A Brief Conversation About Fish and Chips in Majorca
Puerto de Pollensa is a seaside town in the North-East of Majorca.
It’s a relatively quiet town, certainly in comparison to party towns like Magaluf down the other end of the island. Along the front there’s a pretty esplanade, a palm-lined walkway that retains a laid-back air even as it comes alive at night.
Families and couples meander past market stalls and street traders, stopping to look at the sand sculptures creatively carved at the top of the beach, or drinking and dining at one of the restaurants occupying prime locations along the elegant walk.
There’s a town square set back from the coast, offering more places to eat and drink and take in the relaxed vibe, under the shadow of the ornately ancient church.
It’s a quaint, moderately stylish holiday town.
The first of five family visits to Puerto De Pollensa was in 2007. Me, my wife and two sons spent a week with friends and their kids, a boy and a girl of similar age to ours (two and four, at the time).
As is often the way with holidays of this kind, our days slipped into routine. We’d eat breakfast in our apartment, spend some time on the beach and by the pool. We’d siesta in the mid-afternoon, as the searing heat got too much, and we’d head to the square or the esplanade for food in the evening; four adults, each navigating a pushchair along the busy pavements.
On one of our walks into the town we stopped for an inordinately long time at a pedestrian crossing, whereupon we started talking to an older couple from the north of England.
The woman made a fuss of the kids, cooing and asking them if they were having a nice holiday. None of them replied, so us adults took it upon ourselves to act as spokespeople, assuring her that they were indeed having a smashing time.
“And you?” I said, out of politeness, “How’s your holiday?”
“Oh, yes, we always make the best of things, wherever we go,” she said, with more than a hint of ambiguity.
Like us, it was their first visit to the resort.
“It’s a beautiful town though, isn’t it?” my wife added.
“Aye, it is,” the man said. He had white hair and the kind of deep, leathery tan that British folk of a certain age often sport, probably on account of some wildly inaccurate advice about sunbathing given to them many years before.
“Mind you,” he added, his tone darkening such that you felt clouds may start to form directly above him, “Can you believe that there’s not one fish and chip shop anywhere in the town? Not a single one.”
It was a brief conversation as we waited for the little green man to appear and usher us across the street.
Although, I still think about it, from time to time.
Did you enjoy this?
If you’re enjoying the writing on this site please consider supporting future work by tipping the writer on Ko-fi, for less than a cup of coffee.
It was the day that Dafydd Hughes got a crayon stuck up his nose. Nobody was quite sure how he’d done it, an act without witness; attention drawn only when Dafydd let out a cry of panic. Mild at first, swiftly moving through the emotive gears to...
To the best of my knowledge I’ve been punched in the face twice in my life. The first time was by Andrew Passolini when I was in standard three (year 5 in the modern parlance), who put fist to face after a brief squabble over who was ‘it’ in a game...
More than two decades have passed since a solitary year spent on the campus at the University of Rhode Island. I looked a lot younger than my twenty-one years although in my mind I was already a seasoned man of the world, even when all other...