Day 1

Escaping the mainland (sort of)

Some months ago, in a fit of what I can only describe as extended-summer ambition, we decided that our year needed one more slice of sea, sun, and questionable sunscreen application. The target: the largest of the Balearic Islands, which also happens to be the nearest island surrounded by actual sea to our home — a modest 550 km away. Apparently “nearest” is a very generous word when islands are involved.

There were options, as there always are when you overthink a holiday for months. A ferry from France, stately and slow. A ferry from Barcelona, or some other Spanish port, equally scenic and equally capable of eating an entire day. Flights from Spain, sensible but not ours to catch. In the end, efficiency won the argument it always wins: we’re flying out of Toulouse (TLS), which cheerfully tacks on an extra 100 km to our final destination, Palma de Mallorca. Never mind the logic — the flight itself is a breezy hour and change, which is shorter than most arguments about which airport to use.

Before departure, naturally, I did what any self-respecting armchair statistician does before a trip: I looked up who else bothers to visit. Turns out the French are surprisingly unenthusiastic about Mallorca, limping in at 7th place in the tourist rankings. The clear champions are the Germans, arriving in their 3.25 million–strong glory, followed by the British at a respectable 1.9 million, then mainland Spaniards nudging past the 1 million mark. The French, meanwhile, scrape together roughly 10% of the German contingent — a statistic I choose to interpret not as national indifference, but as elite selectivity. We may be few, but we are discerning.

As for luggage — hand luggage only, obviously. There’s a certain smugness to walking past the check-in queue with nothing but a single bag and the quiet confidence of someone who has ruthlessly interrogated every item they packed (“do I need this, or do I just like it”) and won.

So here we are: bags zipped, itinerary vaguely formed, statistics duly consulted, and about one hour until we head for the airport. Germany may bring the numbers. Britain may bring the volume. We intend to bring the vibe.

Onward to Palma

Ryanair, Padrón peppers and the loneliest bar in town

Toulouse airport had the eerie stillness of a place that had heard a rumour about a pandemic and decided to prepare early. Naturally, the universe decided this was the moment to select my two innocent pieces of hand luggage for a special security inspection. Nothing amiss was found, of course — there rarely is — but the ritual must be observed.

Then, Ryanair. I promised myself I wouldn’t relitigate old grievances, and I shall hold to that, except to note that boarding once again confirmed my theory that Ryanair doesn’t just transport passengers, it curates them. Watching grown adults stage impromptu seat swaps to sit next to a partner, a friend, or apparently a total stranger they’d bonded with at the gate, I was reminded of flights in China, where at least the chaos came with the excuse of novelty — many had simply never flown before. Here, there was no such excuse. Just enthusiasm.

Mercifully, the flight itself behaved: an easy hour in the air, an on-time landing, and a transfer waiting exactly where it was supposed to be. Fifteen minutes later we were in town. The hotel turned out to be a pleasant surprise, and the welcome drink at the sky bar, poolside, was a promising start — one I intend to revisit before this trip is over.

But fun, real fun, would have to wait, because the old town was calling. We never actually made it there. A charming, old-fashioned bar intervened, offering aperitifs, a plate of Padrón peppers, and prime people-watching real estate, and who am I to argue with fate and fried peppers? That apparently counted as a warm-up act for the appetite, because we doubled back to Dôme, a tapas restaurant we’d eyed on the way over. Good instinct — classic tapas with just enough nouvelle-cuisine flourish to keep things interesting. The only mildly amusing note: for an “early” Spanish dinner, the room was full of Germans and English making the most sensible dining decision in the building.

By 9:30 we were back at the hotel, ready for a nightcap, only to find the bar as empty as the airport had been that morning. Apparently everyone else had also decided the smart move was bed. So: an early night, and a promise of more tomorrow.

Next day (to follow)

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