go Home.” It is not the welcome we were expecting but in a back street of Palma’s old town just behind the cathedral, the green painted old billboard message is both blunt and surprising.

Mallorcan nationalists have been marching through the city. They complain that so-called ‘overtourism’ is creating multiple problems from housing and environmental impact to strains on public services. Up to May of this year around 15 million tourists have visited the island. The demonstrators want the tourist tax doubled to eight euros a day, and the use of that money to diversify the economy away from tourism. It is a complex situation for a beautiful holiday island. Whilst sympathising with the consequent housing shortages for young Mallorcans, we were not going to be distracted by local politics. It was our Ruby wedding anniversary and we were on our way to the hotel in Puerto Pollensa where we honeymooned.

But first Palma. The Santa Maria Cathedral is worth queuing for. It occupies a prominent position on the seafront and is a spectacular sight when illuminated at night. We were on our winding way to the Arab Baths in the old town – a remarkably preserved 11^th century relic of the Moorish occupation.

The central hall has a hemispherical brick dome with skylights and is surrounded by 12 columns with horseshoe arches. You are transported back in time. There is a screen display with a multilingual presentation. We watched as visitors disappeared through arches and along walkways. It was a play without words – a Samuel Beckett or Pinteresque production. We made up the life stories of people who passed by and almost missed the (fairly indistinct) English explanation. Mrs. Dove’s natural German bent came in most useful. There is a garden sanctuary in the centre of the baths, a perfect place to contemplate the contradictions in the anti-tourism arguments. The peace and tranquillity seems to embrace you, and I recalled a previous visit when a percussionist had made gentle bell sounds amidst the bougainvillea blossom.

Forget your map and just wander through the old town, buy an ice cream and ignore the ‘No Tourists’ graffiti.

Just below the cathedral and along the seafront is the El Pesquero tapas restaurant. It is a Palma institution having been established in 1956 (the year of my birth, but the two events I think are unrelated). That evening, we ate at a table overlooking the harbour.  There is an art to ordering tapas. You order a few plates of whitebait, mussels and tumbet [Ed: a traditional Mallorcan dish of fried vegetables in tomato sauce] and then assess what you need next. We ignored that rule and massively over-ordered. The plates kept coming and coming until a tabletop rearrangement was essential. We began to falter around plate eight or nine. The local beer both helped and hindered in equal measure. We paid and left, leaving enough food to pass a pleasant weekend. Mrs. Dove wanted to walk and I wanted a taxi. So we walked. The Hotel Catalonia Majorica is wonderful but unfortunately located at the other end of the sweeping bay of Palma. It is around 3km away from the restaurant and taxis rarely go anywhere near it, it would appear. I was sustained by a dolce leche ice cream, and quite a bit on moaning.

The next morning the sun shone golden and the cruise ships were in harbour. The light sparkled in the gentle waves and I cured my aches and pains with one of the best showers I have ever experienced.

It is easy to hire a car in Palma but our advice is to go by local bus. The Mallorcan government has invested hugely in the bus network with new red and yellow buses, all running on hydrogen. They have also built the Estacio Intermodal, a hub for trains and buses. It rather spoils this multimillion construction that you find it via a scrappy notice on the door of the tourist information office. It is not well signposted. Find the escalators and descend to a transport network. The trains to Soller go from here rather than the quaint little station in the north of the city. You can get a bus to anywhere in Mallorca. And if you pay by plastic (any debit card will do) it is much cheaper than a cash transaction (we only found this out much later). We get the 301 to Puerto Pollensa via Sa Pobla.  You get an engaging elevated view of the island as you glide along new EU-funded roads in an EU co-funded bus.

We met in Puerto Pollensa when Sara was doing a spell as a nanny and I was on hols. So it was an obvious location for a honeymoon forty years ago at the Hotel Sis Pins. As we wheel our suitcases from the bus station to the sea front, we wonder how the hotel has endured over four decades. Hopefully a few younger staff have been taken on, otherwise room service could be lengthy.

The Hotel has had a coat of paint or two but is just as we remember it. The rooms are delightfully old-fashioned and we have the luxury of a private terrace – a step up from the room where we stayed all those years ago.

Puerto Pollensa is a small town in the north of the island. It is located around a bay and the scenic Boquer Valley (of which more later) that runs north-east of the town. Many years ago, there was a road adjacent to the beach along the bay, but this has now become a pedestrian only zone and is much better for it. The hotel is situated on the wonderful Pine Walk stretching all the way to a military base where the unusual sight of a seaplane is very evident outside the hangar. We watched the seaplane swiftly take off and swoop over the bay on several occasions. Why it remains useful over so many years eluded us.

A few hotels, villa rentals and restaurants align along the Pines. But it is a low-rise development that has been fiercely protected over the years. We can experience that unmatched culinary export, the Full English, if we want to, but our first stop has to be the old bakery shop that my father first visited half a century ago on his bicycle runs from our rented villa. The bakery is still owned by the same family we are told, with the daughter of the grandfather we knew now running the enterprise. It has to be ensaimadas [Ed: a traditional Mallorcan pastry made with pork lard, which can be flavoured in many ways] with fresh cream (although they are always the first to sell out). The bakery remains unchanged, and the smell of the place gives me a Proustian moment. I can almost see my Dad’s bike leaning against the wall.

We head to the back streets for our restaurant. There are many and varied restaurants on the seafront but wander away from them and you get real local cuisine at good prices. El Posito is our choice.  What about some John Dory with Mallorcan-style vegetables? But first olives, garlic cream and homecooked bread.

The next morning we tackle the Bocquer Valley walk over to Cala San Vicente. We soon leave the town behind and we are clambering up the path of an old stream surrounded by purple-hued mountains. It is steeper and more difficult than we remember. Or is it the effects of age? The mountain limbs don’t leap with the same agility. We descend to the bay and watch ferocious white waves splatter and spray on the rocks. I have carried our swimming gear but the red flags are on display and lifeguards on patrol. Again, in honour of my father, we rest and recuperate at Pepe’s Bar. He had a theory that he could tan from the inside out by drinking the strongest expressos. I order one in deference to the theory.

That night we dine at Ca’an Ferra and have the house speciality, paella. It is served with a flourish and we consume more than we should (a theme for the holiday).

Mrs. Dove has not ridden her bike for over a year, so persuasion has to be employed as we hire bikes for the day and amble around the town and its outskirts. It really is the best way to experience a town or location as you can just about stop and pause anywhere.  We find the place where we had a first evening meal together (it’s now a private villa) and I buy a Mallorca Bulletin that has an unusual front page story – the new president of The Restaurants Federation of Mallorca says that the time has come to reduce restaurant prices. Good luck with that.

A bus trip to the ancient fortified town of Alcudia rounds off the holiday. It is a glorious place to wander around and with a walk atop the city walls. I find a shop that has been specializing in anything and everything to do with almonds since 1775.  That is the point of this place, it never fails to surprise even after 40 years and frequent visits.            

All photos are by the author