The afternoon sun beat down as my car rattled along an olive-tree-lined gravel road and through a gate in an ancient stone wall. As I climbed out, I was immediately struck by two things: the heat and the silence. The former made sense; while it was September in Mallorca, summer temperatures here typically last well into October and often longer. But the latter was the real reason I was there.
Living in Barcelona, I have visited this island more than 20 times, but the lesser-known rural heartland is the place I keep returning to. I first came here after a particularly rough breakup and then again after lockdown. Two years ago, I flew here after my Mum’s funeral. But Mallorca isn’t a sad place. It is where I come to recharge, be fed (both literally and physically), and to heal. And as I pulled up in front of Son Xotano’s impeccably restored stone and pale-yellow stucco façade, that familiar calm swept over me.
