Mallorca Arrival, April 86_(1).
In late 1985, Sandy and I decided that the way we were going, we would never finish renovating the old Mallorcan farmhouse we had purchased in May of that same year. We’d taken three short breaks to the island, camped in house ‘Cana Cave’ and done some work, but, like some miniature Machu Picchu, every time we returned nature had taken over, and we had to start again. Before Christmas, in front of a winter’s fire, we decided on a new plan. We would move with our children, and try a new life in the Mediterranean.
At the time, I was 36, Sandy was 33, Rohan our son and Tayrne our daughter were 6 and 7 respectively. We would sell our house in the UK, metaphorically burning our bridges. That was a big gamble, but the only way we could finance the project. At the time Spain was not in the EEC, and Mallorca was a strategic military island, you had to get military permission to live there. There would be a lot of paperwork and bureaucracy to deal with. There were some redeeming factors in our plan; There was talk of Spain joining the EEC in the next few years, negotiations were underway in Brussels. If that happened, the Treaty of Rome would come into force and things would be more relaxed. One thing was clear if Spain went into the EEC, then everyone and his dog would want a piece of it, and property prices would soar in the new California of Europe. In or out, we felt that the gamble would be worth the risk.
Shortly after Christmas 1986 we sold our house 17 Dunstable Road in Flitwick, moved in with Sandy’s parents, and prepared for our departure to Spain. There was much to be done, but by April we were ready to go. With no Easyjet or Ryanair, we booked flights on a package tour to Mallorca, without accommodation not meaning to use the return tickets.
On a spring morning, 18 April 1986, the four of us stepped off a Monarch flight from Luton and made our way across the tarmac to the transfer bus. We mixed inconspicuously with the mass of tourists that every year throng to Mallorca, a Mediterranean holiday island much maligned by those who don’t know its soul or its people. Most people come on a short package deal for sun, sand and booze on a holiday that could have been almost anywhere in the world; we, however, were on a one-way trip. Nothing suicidal you understand, we were just not going home. For now, for better or worse, Mallorca was our home. Not a modern urbanisation on the coast for us. We were going east to the countryside close to the town of Felanitx and a five and a half thousand square metre field with a dilapidated old farmhouse nestled under the mountain monastery of San Salvador.
We crammed onto the bus in the warm morning sunshine. Sandy and I were squashed together face to face, the children tucked somewhere underneath us like chicks. Sandy had a wonderful black eye which she received a few days earlier while getting in the washing. Working quickly because it was raining, a gust of wind dislodged the prop which hit her as she bent down with the washing, she was lucky not to have lost an eye. Sandy was embarrassed about the adornment, but not as self-conscious as I was. I’d imagined looks and behind the hand comments as we went to our seats in the aeroplane.
“A wife-beater.”
“The brute and those lovely children. It shouldn’t be allowed”.
There were almost gasps as I had stuffed Anni, Tayrne’s life-like doll, into the luggage locker above our seats.
Back on the transit bus, I could hear Tayrne talking to Anni. Tayrne was small for her age, there was not a lot of difference in size between her and the dolly she hugged in her arms.
“How’s Anni?”.
“She’s all right, but she doesn’t like flying very much.”
A few lucky passengers had seats, the rest of us were trying to minimise full body contact as the bus jolted its way to passport control. I remember looking beyond the parked airliners and private planes, and past the brightly coloured metal vaned wind-mills to the distant mountains under a clear blue sky and wondering what the hell I was doing.
The bus pulled up to a passageway with two passport control channels. We were the third bus to unload, another UK plane, parked next to ours, was also dropping off passengers.
We were crammed together again, this time, it was more uncomfortable from the warm air and heat generated by the mass of people crowded together in the confined space. I looked directly at the back of a peroxide dyed head of a woman explaining, in a Birmingham accent, to another woman immobilised next to her that she had been coming to Majorca for twenty-five years. She always stayed at the same hotel in Arenal. They always remembered her, she was a celebrity there. She had seen the changes that had happened over the years. The hotel was the only one on that stretch of beach when she had first visited the island. Now they stretched all the way to Palma.
It was beautiful to see it all develop. Majorca was nothing short of paradise. She lit up a long duty-free. The resulting cloud of blue smoke engulfed my head. Having given up the habit years ago, the sudden inhalation of fumes caused me to splutter uncontrollably into the back of her neck. Her head swung around, and a large earring, like a demolition ball, swung perilously past my face. She glared at me from her, pre tanned, sun wrinkled face. With the cigarette clamped firmly in one corner of her mouth, she spoke at me from the other. I was transfixed by the smouldering red end that waved up and down an inch from my nose. One glance from her experienced eye immediately classified me as an amateur first tripper.
“And where are you off to deary?” she inquired.
“Son Barćelo.”
“Where?”
“Son Barćelo. Near Felanitx.”
“Fela what? Never heard of it.’ she said in disgust and turned back to her friend to tell about the incredible fall-down Sangria served up in Juan’s place.
The passport men looked from their cubicle, indifferent as the river of tourist split into two streams and flowed around their inspection windows. The passport photo and owners face were given a cursory inspection, and the visitant was dismissed with a casual sideways flip of the hand. It was an automatic action carried out a thousand times before; eye photograph, inspect face, return passport, dismiss subject, next. The official continued his programmed cycle until it was my turn. I pushed the passport under the slit. Eye photograph, inspect face, return passport, flip hand, dismissed, next. I slid the passport back under the glass. The man re-ran the program.
This time, he quickly turned as if to look for my twin. I was impressed he wasn’t as laid back as I’d thought. The man looked at me, quizzically. I tried to remember my rehearsed speech, the words come out staccato, individual blurts of sound.
“Yo-no-una-turista-yo-vivo-aqie-en-Mallorca. Quero-una-Sello”.
The Spanish embassy in London was adamant, we had to tell passport control that we weren’t tourists, we had to have our passports stamped on entry for official reasons to get our furniture into the country; it was essential.
“Que?” The man leaned forward, inclining his head towards the glass partition.
The throng behind was restless at the delay as another busload piled into the hall. I composed myself and repeated the words, this time trying to make them come out with an even flow.
“Que?” my B.B.C. ‘Por Aque’ Spanish did not impress this official. I decided to dispense with the niceties and go straight to the point. Poking a finger under the glass at the passport, I simply said.
“Sello.” and on consideration again. “Sello. Por favor.”
What joy, I saw the light of comprehension dawn across his face. He actually smiled.
“Ah! Sello.” He repeated. He slid open the drawer under the desk and with an authoritative thud, he stamped the passport. I thought to ask him to do Sandy’s but quickly dismissed the idea as I caught the mood of the mob behind. We entered Mallorca and moved towards the baggage carousel.
Strange as it seemed, we were now home.