When I tell people I don't know how to drive, their eyes widen in surprise and I can see
them trying to resolve the problem.
"You'll
have to get a motorbike then," they say.
I used
to enjoy the idea of riding a Vespa over the cobblestones of some idyllic
Italian town, but now I'm convinced I'd be a danger to myself and everyone
else.
"Does
your husband drive?" is the follow up question. They relax once they know
one of us is useful.
From
the response, it would seem that living in Mallorca without a car is madness.
Well, today, without husband / driver, I was determined to overcome the obstacle
of distance. I needed to get to Magaluf for research purposes. The characters in my novel are on a hen party
and they may well end up there. It was necessary I checked it out.
How far
away was Magaluf? Well, nearer than I'd previously thought, since I'd
previously thought it in Greece. I saw a clip from a documentary on the resort once; drunken
teenagers comatose on the floor, police breaking up fights, vomit and
litter strewn across the streets. I remember feeling very sorry for the Greeks.
After rifling through a drawer of maps and leaflets the previous German
occupants had left (stopping to giggle for a bit over a 'Gute Fahrt'), I
ended up with a map of Mallorca. Magaluf looked a finger print away. I got a
ruler and tried to calculate the distance using the scale. I estimated 8- 10km.
It would take time, but physically, I was capable.
Equipped with water and an orange, I set off.
It was a long walk, but it was very pedestrian-friendly. Much of the
journey took place on a tree-lined path, with box trimmed hedges coated in fine
dust separating me from the road. It was hot but there was a gentle breeze. I
saw vineyards and the first signs of mountains in the distance.
An hour later, I paused to eat my orange under a tree and thought of my
Dad, because he'd always peeled the oranges on walks when we were little. Was this nostalgia or heatstroke? I sipped my water and pushed on.
I arrived at Palmanova two and a half hours later. The sea was a
stunning blue, the distant boats a blinding white. English voices carried in
the air. Restaurant menus offered options familiar to the British palate
like pizza and roast beef. Topless young men paraded burns so bad I had to stop
myself suggesting, in a maternal voice, to put on some aftersun and cover up
for a bit. I was clearly closing in on Magaluf and it was time to eat and get
my energy up before the final leg.
On my way over to Mallorca, I'd met two young girls heading out to work
in Magaluf on the plane and they'd warned
me about Spanish food. Funny as it's the food I've grown up on and it's one
of the things that excites me about living in Spain again.
Among the British
pubs and tributes to Blackpool, I sought out a tapas bar, tucked into a deliciously spicy frito de marisco and a caña, and basked in the great sense of
achievement that came with having fulfilled my mission WITHOUT A CAR. And I
seriously considered the idea of walking around the whole island, a sort of
alternative to the Camino de Santiago.
Of course, by the time I got to Magaluf, I was far too knackered to do any
exploring. I got the bus straight back, which for only 1.50€, seemed a bit of an
affront to my aching legs.
For more Mallorca Pics follow me on Instagram @emilybenetauthor
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