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Published: August 23rd 2019
It was very crowded when we drove out to Cap de Formentor a couple of days ago, so much so that we couldn’t go to the main lookout because we couldn’t find anywhere to park. I have a theory that Spaniards don’t like mornings and that it might therefore be quieter there at 7am, so I set off to test it out. I ignore the obvious flaw in my theory which is that most of the people who are likely to be there won’t be Spanish, they’ll be German or British, and I don’t know anything about how they might feel about mornings. Despite this I think that my theory might be correct. There are lots of cyclists struggling up the steep road, but not too many cars or buses.
The views over the sheer granite cliffs from the first lookout, Mirador Es Colomer, are excellent. I continue on up the very narrow road to the Albertuxt Watchtower at the top of the hill. The views from here over the Cape and Port de Pollenca are stunning.
The road out towards the end of the cape goes through a dark tunnel and as I come out the other side
I pull over to get a better look at the very attractive looking Cala Figuera cove in the distance below. I hear a loud scraping noise. This is probably not good. I get out to investigate. It seems that I‘ve driven a bit close to a rock sticking out from the edge of the road, and there is now a deep gouge along the full length of the panel below both passenger side doors. This is definitely not good. It’s not even a little bit good. I swear. I swear very loudly. I swear at Spanish rocks, Spanish cars that have panels too close to the ground, Spanish views that are too appealing to ignore, and narrow Spanish roads. I’d like to swear in Spanish, but the app that I‘m using to learn Spanish hasn’t taught me any Spanish swear words yet. I’m not sure why I think this matters. I’m fairly sure that none of the inanimate objects I’m swearing at are too fussed about what language I’m swearing at them in.
I’m not feeling all that happy, but the urge to swear constantly starts to abate, so I drive on. The road ends at the lighthouse at
the tip of the cape, where there are more stunning views of sheer granite cliffs. The signs tell me that the lighthouse was built in the mid 1800s and construction was very difficult due to its steep and remote environment. The men who built it worked on it seven days a week. This required special permission from the local bishop, and was only granted on the condition that they all hear mass on Sundays before starting work. I wonder who came out here to read them the mass every Sunday. Whoever it was it probably took them most of the week to get here, so I suspect it probably wasn’t the bishop.
I break the news about the car to Issy. She responds by suggesting that we go and lie under an umbrella next to the pool. Shortly after we get there she lifts her towel up suddenly throwing her expensive new phone onto the tiles. It’s now broken. It’s not even lunchtime and we’ve already managed to cause several thousand dollars worth of damage to goods in our possession. I ponder whether we should go back to bed for the rest of the day before we manage to
wreak any more havoc.
It’s still very windy. We watch on as a large umbrella that a British couple is sitting under flies off and lands on the roof behind us, and there’s then a mad dash to retrieve it before it can go anywhere else. We notice that there’s a large life ring which wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Titanic hanging on a wall next to the pool. This wouldn’t normally be worthy of comment, but the pool’s tiny and less than a metre deep. I suppose you can never be too careful.
I decide to go for a late evening hike up to the top of the ridge overlooking Port de Pollenca. The path looked very clear on the map, but it turns out to be the occasional pile of rocks to mark the way with no discernible track through the thick scrub in between them. I can see some people on the ridge above me. I then hear the sound of a helicopter. If it’s going to rescue them it will soon need to rescue me too if I keep going, so I give up and head back to the hotel.
We notice that the proprietors of our accommodation in Sardinia, the “Starry Sky Charming House”, have responded to the review I gave them on Trip Advisor. I gave them two stars, mostly on the basis that we were led to believe it was a four star hotel rather than a few rooms jammed onto one floor of an apartment block. As seems to be the case with anyone who dares to criticise them in even the smallest way, the response is dripping with venom. It’s very long, but the highlights include “You have no excuses” (for confusing us with a four star hotel).... ”We reject the falsehoods of frustrated and ignorant people.... You have shown immaturity in writing this false and meaningless review.... Only a fool can confuse a Charming House with a 4 star hotel”. I shouldn’t have expected anything less.
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