by Jean Knill
The ports of Menorca sit almost opposite each other, one on the east coast, and the other on the west, of the northernmost of the three Spanish Balearic Islands. The 28-mile main road that links the ports of Mahon (or Mao as the locals call it) and Ciutadella divides the wilder, craggy north from the calmer, flatter lands to the south. The shape made by the island’s road map has been likened to a fish-bone, with many smaller roads linking this backbone road to the villages and coastal resorts on either side.
The port in the west, and nearest to mainland Spain, is Ciutadella, once the island’s capital city and still its religious centre. At its heart, built high above the inlet that forms its port, is the old town, a labyrinth of ancient streets, squares and narrow alleyways.
The 14th century Cathay Gothic cathedral in the Plaza de Pio XII, and its surrounding area, miraculously escaped destruction in 1558 when Barbarossa, the pirate Red Beard, attacked and destroyed the town with his Turkish mercenaries. The cathedral’s ornate Baroque style Chapel of the Souls was added in the 17th century, when much of the town was finally rebuilt. Then in the 19th century, it was finished with a neo-classical front facade. It still also contains a small minaret from the mosque that occupied its space before it was turned into a cathedral on the orders of King Alfonso III of Aragón, who took the island from its ruling Moors in 1287.
Menorca’s violent history includes occupations by Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Vandals, Moors, British and French. Many of these influences are present in its architecture. We easily recognized Arabic detail in the arches of the covered walkway along Ses Voltes, a popular alleyway running between the cathedral square and the Plaça Nova on the edge of the old town.
Walking from the cathedral in the opposite direction, we came to Placa des Born, a large square with wide roads surrounding a raised central area often covered in market stalls, and finished with an obelisk at its centre. This was raised to commemorate the Menorcans who lost their lives or were forcibly removed and enslaved at the time of the pirate attack.
The square is edged with grand palaces on the cathedral side opposite the imposing Town Hall and theatre. Next to the theatre is a magnificent viewpoint looking out over the harbour. A couple of pavement cafes sit beyond this next to the corner that leads to the steps down to the harbour, which is lined on this side with popular restaurants.
Ciutadella really comes into its own on the 23rd and 24th of June each year as it celebrates the festival of St John. Known as the most important fiesta of Menorca, it kicks off the fiesta season on this party island. Every little town or village seems to have one when it is the turn of their own particular patron saint. The fiestas also seem to be a celebration of the locally bred Menorquin horses, which are always a central feature. Beautifully turned out black stallions join the festivities, rearing up and ‘dancing’ on their hind legs encouraged by the crowds of spectators.
In 1708 the British came to Menorca, attracted by Mahon’s natural harbour, the longest and deepest in the Mediterranean. Apart from a short time when they were ousted by the French, they were to rule the island for a hundred years, finally relinquishing it back to the Spanish early in the 19th century.
The natural advantages of the waters of Mahon meant that the British based themselves there and declared it the new capital of the island. But the clerics of the time refused to move, so Ciutadella retains its cathedral and its religious superiority.
And while Ciutadella has its medieval heart, we found that Mahon sports some wonderful Georgian architecture, legacy of the British occupation. Many of the old religious buildings have been given new and different leases of life. The indoor market is housed in a former convent, as is The Museum of Menorca in the Placa des Monastir.
As in Ciutadella, the town sits above the port and we found some wonderful viewpoints, or miradors, as they are known in Spanish. On leaving the museum, we turned left to check out one of these before heading along the Calle Isabel II. The houses on the left all have an unobstructed view of the port. One of them was the British governor’s residence, and is now the headquarters of the island’s military governor. The terraced homes on the other side of the street sport beautifully decorative ironwork on their balconies.
Unlike Ciutadella, Mahon town occupies only the southern side of the port. The opposite side houses the naval base. It is also where new resorts are being developed alongside some wonderful villas that include one where Admiral Nelson and Emma Hamilton are said to have had some romantic trysts.
All this can be seen from the water, if having descended the grand central steps to the harbourside, you take one of the boat trips along the 3 mile harbour. You might also see up to three cruise ships docked in this haven from the wilder weather and waters of the open sea. The entrance is guarded by forts on either side. On the northern shore is the great Spanish fort of La Mola, which took a good half-day for us to appreciate its size and more fantastic viewpoints. To the south is the British built Fort Marlborough, a much more subtle building on higher ground.
Back on the harbour side of Mahon, if it’s time for a tipple, you can head for the centuries old Xoriguer Gin Distillery, famous for supplying unique Menorcan gin to Admiral Nelson’s British sailors. Or there are plenty of good bars and restaurants on the landward side of the harbour road, or up in the town above.
Just as the northern and southern parts of Menorca have very different characteristics, so have the ports in the east and the west. But both are soaked in history with much to offer, and are well worth visiting.
If You Go:
If you want to spend time wandering around these ports, it’s best to avoid visiting Menorca in July and August when it can get really hot, although the island’s beaches will always be perfect for sun seekers.
Most people stay at the dozen or so resorts outside the ports and make day trips to see them. Of the resorts, the prettiest is Cala Galdana in the south west.
To get to Menorca, you fly to Mahon airport, which is only a few kilometres from the city.
There is a good bus service between Mahon and Ciutadella. All the bus services run from Mahon, so to get anywhere else on the island by public transport, you may need to go there first.
Menorca is known as an open air museum. There are historical sites dotted about all over the island.
www.aboutmenorca.com is a good place to get further information.
About the author:
Jean Knill began her career as a freelance writer in the early 1980s. Her work has been published in many UK magazines and newspapers – including SHE, The Lady, My Weekly, Sports Industries, and Church Times – as well as in writing and travel e-zines. Until recently, her writing has been slotted in beside teaching and marketing projects. Now she has retired from these sidelines and is rejoicing in the freedom to write as much as she wants.
All photos are by Jean Knill.
At the weekend, I decided I would see two of the three highlights recommended in my Lonely Planet Guide, saving the third till the following weekend. I wandered up to the Citadel, the oldest part of the city, the walls of which date back to the 7th century. The narrow winding streets were packed with carpet stalls and little restaurants. Women chatted by the side of the road, crocheting handbags. A family, gathered on a few steps outside a crumbling house, invited me to join them for chai. Seeing their shoes all lined up neatly to one side, I took off mine, and we smiled and giggled at each other and sipped tea for a while.
The second weekend, I visited the Citadel and the Museum of Anatolian Civilisations again: this time the only guide I could find that I would be able to understand spoke a mixture of Italian and Spanish.
It just had to be a genuine ancient hammam. The Lonely Planet recommended Sengül Merkez Hamami. At the entrance to a quiet alleyway, below the hammam sign, two women sat on the ground sipping tea. A child played nearby.
After that, I was ready to be pampered. I understood that the even larger lady whose job it was to scrub me was the sister of the epilasion one. I lay on the marble slab. And very quietly, she began to sing, the volume gradually increasing, until her haunting, deep, sad song filled the steamy air and brought tears to my eyes – no, not tears – floods. I look up at her closed eyes, her furrowed brow, her look of concentration as she drew the cheap, hand-crocheted, garish flannel up and down my arms, her blubbery stomach filling the space between us. ‘Benli benli, benli benli,’ she sang, as I imagined a story of lost love, war, pain, death, disaster… Then a young woman beside me – yes, someone spoke a few words of English here – said ‘Hello!’
Our hosts, the Filip family, take us by car on day-long outings to towns and sites of particular historic and personal interest. In the foothills, the lush green rolling countryside is planted in canola, maize and barley. Narrow country roads are lined with evenly spaced apple trees. And to the Northwest, the serrated peaks of the High Tatras are always in view.
A wonderful surprise is the lovely walled town of Levoca, a former royal city and cultural centre of the Slovak national Enlightenment in the late 18th century. There are arched gateways and streets lined with medieval buildings in pastel colours. Among its landmarks are the 14th century St. James church, with the highest wooden altar in Europe, the 18th century theatre, the multi-columned 19th century town hall, and the open-air “shaming cage,” where transgressors were publicly punished. A basilica and field on a nearby hill is a traditional pilgrimage site, where Pope John Paul II once celebrated mass for over 600,000.
Robert himself felt the oppression as a bright high school student near the end of the Communist period, when church attendance was still discouraged and he was warned that openly practising his faith could hurt his chances of going to university and having a successful career. But then came the Velvet Revolution and the independence of predominantly Catholic Slovakia. One Sunday morning we watch as a stream of proud parents, decked out in their finery, lead their children to the local church in elegant white robes and muster them for a procession and their first communion.
Then we visit an elderly relative who lives in a tiny village and wears the black shawl and somber dress of mourning. A closer look reveals that, although dark, the fabrics and stitching are incredibly ornate and detailed. Opening her closet, she displays her extensive wardrobe and admits a bit sheepishly that women like to appear in church in the finest and most elegant clothes. And she has sewn everything herself, all her life. She takes us to the cemetery and shows us the grave of Annie’s great-grandmother, which she regularly tends with flowers and devotion.
We also spend glorious days in the High Tatra mountains. We ride a funicular railway up into Tatra National Park and hike through the forest of red spruce to a remote waterfall on a major stream. Thunderous water spirals into deep gurgling holes as we sit on a gigantic weathered boulder and enjoy a picnic. There are no mosquitoes to spoil things, even in early June.
The Tatra region is known for its enchanting alpine villages. Log-built and chalet-style houses feature large balconies, colourful window shutters and other fanciful and ornate woodwork. There are centuries-old wooden churches and attractive, affordable boutique hotels that are popular in summer with hikers, campers and lovers of wildlife. In winter, they host skiers from all over Europe. We spend a night in one of them, in a romantic top floor room with dormers, and eat in a restaurant that serves local wild game and freshly caught fish from the lakes and streams. But most evenings, Terezia pampers us with her Slovak home cooking, a rich cuisine that starts with tasty soups and moves on to pork or chicken main dishes, plus potatoes from their large garden, or pirogies, or dumplings with butter or gravy. And then comes dessert. They say that if you don’t gain weight while visiting Slovakia, you have not been treated to true Slovak hospitality. And so we do.
Our final day, we visit Michlik, the carver and instrument maker, a long-time friend of the Filips, who has been featured in documentaries on Slovak national television and played his stringed instruments in a local folk music group. In his village, Zdiar, people speak a dialect, Goral, that is closer to Polish than to Slovak, a vestige of centuries of Polish rule over the region. He regales us with stories about his life. For many years, he was part of a hunting club with access to some of Europe’s most pristine alpine wilderness, where boar, lynx and mountain goat still run free. During the Communist period, he supplemented his carving income by keeping sheep and renting out rooms, mainly to tourists from East Germany. He takes us through his workshop, where antique hand tools coexist with a modern lathe and band saw. His latest violin, and its ornately carved wooden case, will be an 18th birthday present for his grand-daughter. We see racks of carefully stacked wood that has to air dry for three to five years. Most of it is now earmarked for his grandson, Marek, who apprenticed under him and is carrying on the proud tradition.
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Medieval Fontaine-de-Vaucluse nestles among chalky cliffs to the east. After strolling to its renowned spring, the largest in France, we savor luscious crepes at an open-air bistro overlooking its emerald stream. From picture-perfect Gordes, a white stone village clustered atop a hilltop, we hike the rugged trail to enchanting Abbey of Sénanque, set among perfumed lavender fields and golden wheat that undulate in warm breezes. And inside walled Pernes-les-Fontaines, a self-guided walking map guides us to many of its forty treasured fountains.
Entering the Palais des Papes through enormous portals, we meander through its arched courtyards and into halls with vaulted ceilings, huge treasury rooms and even the colossal kitchen tower. Exhibits and illustrated storyboards explain how in 1309, Pope Clement V escaped the turbulence of Rome to reside in Avignon. A subsequent pope bought Avignon from Queen Joanna I of Sicily for 80,000 gold gulden. And over a span of 68 years, this vast fortified religious fortress protected and pampered seven consecutive popes until the papacy officially returned to Rome.
Delighting in cool breezes off the Rhone, we later approach this bridge. Humming the catchy children’s song immortalizing St. Benezet’s bridge, we zanily sing, “Sur le pont d’Avignon, l’on y danse, l’on y danse,” over and over. Circling round and round, we dance our way across the remains of this fabled structure…to the amusement of others strolling there.
Along many others, we stream back along this angel-inspired bridge and imagine those alluring bygone days. We then thread our way down cobbled streets to other shaded plazas and discover venerable cathedrals displaying resplendent artistry including refurbished mansions serving as fine art museums. Lingering in open-air bistros over buttery croissants thick with local cheeses and pungent lattes, we contemplate the extravagances of Avignon’s past glory days.
Mature plane trees shade the ancient forum, today bustling with shops, hotels and bistros, including Le Cafe la Nuit depicted by Van Gogh in Cafe Terrace at Night. The brilliant yellow walls, awnings and tablecloths recreate this acclaimed impressionist’s luminous effect of shimmering evening lights. Sipping café-au-lait and munching flaky-fresh croissants there, we notice a chunk of the original Roman Forum in the façade of Nord-Pinus Hotel across the way. And just off the square, Hotel d’Arlatan incorporates thick walls from Emperor Constantine’s extravagant royal residence.
As I watched the glorious sunset from the Venetian-style lighthouse, Fenari, I contemplated the many tragedies that have befallen this beautiful island.
The harbor of Vathi is surrounded by houses with red-tiled roofs. Cafes animate the waterfront. The summer evening is scented with the smoke of grilling kebabs and fresh-caught fish grilling over charcoal coals. There is a curious atmosphere here. Ithaka’s hillsides are scented with wild sage and oregano, dotted with vibrant wild-flowers and silvery olive groves. Surrounding the tranquil orchards and vineyards are the high menacing mountains.
It’s an Odyssey in itself just getting off Ithaka. The taxi picked me up as scheduled in order to make the sailing to Lefkada. I enjoyed the scenic drive and arrive in plenty of time, but fifteen minutes before the ferry was due to arrive, I discovered that the ferry that had broken down, and we must leave from a different port. After a hair-raising wild race by taxi on a twisting road with hairpin curves and precipices, I arrived at the port just minutes before the ferry sailed.
Sailing past Cape Doukas, the towering white cliffs rise from a sea that is as blue as a robin’s egg. The Cape looks like a gigantic wedge of cake with a lighthouse on top for a candle.
The boat circled the island of Skorpios, a small island, densely wooded with cypress and pine trees. The red-tiled roofs of the Onassis’ villas are half-hidden behind the trees. In each little cover there are piers, each with a palm tree planted at the end. Around the dock areas, the grounds are landscaped and showers of magenta bougainvillea spill over the stone fences. One of these villas was a gift to opera singer Maria Callas in the days before Onassis abandoned her in favor of Jacqueline Kennedy.
