THE CALIPHATE AND THE
CARCOAL BURNERS. Start on the
outskirts of Es Capdella, following the GR221 footpath up to the Finca de
Galatzo, an estate dating ack to Moorish times. It then climbs stteply up to
the pass and descends through the pine woods to the village of Estellencs
(seven miles, five hours). The path is closed for a stretch east of here; a
15-minute bus ride takes you to Banyalbufar.
With a desultory woofing and the distant whine of a moped,
the village of Es Capdella (‘the end of the road’ in Mallorquin dialect) peters
out. Ahead leis a pale, dusty track edged by dry-stone walls. It leads towards
the Pug Galatzo, the highest peak in the west of Mallorca, the limestone summit
of which looms halfway up the sky in front of me. The air has a February chill,
though there is already warmth in the sun on my back. On either side,
enveloping all with their sweet, faintly peppery scent, are almond orchards in
full flower, an extravaganza of white and pink punctuated by rows of black
trunks.
‘Spring-in winter,’ smiles my guide, Jesca, a Brit who knows
these paths intimately from more than a decade of exploration. ‘It’s always
uplifting, coming so early.’ A few blue periwinkles are timidly appearing, but,
as Jesca says, the time for most wild flowers is later – April and May – when
these fields are carpeted with poppies and asphodels. Only the almond braves
the end of winter. Blooming recklessly, straight from the branch, the almond
knows nothing of caution. One late storm and the fragile petals will be
battered and destroyed; the entire harvest can be lost. Who could not warm to
such a tree?
The orchads lie along the ‘Ruta de Pedra Sec’, the dry-stone
route, recently rebranded as the GR221, which runs northeast through the wild,
unspoilt mountains of the Serra de Tramuntana. For the next few days, Jesca and
I will walk along paths that are an integral part of Mallorca’s history and
folklore. This sense of continuity is all around us as we approach the Finca de
Galatzo, the lovely ochre-coloured house at the heart of an estate that was
originally established under the Caliphate, the Moorish rulers of Mallorca in
the 10th century. On the hillside opposite you can see the irrigation system
they introduced ,still carrying water to a large aljibe, a water cistern,
overhung by palms and pomegranate trees. The Moors, too, taught the islanders
to terrace the land with dry-stones walls, and brought with them the ubiquitous
oranges, lemons and almonds, whose flavours lend a Middle Eastern subtlety to
Mallorcan cuisine.
We make our way up the valley behind the house, through an
oak forest dotted with the remains of charcoal burners’ huts. As recently as
the 1920s charcoal was Mallorca’s main fuel, produced by groups of families
living in camps in the forest. It was a hard life, tending week-long fires in
the tinderbox summer. They built their little thatched huts for a season, then
moved on; these cool, bare-earthed oak woods must have been a relief from the
hellish heat of their fires.
The sun is high in the sky now, and soon the oak and pine
woods drop away and we are climbing through a pungent scrub of rosemary and
thyme. The valley below stretches away to the plain, twists of smoke rising
here and there. The sea gleams hazily in the distance, and a holiday resort can
just be seen in silhouette, as inconsequential in this grand landscape as a
child’s building blocks left out on the rug.
At the pass we step through a gateway and instantly find
ourselves in different terrain, north facing and damp. A mossy path runs
through a cool pine wood, fringed with lichen; underfoot, the diss grass is
thick and tussocky. After the toil uphill the stone circles (sitges) on which
charcoal burners lit their fires; we are following their route to market.
The shadows are lengthening by the time we walk into
Estellencs, ringed by almond blossom. As I sit on a warm stone wall, waiting
for the bus to Banyalbufar, an image of the charcoal burners’ arrival in the
village flashes into my mind –their blackened faces, the smell of wood smoke as
they lead mules piled high with fuel for sale; the villagers’ sideways looks,
half condescending and half afraid of these vild woodsmen who have walked
straight out of the Middle Ages into their market square.
The charming rooms at Hotel Son Borguny in Banyalbulfar
look out over tiled rooftops to the sea; the dining room serves a Mallorcan
menu (sonborguny.com).
Recently awarded Michelin’s Bib Gourmand’, Son Tomas has
dishes including a warming seafood and potato hotpot (Baronia 17, BAnyalbulfar;
closed Dec-Jan).
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