Ses Oliveras was open last night, so we had a fantastic meal. Please, if you ever come to Port de Sóller, promise you will visit Ses Oliveras, and order the shoulder of lamb. You will not regret it.
Was the waiter Dutch, or Welsh? Did it rain, and rain, and rain? Was the place full of ex-pat Brits? Did that matter? Was it annoying that two people, favoured guests, perhaps family of the owner*, were smoking inside, and when I asked if I could smoke I was told, no?
*He has a portait of himself, a painting, hung above the entrance to the toilets. It's a fairly large painting, and was done a few years ago when he was a little less grey than he is now. But he is a very nice man, and when we paid our second visit in a week two years ago, we left with a bottle of wine from him as a gift, so he is forgiven for all these things. And his lamb is so, so nice.
It is possible, in hindsight, that the vodka cocktail in the hotel bar aftwerwards was one drink too many.
I woke at precisely 0340hrs. Boom. Wide awake. Absolutely, completely, totally awake. I toyed with the following possibilities: going and sitting naked on the balcony and watching the lighthouse; setting up the laptop and randomly surfing; putting the light on and reading. I did none of these things, but lay, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the fact that I was so much happier being awake here, with the sound of the sea lapping against the beach, than back at home, with the alarm perhaps due to go off at 7.15... I think that helped me drift off again.
In fact the alarm did go off just before 8. This was because I had caught drifts of an anthem wafting from unseen PA speakers somewhere nearby each morning at about this time, and I wanted to get up, go outside and work out where. Now I know it comes from the (very small) naval base across the harbour. I recorded it, and offer this file (only as a WMA until I get home) for you to listen to. Is it the Spanish National Anthem? Anyone?
So, I was up. But Steve wasn't. He felt rough. A heady mixture of beer, wine and vodka cocktails, and the (perfectly legal, indeed prescribed) head-drugs that are slowly but surely twisting his mind back into the shape it should be, conspired to make him feel like s**t. Or that's what he told me, anyway. So I went to breakfast, smuggling back some of those trifle sponge fingers, before sitting out in the sun/cloud/sun/cloud/sun/cloud by the pool with a decent cup of coffee, until he joined me. Some people were even attempting to sun-bathe.
And now, later on, the sun shines very brightly upon us, and all is well with the world.
Was the waiter Dutch, or Welsh? Did it rain, and rain, and rain? Was the place full of ex-pat Brits? Did that matter? Was it annoying that two people, favoured guests, perhaps family of the owner*, were smoking inside, and when I asked if I could smoke I was told, no?
*He has a portait of himself, a painting, hung above the entrance to the toilets. It's a fairly large painting, and was done a few years ago when he was a little less grey than he is now. But he is a very nice man, and when we paid our second visit in a week two years ago, we left with a bottle of wine from him as a gift, so he is forgiven for all these things. And his lamb is so, so nice.
It is possible, in hindsight, that the vodka cocktail in the hotel bar aftwerwards was one drink too many.
I woke at precisely 0340hrs. Boom. Wide awake. Absolutely, completely, totally awake. I toyed with the following possibilities: going and sitting naked on the balcony and watching the lighthouse; setting up the laptop and randomly surfing; putting the light on and reading. I did none of these things, but lay, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the fact that I was so much happier being awake here, with the sound of the sea lapping against the beach, than back at home, with the alarm perhaps due to go off at 7.15... I think that helped me drift off again.
In fact the alarm did go off just before 8. This was because I had caught drifts of an anthem wafting from unseen PA speakers somewhere nearby each morning at about this time, and I wanted to get up, go outside and work out where. Now I know it comes from the (very small) naval base across the harbour. I recorded it, and offer this file (only as a WMA until I get home) for you to listen to. Is it the Spanish National Anthem? Anyone?
So, I was up. But Steve wasn't. He felt rough. A heady mixture of beer, wine and vodka cocktails, and the (perfectly legal, indeed prescribed) head-drugs that are slowly but surely twisting his mind back into the shape it should be, conspired to make him feel like s**t. Or that's what he told me, anyway. So I went to breakfast, smuggling back some of those trifle sponge fingers, before sitting out in the sun/cloud/sun/cloud/sun/cloud by the pool with a decent cup of coffee, until he joined me. Some people were even attempting to sun-bathe.
And now, later on, the sun shines very brightly upon us, and all is well with the world.
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