Ode to Mallorca Part I: Hiking and Foraging Along the Tramutana

“Sit down anywhere you like, a wall, a stone, a tree stump, on the grass or the earth:  everywhere they surround you, a painting and a poem, everywhere the world resonates beautifully and happily around you.” -Hesse, Wandering

“Where is Mallorca exactly?” my own father has asked me more than once, even after two years of me residing off and on there.  

He was not the only one I had to fill in about this island’s location.  “Draw a line out from Spain’s eastern coast,” I reply on repeat, “between Barcelona and Valencia, and you hit the Balearic Islands.  She’s the big one, between Ibiza and Menorca.”  

I already knew what question was coming next.  “And why Mallorca?”  It was a question that followed me throughout my life of travel and living abroad.  Why St. Lucia?  Why South Africa?  Why Bulgaria?

Why Mallorca…?  How to explain something that had no “logical reasoning.”  Sure, Palma was a massive hub for someone like me, working in the yachting industry, but it wasn’t as if I had a job lined up.  I didn’t know anyone there. In typical style, I had moved for love. Mallorca…she chose me.  That is my final answer.  

The truth was the Mediterranean had always called me.  I wanted nothing more than to sail her deep sapphire and emerald waters.  Something so idyllic lured me in.  Perhaps it was all the James Bond movies I was obsessed with as a girl which made an unconscious impression on me.  I dreamed that one day I’d be winding that sexy sports car along the Mediterranean coast between sea and mountain– head scarf blowing in the wind.  What I found when I arrived here was that this island was so much more than her beautiful sea and rocky swimming calas (coves), which is saying a lot for a mermaid like myself. The land and her World Heritage Site mountain range, La Tramutana, was well known for its adventure tourism. It’s become a Mecca for cyclists, with apparently 16 routes. Hikers as well can enjoy 108 different trails. Adventure was built into this island’s essence, and here I was building a relationship her, traversing her curves and coasts.   

Most times I look out onto my view and hardly compute it’s real.  Like someone plopped down a rolled backdrop to a movie set.  My glass balcony doors are my gateway to aesthetic pleasure each day.  Greens fill my eyes, vibrating their various tones and textures, while rows of tree branches flutter in valley breeze.  The day is called forth with distant rooster crows, the morse-code of tweeting birds, and an occasional donkey bray and bleating lamb from a nearby finca (countryside estate).  The dominating Tramutana mountain range, stamped from left to right, halves the sky while sheltering the blurb of pale saffron, Sóller town nestled at its base.  I often trace the top ridge contours with my morning eyes, inhaling the image into my chest.  White puffy clouds linger over her today, almost like a round mobile propped over a baby’s crib.  She must be cooing.  

For days prior the sky was a beige haze, full of the usual reddish, Saharan sand visitor brought by Calima wind, yet now I marvel at the clarity in the contrasting sky, seeing clearly too, the facets of my mountain, naked with her pine-green camouflage.  Glancing below at the street beyond my windows, lined parked cars reveal evidence of the night rain which discharged the sand from the air, coating everything in a thin, red-orange blanket.  Whoever owns car washes is certainly scoring big.

How is it that each time I gaze out onto my view, my eyes are taking in only a portion of what’s actually there?  Today I discover a new ridge, coupled by a scorched green clearing below it.  I plant myself there, a tiny figment…a dapple…and peer out at the make-believe sheep grazing as I make my way up the incline to feast on views from the ridge.

There are at least five hikes you can do just from my doorstep.  I hit the trail up to the finca for a view down onto the port… Instantly, I’m intoxicated by the piquant scents around me.  Pine and dirt mixed like a cocktail to the head.  Bounty surrounds me. After learning in a foraging class, I was easily spotting herbs, such as nettles and marshmallow for tea, edible flowers, or wild fennel and Swiss chard.  

I tracked on. Cherished orange and lemon trees, figs, apricots, plums, grapevines…a hedonistic paradise if you ask me.  Most prevalent are the olive trees.  Some groves even date back to the time of the Moors.  It’s hard to fathom the ancientness in the air.  What characters each tree takes on…  Gnarly trunks, purple-gray and twisted, climbing out from earth into gestures frozen in time.  Dancing, hugging, playing.  Anthropomorphism at its finest.  Oozing oil of life, buttery and robust.  I applaud the fairy nymphs that surely must run around here playing and setting nature ablaze with bespoke beauty.

There goes that Hesse quote again . . .

How could we learn from these trees?  Just look at them, they’ve withstood the centuries.  Rooted deep, interconnected and interfacing below the surface, and uniquely expressed towards the world– towards heaven. Yielding their fruits when the season harkens. Masters they are of how to root down while lifting up.  They can teach us a thing about defining our own balance, one tethered to the beautiful, magical, universal rhythm.  The one keeping accord to the divine nurturing of all that is.  Breathe in your surroundings, and let it work its magic.  I open my eyes like never before, and thank Mallorca and her land for all she gives. 

Today

New trails I traversed 
uneven terrains humming, 
bird whistles too, 
those spring limbs waved cooing,
ever so gently in crisp breeze.
Sharp cerulean sky crowns 
mountaintop glory. 
A new view overlooking the town raised from back in time.  
Dusty orange 
walls and rocks build its streets, homes
and the standout, mini, gothic cathedral.
Golden sunset descending, 
mountains glaze terracota supreme.