Reflections on the Mallorca Days
What I See Now, Looking Back
Looking back on my years in Mallorca, it's hard not to see the whole thing through two sets of eyes: the small boy who arrived there, insecure and frankly terrified—and the adult I am now, reflecting with the benefit of hindsight (and, let’s be honest, a few miles on the clock).
We landed in Franco's Spain, though as a child I was more focused on the layout of the British School in Son Rapinya than on the politics of a military dictatorship. Still, even if I didn’t understand the context, I was living inside it. Mallorquín—the local dialect closely related to Catalan—was very much suppressed. And because we moved into Son Vida, a polished golf estate far removed from village life, I didn’t hear it spoken. The Spanish kids I did eventually meet spoke Castellano—the Spanish equivalent of the Queen’s English.
For the first few years, though, there weren’t many Spanish kids in my orbit. I went to English-medium schools. The British School. Then Belver. Then, finally, King's College, a new institution styled after the British public school model—complete with uniforms and teachers who clearly thought they’d end up somewhere more respectable than an ex-nunnery in Genova.
It wasn’t until my dad bought me a motorbike that things shifted. I was about 10. Suddenly I had access. I started making Spanish friends—Juan Carlos Sobron, Bubi Sanso, and others whose names I wish I could remember. It’s amazing how quickly immersion works. By the time we left Mallorca, I was dreaming in Spanish. I thought in Spanish. I’d argue my grasp of it then was as strong—if not stronger—than my English. I’ve been told in adulthood that my accent is still excellent, and that’s down to who I learned it from: upper-middle-class Spaniards whose speech was as proper as their bike skills were terrifying.
On the English side of the fence, there were the school friends. Nicky Fremgen. Ian Kinnear. A handful of others whose houses I’d visit for sleepovers and weekend mischief. Many of us are still connected on Facebook.
My parents’ social life was bridge. And playing bridge involved a lot of alcohol. The community of expats they socialised with—Ben and Edna Lynn, Alva and Joan Terry, and others—could sink a bottle of brandy with the same ease as they shuffled a deck of cards. Niels once brought my father a prized bottle of Oude Meester from South Africa. Alva drank the whole thing in one sitting and still wanted to head out on the town. These were not people who sipped. These were people who poured with intent.
And my schooling? Honestly, I have only good memories. There were great teachers: Mr. Boyle, my English teacher at King's College, who I still think of as a genuinely brilliant educator. Mr. Locke, who took us skiing in the Pyrenees. Miss Peary, who tried valiantly to control us. Miss Jones and Mr. Quinn, the headmistress and headmaster, respectively. They created something special, even if they couldn’t quite stop us from throwing actual rocks at each other during break time.
What I know now is that those years shaped me. I arrived a frightened child and left a slightly taller, sunburnt, marginally more confident version of the same thing. But I’d also had adventures. Romances. Summers that stretched forever. I’d been given something rich and strange and beautiful—and then it was all ripped away again when we left for South Africa.
Mallorca wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And somewhere in those years, I’d become part of it.