Cala Tuent to Soller via Paradise
Cala Tuent to Sollér
It was a straightforward pick-up yesterday morning from Kevin, named after Costner he explained, though he looked more like a young Barak Obama. We settled on Kevin Bacon. After a short while I was transferred to another cab, this time with Juan; John he said, no not John Wayne, Johnny Depp, he said and laughed.
We passed through a couple of tunnels, heading north-west. It’s amazing stuff limestone. How much easier to carve one’s way through than other rock, and such a direct route to one’s destination. I knew it would be a one-hour journey to the starting point, and as time went by I was baffled at how I could make it back on foot in 6 and half hours.
I have heard that far more of the surface of the Earth is theoretically accessible by horse than by car, and I realised that massively extensive engineering would be required for roads to contour around some of the slopes that I had taken footpaths on. I also had to climb gradients that would defeat a regular car. But I was about to witness the lengths which road-builders will go to make the ascent and descent of a deep valley, by means of hairpinning the bends.
I joked with John about the five cars ahead of us – all white. Henry Ford is reputed to have said his cars were available in “Any colour you want, provided it’s black.” but then, he wasn’t from around here.
Eventually we arrived at Cala Tuent. It’s one of the few bays with a shingle beach on the northwest coast and, like the Deia cove has the asset of a small quay, on which young people were gathering for kayak hire. Why are people so keen to get here? I asked John. “Because of the beach, the watersports, and the FOOD!” he answered, “ the best fresh fish on Mallorca!”
Once on the trail I would witness a coast busy with small boats. Those nearer shore, like some I had seen north of Deia, were anchored in shallow coves, and their crew were enjoying swimming and snorkelling. Little flotillas of kayaks meandered around the isolated rocks.
Farther out there was a race going on. Small fishing boats were racing back, to be the first to deliver their catch to the prestigious seafood restaurants of Cala Tuent and, by car, beyond.
Leaving the beach at the far side I headed south and uphill, climbing through the humid forest floor on well-made cobbled stairways. Eventually I emerged from tree cover at a stone gateway.
I was to see a number of these on today’s walk; at high level there is a projecting stone with a hole bored vertically right through; at the foot there is a stone slab with a corresponding round pit. A gate could be cobbled together in situ with a vertical pole passing through the “tab” and with its bottom end in the pit, forming the hinge side of the gate. Simple but effective.
I now had a clearer view of the coast, with steep tree-clad slopes plunging down towards the sea. It was evident that vegetation had much more assured delivery of water here, whether as actual rain or as sea mist condensing on the coast.
The masses of limestone to my left were heavily eroded by precipitation and rose almost vertically to some 600 metres.
Wherever there was a decent accumulation of eroded rock, pines took root and gave the scene an alpine air. I noticed Tree Heather and Rosemary growing wild, and many shrubs became familiar which I photographed for future identification. Many must be salt-tolerant as well as adapted to the meagre nutrient supply in limestone soil.
Eventually I reached a point where the path turned inland. A small inlet of the sea and a deep valley prevented further progress along the coast.
The path began to climb. I lost the cooling sea breeze but kept the shade of trees for a while. I could see from the GPS map that we were coming to a pass, but it was hard work to climb in a much warmer and humid microclimate.
I paused and, as I have done for the previous walks at a certain point, took off my back-pack and my shirt. I took a refreshment break (I wouldn’t call it lunch – the last thing you want when walking is a full stomach) spreading my shirt on the same rock I had made my perch, to let it dry a bit in the sun.
Before pressing on I hitched the points of the shirt collar in two cleats on random straps on my back-pack. The shirt then hangs like half a skirt, protecting the back of my peely-wally legs from the sun, preventing sunburn and keeping them cool. It may not look so cool, but it’s a double bonus in survival technology!
So I began the descent into the upland valley if Balitx d’Avall. I have tried to translate Balitx from Catalan to see if it meant the equivalent if the Turkish ‘yalyla’, meaning an upland pasture, but Google translate gives ‘ball’ which doesn’t help at all.
Basically it is a valley/plateau at about 260m that has been described as a hidden paradise. My impression was different. True, the land had been tamed and terraced for agriculture, with stone dykes retaining sufficient soil for olive trees and, I am told, but did not see, citrus fruit.
The guide notes also the promise of “a reviving glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice” at this point. But all I saw were some farm buildings in that shuttered attitude that says “no-one’s home or if they are they don’t want you bothering them”.
My attitude may have been biased by experiencing what I can only describe as the most horrendous rural sound I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. It sounding like the agonized cries of a strapping warrior being torn limb from limb. Maybe watching 8 series of Game of Thrones was too much...
On reflection it was probably the rutting call of a particularly randy billy-goat, but, townie that I am, it frightened the bejaysus out of me!
I found this “paradise” disorienting and lost my way a couple of times. It was in a microclimate of heat without air that feels as if you are being gripped in a vice and your flailing legs and feet are just churning in mid air, not actually resulting in progress.
I dropped in the shade of a wall, draped a clean cotton towel over my head and counted to 20. Actually it was more than 20, as I came round after a little dose, drank the remainder of the one and a half litres of water in my camel back, had a celebratory peach and got to my feet. There was a spark in the old plug yet!
I pushed on through another ‘stone lug and pitted threshold’ gate and onward, without shade, but with a fresh sense of purpose – I had survived Eden – what could stop me now?
Well this particular trail had a few more blessings for me – one more mis-direction and then a relentless descent - with occasional glimpses of Soller ‘city’ with its memorable collonaded cathedral facade, down through woodland and scrub, then an alley between suburban backyards, the urban mechanics workshops and warehouse yards, and derelict urban wasteland, until I fell among city streets, then medieval cobbled lanes,
So late in the day it felt, and with the lure of the home comforts in Porto Soller drawing me on, I made a bee-line for the Tram terminus, confirmed by a loose crowd of prospective passengers. I joined them and boarded a tram that arrived within minutes, and ‘deus ex machina’ I was whisked, creaking, clanking in this all-too .’machina’ machine, back to Porto Soller, and to the doorstep of my hotel. End of.
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