Moving On. Part 3
Fri 25 Sep 98.
They say the way to make money in Mallorca is to bring it with you. That’s not entirely true, but winter can be challenging. Many arrive for summer jobs in the black economy, by the season’s end with no money to get home they have few options. One evening, with our guests Erich and Ute walking our dogs and their daughter Nicola by the pool, someone walked into the annexe. Cards, money, drivers’ licenses, IDs, even Erich’s tobacco and pipe, were taken. At the barracks, the Guardia Civil were dealing with a coach accident, so it took time to file the crime report. We returned home at 20:00hrs, at 23:00hrs, two Guardia arrived to investigate the robbery. You might think that’s just for show, but I’ve seen the Guardia work, especially with organised gangs. Reports are filled in, it seems like nothing’s happening, then a raid goes down. If you’ve reported what’s stolen, there’s a chance you’ll get it back.
Next morning, the big news in the local paper was of an international anti-terrorism conference being held in Palma. I thought that should have been kept quiet. In Cana Cavea, Sandy was more worried about the animals adapting to a house in Porto Colom with no garden. Our future now depended on the emotional well being of two cats and two dogs. I considered suggesting counselling but thought better of it. Showing empathy, I said we could delay signing Sebastian’s contract until Sandy found another place. Then she could tell him we didn’t want his house. With all its memories, I wondered about our emotional state when we left Cana Cavea. For our sanity, we had to solve the accommodation problem and get on with building the new house.
Sun 27 Sep.
With the move churning in my head like a cement mixer I couldn’t sleep, so at 04:00 I got up. Sandy, was face down in the bed a foot sticking out from under the quilt. Tayrne was curled up on the sofa downstairs watching Tom Cruise in ‘Gerry Maguire’, Javie had gone to bed, Rohan was still out.
It was a clear starry morning, quiet but for the distant barking of a dog and the dull clank of sheep bells from the fields. A silent storm far out at sea occasionally lit up the dark sky. I sat on the pool terrace, looking east, the hilltop monastery of San Salvador, with clouds spilling down into the valley like a waterfall, stood silhouetted against a brightening pale-yellow sky. Cockerels announced the dawn and bats flitted by in the dim light to roost in the stone walls of our old house.
From 50 Km came the low rumble of a jet leaving Palma airport for the north, another holiday in the sun over. Mallorca was settling into the calm of winter, soon, bars and restaurants would close, and waiters would turn to construction work until the new season. For a while, Mallorca would return to the timeless Mediterranean island I love. As the morning sun peeked from behind the monastery, the moment passed, and a new day began.
Later in the morning, I drove to Cala D’Or to pick up my friend Roy and take him to the airport. I’d met Roy on the island the previous year, and we became good friends. He was first-generation West Indian, his dad came to England from St Lucia in the 1950s. His girlfriend was an Icelandic holiday rep who was off to Dublin the next day for the Irish winter season. Roy spent his early years in a London gang but finding a talent for sales and business he left that scene to become something of an entrepreneur.
At the airport, I said goodbye to another friend, not knowing if or when I’d see him again, that’s how it is living on an island. Years later, I got a call from Roy on holiday in Palma Nova now with an English wife and baby. By then we’d built ‘The Wild Olive’, so I drove over and brought them back for Sunday lunch with my own family come home to roost.
Palma is a beautiful city, when I left the airport, for no reason other than I could, I drove to the Avenidas and took the back streets to Portopi. From there, I went along the Paseo Maritimo past ferries, cruise ships and a clutter of super yachts and tall-masted sail boats berthed on the seafront. A typical Palma morning, tourists in sunshine at street cafes or strolling on the pedestrian way by the moored vessels, with roller-bladers weaving perilously between them.
As I approached the traffic lights, at the junction to Carrer de Monsiñor Palma, there was chaos. Police cars, ambulances, fire engines and a crowd on the seaward side of the Paseo. On my side of the road, the traffic was moving slowly. On the opposite side, it was backing up to the Cathedral. First, I thought there was an accident, then I saw the road was strewn with rattan tables and chairs, and shards of glass. The front of the Cappuccino Cafe was blown out. First responders were already on the scene, but it was clear from the build up of traffic the incident had only just occurred. The International Anti Terrorist conference flashed through my mind, followed by a memory of Belfast in the 80s. It must have been a bomb. As the police moved us on, I saw the irony of it, the Cappuccino formed a street corner with Hogan’s Irish Pub.
At home forty minutes later, I searched the Spanish TV channels, but there was nothing. Changing to the BBC I was astonished, it was already being reported with video coverage.
Later that week, I found out the explosion was from a methane gas leak from a septic tank beneath the building. There were many injuries, but incredibly only one death. A waiter who’d been in the basement died after being helicoptered to a special burns unit in Valencia. Ironically, he’d exchanged shifts with a friend that day. Fate deals some unexpected cards.
In comparison to the drama in Palma, our house move was mundane, but we humans are a strange lot, and life goes on. After lunch, we took the dogs to Porto Colom to see if it would help Sandy decide about the house. Lady got excited, understandable, it was where she was found abandoned ten years earlier. Crommie, his usual indifferent self, sniffed around and marked the territory. No decision made, we returned home.
Mon 28 Sep, I got up at 05:45. Anticipating I’d have no need of high permeability ferrite core calculations, photon multipliers or electronic components while building a Mallorcan farmhouse, I ruthlessly culled my technical books. An action I’d later come to regret.
At 08:30, I found Crommie still locked in the car from the previous night. Toby, the cat was asleep in a packing box, she was so content I couldn’t disturb her, so I gently moved the box under a table in case someone kicked it out of the way.
Sandy and I got into a heavy discussion about the Porto Colom house. For me, it was just a temporary base to operate from until we built our house, but I was a man, and men are from Mars. Women from Venus have a different view of a home, temporary or not. Sandy was further stressed, clearing the downstairs bedroom for the arrival of our friend Mel, and getting the house ready for a visit by the new owners. Not an easy task in the midst of packing your life away and heading for an uncertain future. Tensions came to the boil, and the Cana Cavea pressure cooker exploded. It didn’t blow the windows and doors out, but it was equally disruptive.
Having to drive to the airport was a fortunate diversion. Sandy, Tayrne and I picked Mel up, and the four of us went into Palma. Sitting at a pavement cafe in the afternoon sun opposite the Royal Palace, drinking coffee, eating bocadillos and watching the world go by lifted our spirits.
After dropping Tayrne at her flat in Francesca de Borja Moll, we returned home.
At Cana Cavea I made pesto sauce and spaghetti. After eating, in a more relaxed atmosphere, I washed up and went to bed, leaving the girls to talk.
Sandy and I are a volatile couple with diametrically opposed views at the best of times. Now, with only four weeks to find somewhere to live, there was a great potential for more explosions in Mallorca. Our latest venture was definitely not for the fainthearted.