
In years past, when I have mentioned I am off to Majorca at the end
of August, people have raised one eyebrow and said dull things like "won't that be
rather hot?" and I have sighed under my breath slightly at such Englishness and explained how the house we stay at is high up
on a hill, always a little cooler, and so on. But this year the heat has undone
me. At night, sleep has been slow to come and while the fan in my room
has panned the soup-like air back and forth across me, it has left plenty of time to reflect and think. Recent topics that have
crossed my mind are:
- the speech I have to deliver at my brother's wedding in four weeks
- a tiresome client who hasn't stopped bugging me throughout my holiday
- where we should go for dinner tomorrow night
- the new business I need to go and hunt when I get back to London
- if it will be cloudy in the morning
- when the new Kylie song will finally leak
Then, last night's thoughts were about the serious miles I have managed to
clock up this holiday. Not enough that I have gone from London to
Madrid; Madrid to Majorca already in the past two weeks, but once on the island, we have been busy. Take yesterday, for example. Some time ago, I discussed
the friend of DD's who had talked about his large house here. It may have been eleventh hour, but we
gave him a call on Wednesday evening, and, thrilled we had made contact, JM (for that was he) said we should definitely
come and visit the next day. This house was near Pollensa, in the north east corner of the island, about thirty miles further up the coast from Soller, which I visited last year. Over my morning leche semi-desnatada purchase, I asked the cute guy who runs the local village shop how long he thought it should take (any excuse to strike up a conversation with him, with those come-and-get-me eyelashes) and I was assured it was only an hour.
In the event, it took about fifty minutes. My Ford Focus flew. The directions were a little complex/comical ("take the second exit at the large junction with the gigantic metallic, sculptural rooster on it - we call it the big cock roundabout" for example) but when we finally approached the house, a jaw-dropping view (at
top) was the sight that greeted us. I mean really. This is real estate porn...
This (above) is what happened inside that eight hundred year-old gabled loggia on the top floor. Then, turning to our left, the view of the orchard below, filled with pomegranate, orange and quince trees...
I'm not finished yet. If an overnight visitor, the morning view through one of the downstairs bedroom windows is of one of the house's two wells.

An architecturally-themed post had been requested. I trust this fits the bill.
It was a fantastic day. We headed into Pollensa for lunch at a little restaurant which JM knew, and ate gaspacho, lemon chicken and orange cake (citrus fruits are big here). JM is an extemely experienced restauranteur and knows the island well, so we talked about his local favourites. That conversation lead us, despite consuming the entire menu del diá, to find a nearby ice cream stand where we ordered something sensational. It was the time of year - local dairies had started making young almond granita from the new crop. The woman behind the stand hadn't bothered to put it on the list of available flavours, it was just there for those who knew, and thank heaven we had been told. She opened the freezer and dolloped a portion into a paper cup. A frozen, cinnamony, nuttyness was presented to me which was unspeakably divine. I mean, anything to beat the heat...