Alarm. Shake the sleepy heads awake. Coffee. Pack the rucsac. Out the door, floor the hire car. Sóller, a fast walk to the train station. Ensaïmada for the family. Find an empty carriage.
Palma, just waking up. Wander aimlessly in the direction of the cathedral. A short queue, didn’t need my long trousers after all. A kaleidoscope of stained glass colour on the floor. Endless reportage opportunities.
Banys Arabs, sounds of a Hang floating round the courtyard. Is that it? Glad the kids were free. Back on the streets. I’m hungry! When’s lunch?
Spying a sign proclaiming lots of beer. Some interesting bottles on some shelves. All is not what it seems, industrial mixed with craft, or is it all crafty?
It’s a burger joint, they do a veggie? In we go. Hoping they’re good. Should’ve just had the chips, Pak Choi doesn’t work if you’re not using cutlery.
The beer contains rosemary and rosemary honey, hoping it’s not like Saison du Buff. The herb garden it’s not, thankfully. Subtle rosemary on the nose, like brushing a bush on the way past.
Thick, not cloying. Effervescent, bubbly. Refreshing, but not. Need some water. I’d have another.
Out onto the street again. Find the No. 3 bus stop kid’s. Miró awaits.