Tilting at Windmills - Majorca

If it’s May in France, it must mean there’s another long weekend. The French like their long weekends so much, they clump them together. I’m pretty sure they do this in May so everyone can warm up to the idea of taking vacation for all of July and August. After all, how can you be sure all the beach toys work and the summer house is ready unless you get a few trial weekends to test things out? At chez Burrage, a long weekend means we must be going somewhere. This time, we’re visiting one of the Balearic Islands: Majorca (the rest of them are Minorca, Ibiza, and a few others not important enough for me to remember). All I knew about Majorca, other than being a little island off the coast of Spain (Mediterranean side), is that it is the birthplace of tennis star Rafael Nadal. Having been there, I now know many more facts about Majorca, varying considerably in usefulness and accuracy.

We decided to visit Majorca after being invited by some Calgary friends who were going to be vacationing there. As it turns out, they belong to a secret society, which has vacation properties squirreled away in cool places all around the world (freemasons?). I got the whole story after swearing absolute secrecy, although now I’m a bit fuzzy as alcohol may have been involved.  Anyway, let’s not worry about the details. Just be sure there was an extra room or two in their shabby, youth-hostel-like hacienda tucked up in the hills of southeast Majorca:

We had a room in the back.

One of the pleasantly surprising discoveries about Majorca, driven home immediately upon arrival, is that Majorca is an excellent place to brush up on your spoken German. One of the guidebooks warned about dropping into some of the resorts for dinner unless you were comfortable in ‘a German environment’. Why, there’s even a German radio station! To be fair, there were tourists from other places, but I am comfortable in saying the Germans dominated the tourist landscape (which can occasionally be beneficial, especially at the beach).

The landscape in Majorca reminded Ann of the Okanogan valley or southern California. Agriculture seems to be the dominant industry (although the size of the airport suggests tourism has a lock on first place), with endless orchards and olive groves. They’ve certainly upgraded their windmills from the classic Don Quixote style, and there were plenty of them on the south side of the island, although none seemed to be moving.

Not your typical Saskatchewan farmhouse.

There were a lot of these.

We spent most of the first day eating, with a visit to the beach to allow proper digestion to occur. We stopped at the local market to stock up on fresh ingredients for dinner. Our chef was a stickler for quality produce and I caught him perusing the goods:

Mystery Chef at work.

The beach was at the end of a deep cove and had a WOW! factor of about nine, not including the toplessness.  There was a collection of large pleasure craft moored in the cove to add to the feeling of being somewhere special. Expensive, but special. The downside was the invigorating temperature of the water. In Arcachon, you face the Atlantic ocean, which isn’t known for getting too toasty, so you don’t ever expect much in the way of warm water. The Mediterranean, on the other hand, sets the bar a little higher. Sadly, if I were to quantify it, I would say more than a few brass monkey balls could expect to be lost while taking a dip in those waters. I imagine it warms up quickly such that July and August waters are closer to bath temperature. After lunch (more food), we took a stroll around the point where Ann’s exuberance required restraining by any means possible:

Too much coffee.

Perri at the cove.

A quick ice-cream and then home for a fabulous dinner. As dusk approached, I noticed the local view got quite boring as the second and third night proved to be no more interesting than the first.

Same old, same old...

Day two was a more cultured experienced as we ventured into Palma, the main city, to take a traditional, narrow-gauge railway trip up into the hills. In classic Burrage vacation style, we made the last train with almost 5 minutes to spare. The train winds up through the valleys to the town of Soller, which had some interesting architecture, a beautiful church, and tasty food.

Pretty cool for a bank.

Soller Church

A train ride down, a quick trip to the supermarket, and then home for … you guessed it: dinner. I will take this opportunity to recommend, while travelling, mooching off people with a good sense for food and wine, as we did on this trip. Thanks, mystery hosts.

Our last day was abbreviated by a flight home. However, we were able to take in a few historic sites before rubbing elbows with the masses of travellers returning to Dussledorf or Munich. One such site was the castle overlooking Palma. Although the castle itself was not amazing, by European castle standards, the views of the local area were fabulous.

Inner courtyard

Perri probably asleep w Palma below.

Finally, the most impressive structure on the whole island was the cathedral in Palma. We had planned on spending a few hours poking around the building before we left. Well, the best laid plans of mice and men… and vacationers on a short timeline, meant we were able to get a few quick snaps as we passed by on the way to the airport.

She's a brute.

All in all, Majorca was a great experience squeezed into far too short a time. I now understand why it is a vacation destination for many Europeans. The beaches are great. The people seem very nice, and the food is good (the local wine is also surprisingly good). My greatest regret is not having more time to explore the place.

On the local scene, I entered a golf tournament last week. It was a fun affair where I was playing the best golf of my life until the 13th hole. At that point I foolishly allowed myself to think I had a shot at          

some hardware, so I promptly scored a 9, on a par 4. Two double boogies on the next two holes eliminated any chance to win, but I did tie for third in my division. Golf truly is 90% mental, and 10% mental.

Gossip item: My retired neighbor's girlfriend/wife (I've never been sure) has moved out on him. He tells Ann he will wait an appropriate amount of time before his new girlfriend moves in. The stereotype of the French male lives on...

The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire

It may never set but it rarely seems to shine. Another school break means another adventure into the unknown. What better way to celebrate the arrival of spring than to visit a place where all four seasons feel like winter. I know many of you are now interested to hear about our adventures in Newfoundland, so I will set the record straight: our goal this time was Ireland, with a dash of London thrown in for good measure. It occurs to me now there are many places on the planet where the inhabitants complain about their weather. However, there are few places that can claim crappy weather all the time, and most, but not all of these, seem to be somewhere in the British Isles.

The first few days consisted of hitting the high notes in London with some friends who were on their way home to Saskatoon. London is a busy, busy place. There looks to be a good bit of construction going on, no doubt for the Olympics and the Queen’s jubilee. We were able to watch the changing of the guard, along with a few thousand of our closest friends, all of whom seemed to have arrived just before we did (we mostly just imagined what was going on). We also took in a couple of shows, rode the tube with the unwashed masses, had a fabulous Indian meal, and checked our watches against Big Ben. The curious part of London for me, other than the bone-chilling unseasonably cold weather, was the international feel of the place. Closing your eyes and listening to the street chatter, you would be hard pressed to believe you were anywhere near England, let alone the capital. 

Reader's Digest version of London

Changing - but slowly...

Who's your bobby?

Not falling down, as it turns out.

A quick bus ride, which best describes Ryan Air, and we found ourselves on the emerald isle. Dublin seemed quite sedate compared to London although the weather was essentially the same (crappy). One other clue to the change in venue was the local variation on English. It’s fun to listen to the rolling lilt of the Irish, but for me it was only a slight improvement over French: I got about 40% of what was being said. 

We spent some time on the Hop-on-Hop-off tour bus, which provided both educational tidbits and shelter from the weather. Dublin has some history, some of which is actually interesting. I found this a foreign concept having studied Canadian history. Ireland seems to have a disproportionate number of writers. I will suggest the recipe of poor weather, attractive but temperamental women, and easy access to whiskey, creates an ideal writing environment.

We took the tour of Kilmainham gaol, the infamous prison for rebellious Irishmen, as well as women and children (they had inmates a young as 6 years old). In the late 16^th century it was considered the latest in thoughtful incarceration. By 1924, when it finally closed, It had been the site of many significant executions throughout Ireland’s somewhat disturbing history.

Scared Straight?

The next day we took the train to a little town up the coast called Dalkey. It reminded Ann of west Vancouver; there was constant drizzle and big houses. Apparently the renowned pop-lit novelist Maeve Binchey and U2 guitarist Edge live there, along with van Morrison, when he’s not out on tour. On our walk through town, we met a friendly cat, and a very friendly old man who was happy to share his comprehensive view of the town with us. I’ll give the Irish full marks for being friendly and chatty. A quick stop at the chemist's for some toothpaste resulted in a lengthy discussion with the proprietor covering many of the finer points of the pharmaceutical and legal industries. I am proud to say I held up my end of the conversation (it was in English, after all). On the way back to Dublin we decided to bend the rules around our return ticket and go a couple of extra stops past where we started, to save a few pennies and perhaps an unnecessarily long walk. As it turns out, the Irish train system is specifically designed to prevent deadbeats like us taking advantage of the system, by requiring your ticket to get you off the railway platform. Our tickets were ... not completely valid, and therefore we were trapped, unless we confessed our sins to security. We huddled to discuss strategy and settled on the old classic ‘dumbass tourist ploy’, then stepped forward to accept our punishment in the form of the inevitable eye roll and lecture. Fortunately, chaos is opportunity, and in this case opportunity presented itself in the guise of an unruly drunk being ‘assisted’ off the platform by four sturdy security guys. Another security guy, distracted by the excitement, was happy to buzz us through without even inquiring as to the nature of our problem. What lessons Perri learned that day I cannot say.

This could be Newfoundland if there were fewer buildings.

Nova Scotia maybe?

Although I’m not a big fan of Guinness beer, we felt culturally obligated to take a tour of the Guinness brewery. Here is a company that has turned what many people consider to be liquid love, or perhaps an unholy union of barley and hops, into a global brand. The gift shop was hard to resist. 

"I'm just having a wee taste."

Later in the day, through a reckless disregard for our map, we found ourselves in a slightly shady part of town looking for the train station to get back to our hotel. A local chap recognized our plight and went out of his way to get us where we were going. I’ve never heard stories of leprechauns doing good deeds, and I can’t say for sure if he was one, but he sure looked and sounded the part. Further observations confirmed that any Irish male shorter than me constituted a potential leprechaun. I apologize to the entire nation.

The next day meant a real train ride through the Irish countryside to Belfast. I’ll admit the change from Dublin was subtle. Other than switching euros to pounds, things were ‘kinda the same’. Belfast seems a bit cleaner than Dublin, but the people have more of the same Irish friendly and chatty attitude. If you ask someone from Belfast about the difference and they’ll tell you Dublin has lost it’s Irish character where Belfast has not, although they will spend at least twenty minutes doing so. I guess its all relative as Dublin was definitely more cosmopolitan than Belfast (but much less so than London). 

And then we focused on the whole point of the expedition north: the new Titanic Museum. 

If you listen carefully, you can almost hear Celine.

My extensive experience with museums has taught me one thing: if it takes me more than 45 minutes to go through the whole museum, there’s something wrong with it. In this case, we were at least a couple of hours from tip to tail, and, with the benefit of a few Kilkennys under my belt, I will admit the place was better than most. I tend to resist most pop culture tripe, and the 100th anniversary of a cruise ship sinking certainly qualifies as tripe, in my view. However, in spite of the Hollywood spin on this story, there is something strangely compelling about the whole business. Come to Belfast and see for yourself.

An aside on food:

I don’t understand how the entire Irish population has not expired from scurvy. Fruits and vegetables are rare sights on the menu. Deep fried foods in their many variations, along with creative uses of the glorious potato, dominate the culinary landscape. The food is generally good and filling, but I found myself craving fresh produce. And this from someone who generally passes on salad of any kind.

Maybe vegetables are good for you.

Our last day was a guided bus tour from Belfast to the Giant’s Causeway. We expected it to be meteorological nightmare as the northern tip of Ireland is competitive with Scotland in terms of wind, rain, and cold. The weather up to that point in the holiday had been consistently rainy and cool, so we had accepted our fate. Being provisioned for an arctic adventure, the weather refused to cooperate, and we were bathed in sunshine and light breezes all day. C’est la vie.

The trip itself was pleasant enough in spite of the managed feel of the excursion (e.g. “We’re only stopping here for 15 minutes people. Please take your pics and get back on the bus as soon as possible.”). An overhyped rope bridge, and a brief stop to look at a medieval castle (from about a mile away) brought us eventually to the Giant’s Causeway. 

Only 100 feet to the water. 

Not much of a beach vacation.

Is that a castle way over there?

We were told the Giant’s Causeway is the number 3 natural tourist destination in the world, after the Grand Canyon and Niagara falls. If that is true, I expect it is a distant, distant third, and I worry about whoever finished in 4th, 5th, 6^th etc.. I found it a bit disappointing until I got up close, as the columnar basalts are pretty cool.  Ann was giddy. However, I simply can’t believe there are that many tourists with the same interest in structural geology.

A volcano did all this? Yippee!

Finally a quiet moment.

Train, cab, plane, plane, car and we’re home for supper the next day (after a quick detour to San Sebastian for a couple of cases of good Riojas).

Irish Holiday ratings:

Food 5

Beer 8

People 9 (almost 10)

Sites 6

Overall 7

author's note - don't let the pictures fool you, most of the days were chilly and rainy.