Isla bonita: the charms of Mallorca

If you’re tough enough for an eye-wateringly early flight, you can make a weekend in Mallorca seem like a far longer break — the combination of short flying time with numerous destinations within easy reach of the airport means that you can be ensconced in your hotel room before elevenses. And if that hotel happens to be the extravagantly luxurious Jumeirah in Port Sóller, on the island’s northwest coast, then you’ll feel restored in five minutes.

The hotel stretches along the clifftop, its sleek low-rise white architecture lending it, from certain viewpoints, the look of a cruise liner. We arrived in time to catch the hotel’s shuttle bus — a few minutes’ trip down the steep hill to the harbour front, thence to catch one of the area’s most delightful traditions: the 100-year-old tram that runs between Port Sóller and the main town of Sóller. It’s a short ride, but a hugely enjoyable one — nestling on the wooden benches, running into town past market stalls selling jamón, freshly sugared churros and piles of the local oranges; stay on it until the main station, and you’ll be able to drop into the Picasso and Miró museum.

Lunch in the shade of the impressive Sant Bartomeu church in the small town’s main square is too tempting to pass up and doesn’t need to be elaborate: a freezing cold Estrella beer and a plate of albondigas (meatballs) will wreck neither appetite nor wallet. Just as well: we happened upon that tempting churro stall, narrowly missed the tram back to the port and took a taxi back to base instead.

And just as well, too, that there was still some room left for dinner, although not before a cocktail. And here were oranges once again, this time in a gin and tonic flavoured with a dollop of homemade marmalade. I have tried to recreate it at home but, as with many overseas delicacies, something has been lost in translation. The Jumeirah’s restaurant, Cap Roig — named after a fish common to the region — is all elegance and calm, with a large terrace for eating beneath the pine trees in warm weather. Unsurprisingly, given the fishing boats puttering up and down the bays, it specialises in fish and seafood. We shared a whole sea bass baked in salt, which provided a wonderful piece of theatre as our waiter attacked the hardened crust with a knife and wrestled it into submission. What lay within — meltingly tender and fresh as a daisy — tasted both sublime and sublimely healthy.

I had brought with me one of my oldest friends, and not by chance. We had come here as part of a larger group that included her two very small children many years earlier; we realised just how many when we remembered her little boy toddling about the swimming pool — the boy who is about to sit his GCSEs. We’d stayed in the tiny village of Fornalutx nearby, surrounded by the jagged peaks of the Serra de Tramuntana mountain range. So, the next day, we set out to find it. These memory-lane enterprises are fraught with danger; the idyllic bar you sipped Rioja in when you were young turns out to be a TGI Friday’s, and so forth.

But Fornalutx was unchanged, from the green-shuttered villas lining its twisty streets to its minute square with an ancient drinking fountain from which we both recalled my godson contentedly lapping water; his older sister, a junior gourmet, first sampled mussels in the square’s restaurant, also still there. We tracked down the farmhouse we’d rented, which belonged to the late artist Paul Hogarth and was filled with pictures in his distinctive style, so recognisable for anyone familiar with classic Graham Greene novels, and peered sentimentally through the railings. Then we found the Petit Hotel, in which we’d also stayed for a night; as its name suggests, it is small, but it is also perfectly formed. We chatted to the manager, who insisted we take a tour; a recent refurbishment hasn’t dimmed its old-world charm.

Back at the Jumeirah — a hotel so well appointed and with such discreetly thoughtful service that you could easily stay put, waste though that would be — we attempted to bliss out further with a session of moonlit yoga on an extensive deck. ‘I’m not great at this,’ I told our instructor, Ute, but she bore with me throughout, even when she had to, er, ‘encourage’ me into the smiling baby position. One other sight of note: a fellow downward dogger who, despite wearing unexceptional yoga gear, kept her bright red leather and suede biker jacket on throughout. Yoga, Balearic style: a good look.

More strenuous exercise came when, having headed to the port for another delicious fishy dinner at Ses Oliveres, we decided to walk off the lemon tart and Cava by walking home. The hill, as billed, is steep but the calf-burn made the following morning’s massage and wallow in the rooftop hydrotherapy pool all the more pleasurable. And those hills are responsible for another of the island’s most commonly seen sights: packs of cyclists in training, from enthusiastic amateurs to pros such as Bradley Wiggins, who has described the island’s terrain as ‘a Scalextric set for cyclists’.

Even during a brief stay, there’s much within easy reach, including the hilltop town of Deià so beloved by the rich, famous and creative (including the writers Robert Graves and George Sand, who wrote A Winter in Majorca about the time she spent in nearby Valldemossa with her lover, the composer Chopin); it’s in Deià that Richard Branson created his hotel La Residencia. We didn’t make it there on this occasion, but Mallorca is not a place you want to leave without a reason to go back. I won’t wait a dozen years next time.

CHECK IN

ITC Luxury Travel is offering seven nights for the price of six B&B at Jumeirah Port Soller in a Superior Mountain View room for two adults, including return economy-class flights and private transfers, from £1,899 per person, saving up to £375pp. Valid for travel 1-31 July. Book by 15 May (01244 355 550; itcluxurytravel.co.uk). Jumeirah Port Soller Hotel & Spa (00 34 971 637 888; jumeirah.com)