Not, as we British would have it, Majorca. The Spanish have jokes about that mythical, misspelled fifth island…
That’s where I’ve been for the last couple of weeks, and very nice it was too, mostly. It is, however, the first and last time I’ll ever go on a package holiday. We thought we could handle it, and that the benefits with having a small child would outweigh the negatives. Oh dear, no. How wrong we were. Awful food, reminiscent of school canteens in the seventies, hideously bad club reps (who demanded that they be known as entertainers, despite all the evidence in defiance of this), worthless entertainment – all the staples were on show. The Kid’s Club was so bad that my daughter, aged nearly-five, refused to go back after the second time, and she’s an incredibly easy kid to amuse if you’ve any personality at all.
Fortunately, we only ever intended using Club Del Sol as a base from which to wander, and wander we did. The north of Majorca where we stayed (on the coast between Port De Pollenca and Alcudia, fact fans) is a lovely little place, with enough charming Spanish villages and beaches to make for a relaxed two weeks. It was good to get back, don’t mistake me, but we had a good time while we were there.
Among the highlights were my laughably English attempts to haggle at a market (hey, I got the lady down to half price, even if it was out of kindness on her part), a knife-throwing clown who was scarily entertaining, my daughter wrestling with a snake, and some truly pretty Spanish towns and churches.
I returned relaxed, and with secret announcements to make later down the line. That’s all you need to know about that just now.
Of course, now that I’m home, I’m up to my neck in email, writing commitments, and so forth, so if you’re waiting to hear from me, give me to the start of next week before thinking that I’m ignoring you, okay?