mallorca

Well, that was simply brilliant.

We have returned from almost a week in Mallorca refreshed and happy. We really, really have to do this more often you know. Go on short breaks to somewhere sunny.

The only thing is since we've returned, we are now wondering how our normal lives can be so off the spectrum from our holiday lives. At the one end you have manic, rat-racey London, where we rush to catch our tails in everything we do, from nursery runs to work, to home, and back to work. On the other end, there are the Balearic Islands.

Of which, only a few weeks ago, I was Googling guesthouses to buy, because I was fed-up with our lifestyle here, not to mention the weather, and thought it was time that we cashed up and raised our babies in a citrus grove while we ran a charming little guesthouse in the baking sun.

 No filter required.

The Brits and the Germans are obsessed with Mallorca, Menorca and Ibiza, and it's no little wonder. It's a two hour flight away, and the place is surrounded by aquamarine oceans, delicious platters of tapas teeming with an abundance of locally-grown melons, tomatoes and oranges and manchego cheeses, (The grapes are the size of golf balls, I'm not joking), friendly Spanish people, terracotta villas and the smell of jasmine everywhere.

 Gettin' large.

Well, it's a big island and that's one side of it. I believe Magaluf is to be avoided at any cost, but that's easy to do.

We stayed northeast for most of our trip, which happens to be the most German part of the world, in the world. We saw road signs in German. Everyone greeted us in German. They served schnitzel in the taperias. Even though our hotel was fab, the beach was golden and sunny, and everything else about it was beautiful, the German thing got a bit much at the end. ("You're now officially a Brit," says my Brit, rather smugly one morning. "You finally hate the Germans and the French!"....)

No, it was just that I was expecting to be greeted with an 'hola' rather than a "guten tag," in Spain. Is all.

But we did tons of exploring in our hire car, mucking about in the sand with Sebastian (which he could do for hours - a sand holiday is the best holiday/entertainment for a two year old. They need nothing more than a bucket and spade, bit of sunshine and some sand. And everyone's happy and occupied. Honestly.)

We drove north to Alcudia, which was alright, and then back east to Canyamel beach, which was beautiful. Between playa hopping, we engorged ourselves on platters of tapas in the day, and at night went mad at the hotel buffet.

Sebastian decided that mealtimes was the time to really dig his heels in and test us, and has picked up an annoying little habit from his bezzy mate at nursery. His key worker told us his little friend loves throwing his food and cutlery and Sebastian has always been such a "neat little eater," but now copies his friend.
And that he does.
Bowls of food flying everywhere, spoons, and us losing our rag a few times around the table. We had to introduce the Naughty Step in the public dining room, much to the delight of the judging Germans, who seemed to take great interest in our disciplinary actions.
"Do you want to sit on the naughty step, Sebastian? One more time and you're going on the naughty step!" while they all stared. And judged.

But then, we had the last laugh. Because by the end of the week? Sebastian, now  fully 2, ("Harty birt-day to me!") was eating like a Norling Nanny-trained champion again. Just about.

 He's 2!

We didn't want to go home. Luckily for us, a massive storm was brewing over the UK on Easter Sunday, which meant our flight was abruptly cancelled and we got another 24 hours!

 We loaded up the car and headed southwest to Port Soller, in the mountains. Surely the most beautiful part of the island, if not hair-raising to drive to though. Hairpin bends and steep mountain passes all the way to the most magnificant little village, Deia.

Where Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas have envilla'd, I believe.

Just picture perfect; the Spain you read about in storybooks. All terracotta, forest green shutters, trees enladen with orange fruit, olives everywhere, houses teetering on the side of the hill, all jam-packed together. Just glorious. Leaving the Brit and I wondering how we can actually and feasibly become billionaires. Talking investment plans and how we could possibly secure a piece of this heaven, maybe even just once a year.

Timeshare? (All scams, I'm told.)

Mallorca was glorious. Just what the doctor ordered. We laughed. We got to spend time with our little boy who is talking and who is 100% entertainment and delight, when he is not throwing food. (And no real tantrums on holiday either.)

He is now telling us when he has laid cable.

"DADDY!" he says running up to the table where we are drinking a coffee. "DADDY, I DONE A POOH!" he proudly exclaims to everyone around him. I am so proud. I say that with both a straight face and utmost sincerity.

Every time. Mummy, I need a pooh."
Shall we go to the potty Sebby?
"Yes. I need it."

Then he does a pooh before sitting on any type of toilet, but the sentiment is there.

We are starting to have actual conversations with our child. This is the moment that most parents wait for. And it's happening. He's telling us what he is seeing, what he wants to eat, when he is thirsty, and his bowel movements. He sings the Happy Birthday song to himself.

He is now 2. Our little miracle is 2 years old and he is a character. He is a handful. And I've never loved him more.

Take me back to Mallorca. Immediately.