Coming home. 24 hour stopover in Palma de Mallorca

A medallion to my holiday, thanks to a desire to leave from the civilised Southend airport, was a 24 hour stopover in a place which was popular with the parents of boys at school, Mallorca. My first visit. 

Palma de Mallorca to be precise. 

For the first time since leaving Bucharest it was warm.

As discovered as is possible. In 1960 Mallorca received 500,000 visitors, in 2009 twenty million according to Wikipedia, but I do not trust Wikipedia. 

But Palma is beautiful despite the hordes. 

Or rather Covid has thinned them a lot. Go now.

The town has great charm, a very fine cathedral, a mediaeval royal palace that I forgot to look in, an Arab feeling in its labyrinthine narrow streets which is the legacy of its centuries under Arab rule, a surprising elegance but a sense of fun because of the beach. Beautiful gothic architecture and good-looking young people.

Spanishness.

National identity, packaged for tourists but the real thing.

Were it not for Covid it would be less likeable. 

Travelling at the moment is a nightmare of forms and queues. I waited an hour in the budget Oslo airport and might have waited longer in the main airport, though I passed through immigration and Covid in 60 seconds in Gdansk, thanks to Schengen I suppose. 

There was a very long queue in Mallorca but I for some reason got taken out of it by a kind official and got through in twenty minutes. Probably not a good time to have 24 hour stopovers. 

Still, it's also a golden age of travel. Far fewer people around. Travel for misanthropes.

Back to the sunshine and heat of Bucharest but only a mild 22° Celsius = 71° Fahrenheit, cooler than 26° in Palma de Mallorca but much warmer than 16° in Essex and much sunnier. I love coming back. I always do.

In the old town in Bucharest I feel as if I am still on holiday, but I have very much work to do.