Rossendale Ramblers - Past Walking Holidays

Mallorcan Sojourn
Sat, Nov 15th, 2008

Mallorcan Sojourn

The Three Musketeers slipped their moorings to reconnoitre a walk or two along the Tramuntana Trail in the mountains of Mallorca just in case a leader was required on a future ramblers outing. The plane was a big one and packed to the gunwales with alleged humanity willing to share because it was the only way they would get to their destination quickly and at minimum cost. The climate was an improvement anyway. From topcoat to shirtsleeves in 2.5 hours is enough to cause a serious moult, if you have anything to moult that is. Derek, Peter and their minder, Ian were whisked away to the minibus and driven from Palma to Port de Soller, toiling up the steep and narrow road to the hotel where the majority of the guests were also with HF holidays. We were just in time for dinner so our gear was dumped in reception and, not being backward at coming forward, in we went to tackle the buffet. Lots of choice and quantity and it is fair to say we did it justice throughout our stay and it is unlikely that we lost any amount of weight in spite of the walking program. After the checking-in formalities the one-hour time advance gave an early night. The rooms were comfortable, clean and with unlimited hot water and both the area and hotel were generally quiet apart from somebody getting up at an unearthly hour every morning.

Heel!

Our leader had made himself known as David and appeared at breakfast along with the rest of us. The company was actually three groups as far as the walks were concerned, us hard cases (well sort of) doing the Tramuntana Trail, the classic walkers and the strollers. But they all ate well. The choice again was good and plentiful with an amusing tray of eggs that said either three-minute eggs or five-minute eggs. That must have been the time it took to lay the things because they were all hard-boiled and ripe for nicking to supplement our lunch. We had ordered a packed lunch but it was a bit pricey and we sorted out our own from downtown for the rest of the week, plus the stolen three/five-minute egg. A napkin with a mixture of salt and pepper contained therein was also liberated and taken on our outings until it got wet.

The first job after we assembled at the door was to attach Peter to his ten-foot tether, a length of clothes line brought especially to prevent him from making a run for it with whichever young lady was taking his fancy this week. He wouldn't get far without his rucksack so that was tied on and, after making sure it was fast, it was coiled up for possible use and stowed in the net pocket in plain view.

Valldemossa and the start of the Tramutana Trail.

The minibus collected us and off we went to Valldemossa where we were allowed a short time to wander around the open-air market and see the range of clothing and trinkets for sale. Peter was looking for some swimming trunks/shorts all because Derek said the pool would be nice after the walk. It was a steady climb up the mountain, about what we would do on a Sunday walk at home, onto the Archdukes Trail, overlooking the home of Michael Douglas, and up onto the peak where we were to have lunch. The large black Griffon Vultures soared about all week but this was our first sighting of the holiday. Peter set the pace but didn't get lost, maybe worried about the Vultures. The view from the peak at 900mtrs. was quite something, the coastline and our destination Deia clear and plain. It was hot on the way up but pleasant in the breeze on top.

Derek on his perch.

Above Deia.

A retrace of steps was necessary to reach the junction to descend and the path took us through a gorge where the limestone showed several colours, depending on the impurities in it, where it had collapsed into the valley. Common features of this area are circular, stone ringed flat patches where charcoal used to be made. It was so quiet that a donkey braying at least two miles away could be heard and pinpointed. The path, although not difficult, dropped steadily for more than an hour with the temperature and humidity rising in proportion. Eventually we entered pinewoods with very tall heather covered in purple flowers reminiscent of Madeira in the way that the land had been terraced and dry-stone walled. A tunnel led into the hillside leading to a well that I wasn't able to see in the darkness so a photo seemed the safest option and, yes, there was water in it of indeterminate depth. The terraces had been long abandoned and are now overgrown. Peter had vanished some time ago but Derek was with him so the coast would be the limit of his range. When we reached a junction in Deia there was no sign of them so just for fun we stayed put and let out a loud whistle and waited. After about a minute two sheepish heads appeared coming back up the hill. The gardens were loaded with oranges and we had a beer in the garden of a hotel that had huge palm trees about 3.5feet thick at the base.

Derek has him on a short leash.

The bus picked us up and returned us to our hotel where Derek and, reluctantly, I went in the pool. It was freezing cold and as I came out Peter arrived with his gaudy new swimming gear and confirmed that it was cold. Derek continued to float about like U21 while I went for a hot bath to warm up again. After dining we went for a beer down by the sea where it was nice and quiet and pleasantly warm.

The following morning it was 21C as we boarded the large bus, 34 of us, to return to Deia for our walk back to the hotel. Fourteen of us were left after dropping off the Classic walkers and we had a look round the old church with the two old cannon, 4in. and 4.75in. respectively, pointing menacingly across the valley at goodness knows what, before dropping down to the coast at Calla de Deia, a so-called smugglers cove for a coffee. Hard life this!

Calla de Deia.

The path then followed the coast amongst the trees until we came to the famous monastery dwelling where an elderly lady serves freshly squeezed orange juice and orange cake. Both items so delicious that they should carry some sort of warning.

Orange juice and cake to match.

We then ambled along towards the lighthouse overlooking Port de Soller from where it was a downhill trek to the promenade and a table containing several beers grande to revive us for the mile long walk across the front and the 136 steps up to our hotel. Another dip in the pool but for a much shorter time in view of the hypothermia the day before. More beer grande after the evening meal to prepare us for the harder walk on the morrow.

Port de Soller.

3000ft of ascent today over 10 miles including 1800 stone steps over a distance of about 1.5 miles. Starting from the hotel we took a newish trail with sound effects, goat bells, to Biniaraix and had coffee. From there we were into the Pilgrim Steps and somebody is reputed to have counted them so we didn't bother. We passed about fifteen workmen on this stretch doing a lovely job of maintenance on the path and also the water channel running alongside. Even well up in the mountains new bridges are being built so that when the ford is too high the streams can be crossed safely. The lower reaches are usually dry but up here there is some water. They take tourism seriously here. Once on the top we could see Cuber reservoir and started the descent through scrub and pine forest until the ground levelled off to provide sparse pasture for cows which was a surprise. They looked in better shape than they had any right to be considering the food supply and were friendly and photogenic with their light coloured ears and muzzles. The reservoir is one of two large expanses of water at about 2200ft above sea level and nowhere near full. The left bank was the most picturesque along a raised track passable even when it was full and we had a good view all round.

Cuber Reservoir.

The NATO radar station on top of Puig Major, the highest spot on the island at 4500ft or so, stood out well but it must be windy up there at times. The bus collected us at the far end, rescuing us from a couple of scabby donkeys one of which was overly attracted to Derek. The road went through the mountain and we were soon back home. It was cooler so the pool was shunned by Peter and myself, leaving Derek with his better insulation to cope alone. Peter was mistaken for a physicist??!!

Derek's scabby friend.

What shall we do with our day off? Let's go for a walk. A big thunderstorm during the night didn't even disturb my sleep but it showed in the morning with the normally dry riverbed discharging muddy water into the bay. It was just about fine when we set off for the lighthouse but gradually got worse as we wandered off piste and almost came back into town. We had to sheet up and sort out the route to Soller itself where Peter found an old umbrella and we found a restaurant in the square for a decent meal. When we emerged, three parts puddled, Peter headed back to base and Derek and I tried to find the way out of town to Biniaraix.

Give us a kiss.

The signs were intended for motorist and went via the bypass so, after wandering long enough, we put brains into gear and co-ordinates into GPS and got going in the right direction only to fail to find the right path back to Port de Soller that we used the other day in the other direction. Still it was regarded as a recce and not a failure. We saw some goats that were hobbled (front feet tethered together with short length of rope to discourage them from wandering too far, usually used on horses). One guy in a wet suit was trying to surf on an 18inch swell, with limited success. Everything was wet but a hot bath and a good meal before the nightly beer downtown put the world to rights, until those 136 steps back up again.

Geog Blau Reservoir.

The trail resumed where it left off on Wednesday, it was cold and needed windproof to keep out the chill although it was a lovely morning. We followed a water conduit above the second reservoir before turning right into the forest and losing some height. It was a bit warmer in there but where we stopped for lunch on the col it was again cold with clouds scudding by. Peter finished his lunch but helped out with the biscuits. As we crossed there were several ice pits used to store ice that was then carted down the mountain to preserve things before the days of fridges. There was a valley to cross before we sat down for a short while and watched Clifford scoot up onto the peak and back again. It was then a long descent through scenery reminiscent of Scotland to the monastery in Lluc where the bus was to collect us. The party became rather strung out, over about a mile, and that earned a rebuke from our leader.

Something in the pipeline.

The ride back was a long one because of a collapsed road and as we finally approached base Peter was getting desperate having had two beers but without the capacity to store them for our protracted journey. After much hilarity, and language difficulty that had Peter described as a ‘desperado', the bus driver pulled over and Peter fled into the undergrowth saying that he would walk the last mile. We again went down town after dinner to get away from the ‘entertainment' although it was rumoured that Peter spent some time doing the twist. The state of his bladder was enquired about at some length the following day.

The desperado leaving in a hurry.

The long bus ride of one and a half hours was repeated to drop us off for the last leg on the Friday. The B walkers were to do their own thing and return and we, the full 15 and half an hour late, set off on the short ‘up' of our 11-mile linear walk to be collected later in Pollenca. As we climbed we heard the monastery clock strike 11.

Derek on a work study gathering inside information.

The red and white trail was well marked and the brew stop was at a restaurant on the hilltop where they had an outside oven resembling a crematorium although we didn't check that out as we only had coffees. We could soon see over towards the northeastern coast and it was all gentle downhill in pleasantly cool conditions. We met a couple of chaps (or Spanish equivalent) picking mushrooms and had a bit of good-humoured repartee. The dry river bed in the valley was now our guide and as we went further down the pools of standing water gradually turned into to a proper stream of clear, slow moving water between trees and the odd stand of bamboo. The bridge was significant although we didn't know it at the time and we carried on down river and onto the road into town to the Roman Bridge. We sat by the roadside and waited in vain for the bus. David finally got through to the driver on the phone with the help of a local barkeeper and discovered that the bus was waiting at the other Roman Bridge. We were soon on our way to collect the others at the monastery and Derek made sure that Peter was suitably ‘prepared' for the return journey. The large bus was a bit slower than the other one on the twisty roads but there wasn't any drama this time, just a bit of leg pulling. The 136 steps were successfully negotiated after the town visit in the evening and we made plans for our last day.

I told you to stay off that beer.

We are drained,

The hotel kindly allowed us to keep one room until our departure at 5pm and we set off after breakfast to catch the old-fashioned wooden super structured electric tram to Soller. Peter, the impetuous one, boarded the first one in and it disconnected setting off in the wrong direction to turn round. As this was going on another one arrived and was ready to depart for Soller blocking in the first one. Mr. Aizlewood, looking a bit sheepish, joined us in time and off we clattered on this tram that looked even older than the Blackpool ones but had, in fact, been refurbished and nicely varnished. The seats were all wooden and not for long distance travel although the legroom was far superior to our A300 on the way here. We arrived in the square in Soller with the wheel flanges squealing on the small radius turn and dismounted at the railway station, that links with Palma, for a look see. A bit of architecture to match the buildings in the square with an exhibition of art on the inside. There was a market in full swing and we sat outside a restaurant for a beer and watched the fun.

The old/new trams.

This establishment was frequented by the locals and that is usually a good sign, so Derek cased the joint and discovered an empty table. We acknowledged his superior experience in such things and went in to be served by a patient youth of suitable good humour. Suckling pig for starters absolutely loaded with garlic and beef or lamb (with just the legs missing) for the main. Are you hungry? enquired mien host, with a straight face. We needed to be and it took some time to shift it although somebody who shall be nameless didn't quite. We needed another beer anyway while we digested it to make room for the remainder. Then, just before we would have fallen asleep, we set off to walk back to base having a coffee on the way. The bus arrived on time and we were through the formalities pretty quickly and onto the cattle truck that turned up the wick to arrive ahead of schedule back in cold, wet Manchester, the Riviera of the north.

Ooops!