Browsing through the photos I took last week a number of categories became particularly salient:
Blurry pictures! Blurry pictures of food! Pictures of food which are considerably less blurry! Pictures of drinks! Pictures of water and/or rocks! Pictures of plants! Pictures of cats! And pictures of my companions wandering off into the distance.
In this post, the first instalment, I will spare you the worst, and begin with the Wurst! Aahh! Terrible! *smacks forehead with spicy sausage* before deviating towards beverages.
Sausagefolk of Mallorca
As you can see, a whole range of sausage-related experiences were indulged in on the island: admiring sausages in shops, purchasing sausages, inspecting sausages by cross-section, frying and eating chorizo sausage as part of a late night tapas regime, and even buying a postcard with sausages on it (image on postcard taken by Eduardo Miralles).
Importantly, there were also many beautiful olives to be found, and the supermarkets were a delight to ponder through. We did indeed bake multiple breads with our carry-on sourdough, and we cooked late into the night in a lovely spacious kitchen, with the best Oven TV I have ever seen.
Refreshment: Aperol Spritzers
It’s an Italian aperitif, and we are in Spain, yes, but there’s no better time nor place for this kind of thing than mid-afternoon anywhere under the sun, within a healthy dose of reason. But not too much of that either, might I add. You’re on holiday, at least vicariously. A splosh of bitter fluorescent orange Aperol, then slosh slosh slosh (this is the sound of sparkling wine) and a pretty slice of orange and you are set. Poolside. Go.
The Aperol orange and the unbelievable blueness; it feels to me like a Raymond Chandler novel, the afternoons drifting by with a lazy kind of opulence and no shortage of liquor. We ought to have been solving a murder! Or being sapped for insolence! In reality, our most arduous task was retrieving Tim’s wedding band, which fell through the slats of the deck and onto a bed of white stones approximately twenty centimetres below. We fashioned tools for the job, and won. Then more languid hours of binge-reading and nonsense before sunset.
In our more active moments, exploring around the west coast of the island was spectacular. Mountains to sea. The horizon melting into itself. Water and atmosphere, on and on and on. The problem with Düsseldorf, I thought, is that it isn’t even a little bit an island. Maybe you should move to an island.
These (above and below, left) are views from a watchtower clinging precariously to the edge of a cliff on the way to a harbour town called Sóller. I love everything about the hand-painted sign for grilled sardines, including its proximity to sea level.
Before you go, here is another thing we tried. We do not know whether this, as a concept, actually exists (but if it does, would you also guess Finland?) It will not cure you of anything.