SAINTS AND ARCHDUKES
For one of the most striking walks in
Mallorca, join the GR221 on the outskirts of Valldemossa and head up a steep
path through the woods. After an hour or so, you meerge on to ‘the Archduke’s
path’, a cobbled track along the bar, rocky limestone ride, with grandiose
views alogn the north coast. A steep descent through forest leads you to the
charming village of Deia (six miles, five hours), from where to bus to Soller
takes half an hour. Finally take a taxi or walk the two miles up to the village
of Fornalutx.
#In the midst of the
Serra de Tramuntana at an altitude of 425 metres, VAlldemossa is one of the
highest towns in Mallorca
During the night, I am woken by rain and drumrolls of
thunder in the mountains, but by early morning the graceful spire of
Valldemossa’s Carthusian monastery stands out against a clear blue sky.
Frederic Chopin’s lover, George Sand (a pseudonym for Amantine Lucile Aurore
Dupin), made the town and its inhabitans famous after she wrote a mealy-mouthed
description fo the winter the couple spendt renting rooms in its cloister; this
morning it is hard to sympathise with her moans.
I light a candle before an image of another celebrity
resident, Santa Catalina Tomas, a beloved 16 th century saint. A painting in
the monastery illustrates an episode from her early years: sent up into the
hills with lunch for the shepherds, the little Tomasseta stumbled and fell down
the cliff. She was caught, miraculously, in the hands of St Bruno, the founder
of the Carthusians movement.
#Valldemossa’s
Carthusians monastery dates back to the 14th century
Behind the town, Jesca and I set off on a small, rocky path
that climbs steeply through the oak woods, hair pinning back and forth. After
an hour or so the oaks thin, the first rays of sun pour in, and we are out in
the open, among limestone crags as airy as cloud. Our path runs along the edge
of a cliff face; a stone’s throw to the left, perhaps just where the saint lost
her footing, the rock drops sheer to a wooded valley almost a hundred metres
below, and on down to the jagged dark line wit hits white collar of surf where
the rocks meet the sea. The coast is sketched out before us; the villages of
Deia and Soller floating in azure haze and, far beyond, the cliffs of the Cap
de Formentor. All around us the early sun is dressing the pale rock in the
pinks and golds of a church ceiling.
Santa Catalina walked these hills before the fine cobbled
path that we are treading existed. It was laid in the 1860s under the auspices
of the Archduke Ludwig Salvador, a minor Habsburg and passionate fan of Mallorca.
He is remembered affectionately for his generosity (no doubt this path was an
early employment-creation scheme) and his poor dress sense, thanks to which the
expression to ‘dress leke an archduke’ is still a euphemism for scruffiness in
Mallorca. At this time of year the Archduke’s path is almost empty, and the few
people we see are largely Mallorcan, with the easy, measured stride of lifelong
walkers. For a while, we walk alongside two friends who have been coming up
here every week for more than a decade. When I ask the elder of the pair what
it is that draws him back, again and again, to the Tramuntan, he doesn’t answer
immediately. ‘As a boy,’ he says at last, ‘I was a shepherd in the Alpujarras.
So, you see,’ he shrugs, ‘the mountains are my life.’
A little further on our path an ebullient, chamois like
fellow hails us with the cry, ‘Oye, que pasa?’ (‘What’s going on?’). he bounds
up to tell us what’s going on with him, a torrent of news about his daily
walks, the large distance he regularly covers, and the adventures that befall
him up here in the hills.
‘These mountains remind you how fragile life is,’ he says,
still beaming. ‘I love them for that’. We take care down the steep and slippery
path to Deia, the limestone clinking like porcelain under our feet, the air hot
and incense-scented, as though we were descending from some low-lying heaven.
Outside Deia we pass a small almond orchard, battered by
storm of the previous night. Soggy brown petals lie in drifts beneath the
stark, iron black branches. Here and there, a flew blossoms remain, looking
forlorn. This year they have lost their gamble with the seasons.
The elegantly furnished Ca’n Reus in Fronalutx has the feel
of a handsome 19-th century Mallorcan house. There’s leafy garden and a pool
with mountain views (canreushotel.com).
Ca N’Antuna is
locally famous for its oven-cooked lamb and other meats. Dine on the terrace
fro grand views across Fornalutx and the surrounding mountains. (Carrer de
Arbona Colom, 14).
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