There is a sting in the tale during a trip to the capital city of Palma...
After discovering a different side to the Spanish island of Mallorca, Thomas Stichbury well and truly puts his foot in it…
We all put our foot in it sometimes, but what happens when its both feet? This is the question I am left to consider, and occasionally wince over, after a trip to Palma del Mallorca.
The Spanish island of Mallorca was once synonymous with package holidays: decent resorts, cheap booze and the promise of a traditional English fry- up. But the optics have long since changed and the region has undergone an image overhaul, sitting pretty as a sun- smooched retreat – hot summers, mild winters – rich in culture, history and, yes, cuisine.
This is the iteration I become acquainted with over the course of my short, sweet and, later, unexpectedly sore stay in the capital city.
After dropping my bags at Purohotel, a former palace fit for a princess ( moi) in the Old Quarter, I grab some food ( including a scoop of avocado ice cream, a first) before embarking on a trivia tour.
Facts range from the grim – under the reign of torture- happy dictator
General Franco, residents would regularly be confronted by the smell of burning human flesh in the main square – to the fruity: on New Year’s Eve, revellers are challenged to eat 12 grapes on the stroke of midnight, a tradition that has resulted, I’m told, in tragedy on a couple of occasions.
Sometimes you really should spit, not swallow.
My favourite nugget of information, however, concerns a pair of sphinx statues, primed to pounce on the treelined avenue of Passeig Des Born. The traffic- stopping, Linda Evangelistaadorning Wonderbra billboards of their time, they were both given breast reductions because their mountainous mounds were considered obscene.
Our tour concludes with a visit to the Santa Maria Cathedral, a
13th- century structure dripping with gothic grandeur. As per usual when sauntering past such religious institutions, the doors shudder and shake into life, and I am met with the smog of extinguished candle smoke. Catholicism, get over yourself, hun.
Dinner awaits at Purohotel’s swish on- site restaurant, Beatnik, where I polish off plate after plate of tapas – padron peppers are proof that there is a higher power — paired, of course, with fine wine.
Grabbing a left- over bottle, I elegantly stroll woozily stumble up to the terrace to admire the view and be alone with my thoughts: how can I like avocado ice cream, but so dislike avocados?
The next day, I feel the wind in my increasingly thinning hair as I set sail on board a goleta, an old- school,
12- person- capacity Mallorcan boat.
“There is no hotel room better than here,” our captain enthusiastically exclaims. I’m not sure all the other passengers would agree, specifically a woman, whose sea legs are a bit wibbly- wobbly, hugging a bucket.
After cutting through the waters of the Med for about an hour, we drop anchor outside Purobeach Illetas, one of the hotel’s two exclusive beach clubs, an oasis of white in the distance, so sparkly it brings to mind a TV advert for bleach.
I am given two options: wait for a dingy to take me to shore or swim there. I’m a strong swimmer – I was in “dolphin” group at primary school, bitches – so I opt for the latter and spectacularly swan dive into the sea ( think Cheryl’s performance of Call My Name on The X Factor, circa 2012).
Yep, I’ve still got it and within 15 minutes, I’m emerging from the surf like James Bond. Call me delusional!
Opulence is everything and the club delivers brilliantly, as I recline on a sun lounger and make my way through an exquisite menu.
Back on the beach, the captain strolls into view, carrying my clothes… but not my shoes. He accidentally brings somebody else’s and vows to return mine the following day. I feel like Cinderella waiting for her prince to come with her glass slipper as I pad, barefoot, to the bus back to my digs, where my Converses await.
I spend my final evening in Mallorca exploring its vibrant art scene. The timing couldn’t be better as the annual Nit de l’art descends on Palma, transforming it into a giant exhibition. The streets swim with people as the galleries open their doors until the early hours to showcase the works of contemporary artists, most notably American Jean- Michel Basquiat.
It’s the perfect place to meet an eligible ( read: moneyed) bachelor as I peruse a Koons here, a Banksy there, doing my best to imitate an intellectual culture vulture. Alas, my performance flops and I’m forced to leave alone.
My last morning in Mallorca – with still no sign of my shoes – begins with a sugar high as I scoff the delights of a local bakery: the ensaimada ( a traditional sweet bread) is lip- smackingly moreish.
With a couple of hours to kill before I need to be at the airport, I’m whisked off to the hotel’s second beach club, Purobeach Palma, to stock up on some vitamin D. It is here that I am persuaded to take a dip in the sea. Reluctantly, I agree, and to quote Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, “Big mistake. Big. Huge!”
Almost immediately, I experience a stabbing sensation in my left foot and think I’ve sliced it open on a sharp rock below.
Then I feel a shooting pain in my right foot: WTF!
The club’s staff rush over and clean my cut, before their attention turns to another wound: spines dotted across my sole ( and big toe)... I’ve had a rude run- in with a sea urchin.
With a taxi waiting, I dash
( OK, limp pathetically) to the airport, feeling sorry for myself. However, time – and magnesium oxide – has been a healer and I’ll fondly remember Mallorca for more than that sting in the tale. Or, the tootsies.
Oh, and just in case you’re worrying: my shoes were returned to the UK.
They weren’t delivered by a prince, but the postman will do.
Rooms at Purohotel start at € 120 (£ 100) per night, based on two people sharing purohotel. com
“I feel just like Cinderella waiting
for her prince”