Supercars, 150 Euros sunbeds and the tragedy of the waiting egg

The new week arrived the way all good weeks should: with me still horizontal, polishing blog posts for a solid hour while the rest of the world pretended to be productive. By 7am, hunger had set in with the subtlety of a foghorn, but breakfast was a cruel hour away. Intimacy was, as they say, “not on the menu” — so I did what any reasonable person does when denied both food and affection: I read the news from around the world, grimly, over a growling stomach.

Egg and bacon finally secured, we hatched a plan to conquer Playa Calla Formentor, a beach a mere 15km away that requires you to drive a ribbon of tarmac so twisty it should come with a chiropractor on retainer. Naturally, we shared this road with several hundred cyclists, all seemingly training for a Tour de France stage titled “Ruin a Driver’s Morning.”

Car parked, we strolled through the grounds of the Four Seasons like people who belonged there, and asked about renting loungers. The answer was a cheerful “of course!” — for the modest sum of €150 for the day. Ridiculous. We wandered further and found a lesser patch of loungers going for a bargain-basement €80. Given our plan to actually use them for about two hours, the hourly rate approached “small yacht payment” territory, so we did the sensible thing: sat on the sand like commoners.

AirPods in, I gave Ten Years After a spin and discovered, much to my surprise, that they’ve aged like fine wine rather than fine cheese — considerably better than I remembered from the late ’60s. Within the hour, the beach filled in around us with the enthusiasm of commuters boarding rush-hour trains, several strangers apparently mistaking “personal space” for a myth.

Two hours of sand-based living later, we packed up and set off for Port de Pollença, a long-standing item on our list. Before we’d even cleared the car park, we had to yield right of way to roughly 20 supercars, all German-registered, in what can only be described as an automotive parade of questionable taste and unquestionable horsepower. Nothing — and I mean nothing — sounds better than a Lamborghini idling next to a Ferrari.

We spotted another 15-20 of these things on the road. I intend to investigate what this convoy of concentrated wealth was actually for, but conservatively, it was worth several million euros of midlife-crisis-adjacent engineering.

Port de Pollença, thankfully, delivered exactly what we’d hoped: a proper seafront lined with shops and restaurants. We claimed the best seats in the house for a refreshing drink and a round of tapas, because nothing pairs better with supercar envy than patatas bravas.

Back at the hotel, it was time for the mid-afternoon swim, followed by the traditional two pints at the bar, followed by an equally traditional short nap — a routine so well-rehearsed it should qualify as an Olympic event. Aperitifs came next at the hotel bar, then a short walk to Red Rum for dinner, which was fine. Perfectly fine. The kind of “fine” that doesn’t warrant a second visit but doesn’t warrant a complaint either.

Back at base, the obligatory oversized nightcap sealed the day, and it was — say it with me now — an early night, again.

Tomorrow: new territory. Let’s see what it charges for a sunbed.

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