Markets, misjudgments, and a race against the rain

Cloudy start this morning — the sky doing its best impression of indecision, which, as it turns out, was foreshadowing. The usual breakfast was consumed with the usual efficiency, and with coffee doing its job, we hatched a plan: explore the interior towns to the east before whatever weather system Mallorca had queued up for us made an appearance.

First stop, Sineu. Then Manacor. Then, if the clouds allowed it, Artà, before looping back to base in Alcúdia. As it happens, we timed the whole thing with almost suspicious precision — the predicted storm rolled in minutes after we walked through the hotel doors. Either we’re getting good at this, or Mallorca’s weather forecasters deserve a raise.

Sineu: Where wednesday means business

Every Wednesday, the sleepy heart of the island wakes up and throws one of the most traditional markets in Mallorca — the kind of market that predates the concept of “artisanal” being a marketing word rather than just, you know, how things were made. It’s only about half an hour from Alcúdia, so we were on the road by 9:30am, feeling smug about our early start.

We found parking a couple of hundred yards from the action — a minor miracle in itself — and stepped into what I can only describe as a market that simply refuses to know its own boundaries. I’ve been to plenty of markets that occupy a square, a street, maybe a plaza if they’re feeling ambitious. Sineu’s spills across the whole town like it forgot where the edges were supposed to be. Livestock somewhere, leather goods somewhere else, a wall of cheese wheels daring you to resist, and enough roast pork smell in the air to make vegetarianism feel like a personal insult. Thoroughly worth the early alarm.

By the time we’d wandered our fill, the earlier menacing clouds had apparently given up and gone home, replaced by a hot, unbothered sun. Naturally, our response to a heatwave was to get back in a metal box on wheels and drive to the next town. Solid logic.

Manacor: The town that didn’t try

The plan was lunch in Manacor, the island’s second-largest town and — on paper — a reasonable stop. In practice, Manacor greeted us with all the warmth of an industrial estate on a Sunday. Concrete, traffic, and a general sense that nobody had told the town it was supposed to be charming. Famous, yes — it’s the birthplace of a certain tennis legend whose name you can probably guess — but fame and charm are evidently unrelated variables. We took one look, silently agreed without needing to say a word, and kept driving. Sorry, Manacor. Maybe another day, another mood.

Artà: The redemption arc

Thirty more minutes down the road, and what a difference thirty minutes makes. Artà was the plot twist we didn’t know we needed — narrow streets, honey-coloured stone, and an atmosphere that actually wanted us there. We parked, wandered, and then committed to the uphill pilgrimage to the Santuari de Sant Salvador, perched above the town like it’s been quietly judging visitors’ fitness levels for centuries. The view from up there was worth every step: rooftops, hills, and the kind of horizon that makes you forget you were just complaining about a car park in Manacor twenty minutes earlier.

Of course, the sky wasn’t done with its mood swings. The menacing clouds returned right on cue, the wind picked up, and our phones lit up with storm warnings promising landfall within the hour. Mallorca, it seems, doesn’t do subtle hints — it does full-cast announcements. We took it as our cue to beat a strategic retreat and pointed the car back toward Alcúdia.

Back to base, storm Included

We made it inside just as the sky finally made good on its threats. Small mercy: our hotel bar is indoors, which suddenly feels like the single most important amenity on the property. Right now I’m watching a grey, churning sea from the bedroom window, the waves working themselves into a proper tantrum, and the wind strong enough that opening the balcony door feels like a decision I’d regret.

I think a short nap is in order — purely tactical, of course, to be well-rested for that drink at the bar later.

Towns visited: Sineu (delightful), Manacor (skipped, unbothered), Artà (redemption arc of the day).