Not My Mum's Majorca

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NOT MY MUM'S MAJORCAStory and Photographs by Dan Milner

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More than eight million bikinis and board shorts pass through this airport every year. As I stand in Palma de Majorca arrival hall I’m something of a freak: I have neither boardies nor bikini. On a Mediterranean island that may seem like a near-criminal oversight, and when I’m later forced to employ my Mavic fishnet short liners to ineffectively conceal my modesty for a dip in the Mediterranean Sea, I’ll wish I had packed my boardies. Sometimes, packing light for a multi-day bike epic has its down sides, at least for the onlookers.

I’m on the island of Majorca and I’m on a mission. Accompanied by three pals, I’ve decided to try the ‘other side’ of Majorca’s holiday experience: one that excludes thong-stretching Germans and steamy night-club fluid swaps, but probably includes a similar amount of perspiring.


Instead of beaches, it’s the Tramuntana mountains of the island’s north-west that have enticed us here, or more specifically one trail that weaves through its craggy peaks: the 150Km long GR-221 trail, an eight-day trek that can be covered in four days by bike, apparently. Eight into four is the kind of statistic that suggests a lot of kick-ass downhill. But there’s the rub. What goes down has to first go up, and poring over maps beforehand suggests that our ride might be more “ass-kick” than “kick-ass”. Fishnet or not, the padded undershorts are the first thing in my luggage.


Three days later I’m staring excitedly at the trail in front of me: a sea of baby-head rocks layered smooth and frictionless, glinting beneath lazy shafts of afternoon sun. It’s the peer mother of all cobbled staircases. Seven hours earlier I’d have embraced this section of trail with gleeful enthusiasm, but now shrouded in a blanket of fatigue spawned by a three days in the saddle, my mind is in shreds; it’s as if someone has hung a sign above the cobbles that reads ‘Abandon Hope all ye who enter’. The walk of shame is not an option, not this late in the game. I re-find my focus, telling myself that a cold beer is just around the corner, and dive straight into the kind of descent that dishes out anxieties and endorphins in equal measures.


Rewind 20 years and you’d find me fresh out of college and exploring Majorca’s hills for the first time, hardtail Cannondale M800 (the ‘Beast of the East’) in tow. Then, with the island lacking any trail infrastructure I’m left floundering through thorny bushes cursing with every turn. Instead of epic trails I found dead ends and angry dogs. Yet despite those frustrations, the potential of Majorca’s towering mountains always nibbled away at the back of my mind. I had to come back.

And then I learnt that everything had changed on Spain’s biggest island and the wheels of a revisit were set immediately in motion. Suddenly for me and countless other aficionados of al-fresco challenges, Majorca’s new way-marked trails (including the GR-221) means the towering but once teasing peaks of this Mediterranean island are now firmly within sweaty grasp of hiker and biker alike.


It’s a sweaty grasp that I have on my handlebar grips as I ride into a beautifully flowing traverse that kicks off our first day’s ride from the tiny village of Deia. Over four days our group of four thirty-something friends will ride 90km, climbing over 3,000 vertical metres and descending the same - mostly along rocky, narrow singletrack. Our going is eased by a string of welcoming, state-run refuges - most of them occupying recently renovated old farm buildings. At 30 Euros a night for a duvet-covered bed and a decent helping of home-cooked, olive oil-saturated Mediterranean cuisine they are perhaps Majorca’s best bargain and leave us free to ride unencumbered with anything but water, a basic change of clothes and a toothbrush in our packs.

We finish day one at the Muleta refuge, a converted lighthouse that sits high on a headland above the sweeping Soller bay. Here we sit, San Miguels in hand, immersed in fuzzy satisfaction of the day’s ride while looking out across the Mediterranean as it slips behind a crimson sky. We swap anecdotes and smiles at our day’s experiences, each thankful that we have someone to share them with while they are still fresh in our minds.


Riding through Puerto Soller the next morning we dive inland, following the trail along ancient cobbled mule tracks - once the lifeline between villages tucked away from the unwanted attention of pirates. Tearing through gnarled olive groves and down flights of stone steps set into hillsides, miles from the thongs-and-sarongs of the beaches, I find myself laughing at the contrast between this experience and the stereotypical Majorcan “holiday”.

Three hours in – under the midday sun – that grin is wiped off my face by a nasty surprise: a 1,000 metre climb up steaming asphalt that zig-zags its way up the shadeless mountainside. This is the only bit of tarmac we’ll ride, representing a deviation from the official trail that Andy - our ex-pat guide from Tramuntana Tours - swears maximises the riding rewards for any rider that’s honed some skills on a bike. To be fair, it does allow us to ride a magnificent 6km traverse perched high above sea cliffs (and we collectively confess it is one of the most rewarding trails we’ve ever tackled) but as I crawl up the vertiginous tarmac climb out of Sa Calobra, my head feels like it’s boiling under my helmet and sweat is pooling in my shorts. By the time we reach the 950-metre high pass and rejoin the official route to our night’s accommodation, I’m juggling a very real sense of achievement with a very real desire to throw up.


The epic Sa Calobra climb leaves me dehydrated, but arriving at our refuge I can’t resist the lure of a cold one. Polishing that off with a shared couple of bottles of local red with dinner leaves me heavy headed as I start day three; a far-from-ideal state of affairs as I launch into the most demanding section of the GR-221. We start early to get a headstart on the heat, thankful that we’ve chosen May and not July to tackle the challenge. The whole experience is becoming a rollercoaster ride of emotions, the teeth-gritting frustrations of carrying bikes up sections of trail rendered un-rideable by high steps, contrasted with the giddy elation that comes with each twisting descent.


Almost all of the GR221 runs across limestone landscapes, meaning that the trail itself is surfaced in gravel, rocks and cobbles from the same source. The grip that this rock offers in dry conditions is Moab-like mind bending and we stick to climbs without a hint of rear wheel slip and trickle down ledgy-descents with Hans Rey like control. When, on day two we come across one section of a descent that has been soaked by a spring sharing its fall line, we experience the alter ego side of the trail and decide never again to curse the heat of the Majorcan sunshine. For a hundred metres we slip our way gingerly down wet, almost greased, cobbles, fighting any urge to grab the front brake.


By lunchtime we’ve reached Col des Prats, the highest point of the GR-221, and from our 1,100 meter vantage point we take stock of our progress. To the west is the imposing peak of Puig Mayor and to the north the serpent-like shape of the Formentor Peninsular, a Mecca for road cyclists. I can see roughly 100 beaches from here, but my own previous 2-dimensional beach experiences pale in significance alongside the current 3-D rewards I find myself immersed in now . Mixed in with the sweat that coats every exposed part of my body is Majorcan trail dust, the resultant grime somehow gives me the feeling that I’ve found a new connection with the island.


Somewhere in this emotional turmoil lies a deep satisfaction: behind me now are big climbs, buckets of perspiration and more than a few expletives, but ahead - dropping down to the monastery at Lluc - is a winding, paved trail that cuts back and forth across scrubby mountainside. I drop onto it with the resolve that it’s been earned.

Twenty-four hours later, we scream down a 10km descent into Pollenca to complete the final leg of the GR-221. We speed straight through the ancient town and continue to the sea. By the time I pull up on the sand to shed clothing and cleated bike shoes before diving into the ocean, I’m light-headed from the accumulated experiences and achievements of the last four days. I’m dehydrated. I have bruises, blisters and a little sunburn, but I’m grinning. The sum of the separate experiences behind me - the epic views, the leg burning climbs, the blur of riding descents too fast - pales beside one overall, huge, feeling of accomplishment. It’s not the fact that we’ve ridden the GR-221, it’s the realisation that I’ve returned to Majorca with my bike and this time I’ve won. As I stride proudly through the checkerboard of bikinis and beer-bellies to wade into a warm and welcoming sea, the fact that my boardies weren’t in my bag doesn’t matter a damn. I love you fishnets.

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Story and Photographs by Dan Milner

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INFO: For trail info and maps check www.conselldemallorca.net/mediambient/pedra The trail is accessible year round, but best is March to May or September to November, when average highs are generally 25 C. Snow though uncommon can occur in the mountains in mid winter (Dec-Jan).