I'm quite annoyed. Virtually ever since booking a holiday to Majorca I've had a cracking jackpot blog post title ready and waiting. All I needed to do was find a particular kind of dark beer, and find it a bit weird, and hey presto: the porter in Majorca don't taste like what it ought to. But could we find any beers from the supposed 8 craft breweries on the island? No. Grr.
Still, Helen's been on top form. She came up with every one of the titles so far. Hats off.
Anyway. Monday was upon. The view from the loo is nice.
Breakfast is from 0900-1030; we headed down around 1015 and met the owner of the place. After sitting down to our juice and meat and cheese and pastries, I made the shameful admission about having broken our room key. Good job we did it then; she'd just been up and unknowingly locked us out.
Today, hopefully, we are heading to Soller ("soy-air") to get a train. Rich doesn't really know the way but intends to head to Palma and then out. But, early on we see a big fat road sign to Soller before we even reach Andratx. Let's see where it takes us.
Also, donkeys. These are on the other side, and Helen makes a beeline for the nearest one in order to seek solace for her woes. This guy lets out a giant, louder than loud bray, silencing all the other tourists and making all the other donkeys look round. Helen retreats; Rich and I approach and he's quiet.
A little while after there, there is a genuine large fork in the road as we can choose to continue the genuinely scenic but unfortunately terrifying route, or head inland. For Helen's sake we choose the latter, and find ourselves in a town called Esporles. The river is somewhat dry.
We stop, because we're all hungry and thirsty and the other two need a smoke. Esporles seems, as with everywhere else on the island, lovely. Each street corner has a sign pointing to things like Spar, a vet, a hairdresser, etc. I have a beer, the others have softs. The place is very reminiscent of a typically Australian "hotel" bar, actually, especially with all the fruit machines and other gambling paraphernalia.
While there we realise there are basically no trains from Soller to Palma in the afternoon, so our plan is kinda scuppered. But we press on anyway, because it's meant to be a nice place anyway, and there's a tram too.
We pay the toll for the tunnel, rather than the insane mega-switchback hairpin freebie.
We go to buy tram tickets, and learn you buy on board. There's one due in 10 minutes, and every half hour. We're hungry so go to a tapas bar, who tell us the kitchen is closed. Whatever. We go back and wait for the tram instead, deciding to eat in Port de Soller at the other end.
A tram arrives, and then goes into the depot behind closed gates. Another one does the same. No-one has a clue what's happening. Then, one of them comes back out and lets us on. I love this. Several coaches, including the one we board, are old converted San Francisco cable cars.
We're all feeling pretty thirsty, Helen in particular. There are loads of places to choose from and we perch at one of them, next to all these boats 'n that, and order. Her vodka is comedy giant size. The choricitos and albondigas are pretty nice.