Sunset on the Rocks
It was one of those strange conversations I've had from time to time on holiday. I was speaking in halting Spanish. I can order lunch in restaurants and purchase tickets for football matches from the taquillas, but I’m not going to be invited to any dinner parties to share my linguistic excellence just yet. The waitress was speaking fluent Spanish, but all the time I had a sneaking suspicion that she was English too. She looked distinctly northern European to me. By the time we arrived at the order for dessert, the penny had dropped on both sides. She was from Stoke on Trent, but she’d been here for some years now. We'd driven through Stoke just three months earlier, on the way home from the Roaches at the edge of the Peak District. “And you survived to tell the tale?” she joked. Well I think she was joking. It seemed she wasn't missing her home town too much. So instead of “dos helados,” I asked for two ice creams. And a coffee to wrap up lunch in the quiet small inland town. Simple honest fare on a plate. With bread and olives too. We like places like this, away from the tourist traps where people pay through the nose for eternal disappointment. Eleven euros each for two courses and a drink. Not quite what it was before a few years of rampant inflation, when we could get three courses and a carafe of rose for seven fifty each, but still agreeable enough. Our research hadn't uncovered many local bars with menu del dia lunch deals so we told her we'd be back some time the following week.
There were a couple of good reasons to head this way. The first was a huge cave in one of the hidden gorges that lie away from the beaten track on the island. A mile of walking along an agonisingly pretty country lane that only a tiny number of cars ever use. Walk south past the cemetery from Es Migjorn Gran and you too can enjoy utter silence in this perfect rural idyll where time stands still. To think that we're just a handful of miles away from the noisy beach bars and the mass of humanity that fill the resorts even in the first weeks of October. It seems impossible that somewhere nearby could be so peaceful. After the road we followed a narrow track, ever downwards and deep into the stillness of the gorge. The Cova des Coloms takes a bit of finding, but find it we did, nestling in the bright sunlit greens of the forest and echoing with the flutter of pigeons in flight. Named for its residents, the cave gives off a pungent aroma to test the senses, while the cool half light envelops the visitor and sends the imagination racing. There are people who say I belong in a cave, and I was happy enough in there too. Despite the wall to wall pigeon decorations.
The second good reason wasn't a good reason at all. I'd seen photographs from a wide sandy beach, pointing at a low flat islet out in the bay at Santo Tomas. It wasn't at the very top of my list of places to get a picture from, but a swim, a couple of hours lying in the sun followed by a half hearted sunset shoot seemed like a good way to spend the rest of the afternoon, and so we returned to the car and continued the short journey to the coast. Except that when we arrived, someone had taken all of the sand away and replaced it with an empty stony beach and a high tide. Not at all what I'd been expecting to find here. It was the first of a number of plans that didn’t quite unfold as I’d imagined, but we’ll come back to the others later on. We didn't linger here for very long. A walk to the east along the coastal path led to Platja d'Atalis and I knew there was a sea stack somewhere around there that might be worth a look.
The walk itself was pleasing enough, up onto low cliffs bordered by the edge of a pine forest. Another path, another mile. Not for the first time we were on the Cami de Cavalls - the long distance trail was already becoming a regular theme in our Menorcan adventures. We’d only been here for four days. Over the three weeks we’d find ourselves following the route time after time. Through a wooden gate, a field opened up, stretching away to the forest on the north side, while gaps through the scrub led onto a broad expanse of flat rock to the south. That sea stack was here somewhere, but exactly where I couldn't say. Well not until I found it much later. Too late to get a worthwhile shot on this visit, but there was plenty of time to come back and try again.
In the meantime I stumbled across this engaging scene, perfectly positioned in front of the setting sun with the high ground of neighbouring Majorca looking like a miniature world under a golden haze on the horizon. A sunset on the rocks, and once again Menorca was delivering surprises, this time along its gentle south coast. We’d need the torch to get back to the car later, but it’s always worth the effort for a view like this.
Sunset on the Rocks
It was one of those strange conversations I've had from time to time on holiday. I was speaking in halting Spanish. I can order lunch in restaurants and purchase tickets for football matches from the taquillas, but I’m not going to be invited to any dinner parties to share my linguistic excellence just yet. The waitress was speaking fluent Spanish, but all the time I had a sneaking suspicion that she was English too. She looked distinctly northern European to me. By the time we arrived at the order for dessert, the penny had dropped on both sides. She was from Stoke on Trent, but she’d been here for some years now. We'd driven through Stoke just three months earlier, on the way home from the Roaches at the edge of the Peak District. “And you survived to tell the tale?” she joked. Well I think she was joking. It seemed she wasn't missing her home town too much. So instead of “dos helados,” I asked for two ice creams. And a coffee to wrap up lunch in the quiet small inland town. Simple honest fare on a plate. With bread and olives too. We like places like this, away from the tourist traps where people pay through the nose for eternal disappointment. Eleven euros each for two courses and a drink. Not quite what it was before a few years of rampant inflation, when we could get three courses and a carafe of rose for seven fifty each, but still agreeable enough. Our research hadn't uncovered many local bars with menu del dia lunch deals so we told her we'd be back some time the following week.
There were a couple of good reasons to head this way. The first was a huge cave in one of the hidden gorges that lie away from the beaten track on the island. A mile of walking along an agonisingly pretty country lane that only a tiny number of cars ever use. Walk south past the cemetery from Es Migjorn Gran and you too can enjoy utter silence in this perfect rural idyll where time stands still. To think that we're just a handful of miles away from the noisy beach bars and the mass of humanity that fill the resorts even in the first weeks of October. It seems impossible that somewhere nearby could be so peaceful. After the road we followed a narrow track, ever downwards and deep into the stillness of the gorge. The Cova des Coloms takes a bit of finding, but find it we did, nestling in the bright sunlit greens of the forest and echoing with the flutter of pigeons in flight. Named for its residents, the cave gives off a pungent aroma to test the senses, while the cool half light envelops the visitor and sends the imagination racing. There are people who say I belong in a cave, and I was happy enough in there too. Despite the wall to wall pigeon decorations.
The second good reason wasn't a good reason at all. I'd seen photographs from a wide sandy beach, pointing at a low flat islet out in the bay at Santo Tomas. It wasn't at the very top of my list of places to get a picture from, but a swim, a couple of hours lying in the sun followed by a half hearted sunset shoot seemed like a good way to spend the rest of the afternoon, and so we returned to the car and continued the short journey to the coast. Except that when we arrived, someone had taken all of the sand away and replaced it with an empty stony beach and a high tide. Not at all what I'd been expecting to find here. It was the first of a number of plans that didn’t quite unfold as I’d imagined, but we’ll come back to the others later on. We didn't linger here for very long. A walk to the east along the coastal path led to Platja d'Atalis and I knew there was a sea stack somewhere around there that might be worth a look.
The walk itself was pleasing enough, up onto low cliffs bordered by the edge of a pine forest. Another path, another mile. Not for the first time we were on the Cami de Cavalls - the long distance trail was already becoming a regular theme in our Menorcan adventures. We’d only been here for four days. Over the three weeks we’d find ourselves following the route time after time. Through a wooden gate, a field opened up, stretching away to the forest on the north side, while gaps through the scrub led onto a broad expanse of flat rock to the south. That sea stack was here somewhere, but exactly where I couldn't say. Well not until I found it much later. Too late to get a worthwhile shot on this visit, but there was plenty of time to come back and try again.
In the meantime I stumbled across this engaging scene, perfectly positioned in front of the setting sun with the high ground of neighbouring Majorca looking like a miniature world under a golden haze on the horizon. A sunset on the rocks, and once again Menorca was delivering surprises, this time along its gentle south coast. We’d need the torch to get back to the car later, but it’s always worth the effort for a view like this.