Mallorca’s Serra de Tramuntana Mountains

Words: Emerald Greene

As we arrived bleary-eyed from our early morning flight into bustling Palma and stood in queue for the bus to take us to the trailhead, several question marks hung over our excited team of three. At the last minute, we had been warned against tackling the GR221. Storm Juliette had churned through Mallorca in February, bringing blizzards and freezing temperatures to the island. Now it was March and most of the snow had cleared but the clean-up job was still a work in progress. Our intention had been to bypass the destination’s more usual offering of sun, sea and sand. Instead, we sought the thrill of the wilderness and the road less travelled along the mountainous countryside of the trail. Storm Juliette had caused extensive damage to the Balearic paradise, bringing down trees and apparently rendering some sections of the route unpassable. We tried and failed to identify which parts were blocked off, gathering only that the North had suffered more than the South. Our Spanish-speaking friend called
one of the hostels on the trail ahead to enquire further, but was met with the unnerving suggestion that it was ‘better to come back another time.’

With flights booked, annual leave secured, and our spirits high in anticipation of an adventure, coming back another time didn’t really feel like an option. The night before our departure we sat around the kitchen table and drew up some ground rules for the trip. We weren’t planning to ignore any advice or put ourselves or others at risk but we were going to see how far we could reasonably go. Collectively, we agreed to make peace with the fact that we might have to turn back or divert from the trail at any moment. Turns out, the plan was to let nature lead the way.

We selected an alternative start from es Capdellà to Estellencs, which would shorten the route and make it possible to walk from coast to coast in seven days. The trail itself is a work in progress and we decided to embrace this. When we arrived at Peguera the temptation to sprawl on the beach was strong but our desire to get underway won out,
so after a quick paddle we shouldered our backpacks and started up the hill in the direction of es Capdellà. Making our way past olive and almond groves, we dipped down into a valley where the peaks of Mola de s’Esclop and Puig de Galaltzó hinted enticingly at things to come. Further along the track Refugis Galatzó came into view and
after check-in we sat outside to enjoy the cool evening and watch the last of the light leave the valley. Attempts to question the refugis host about route closures in our patchy Spanish offered up no news, our hunger instead directing us to concentrate on devouring a plate of the hostel’s traditional casserole and roast potatoes.

The next morning any misgivings we’d had about skipping the main route quickly disappeared as we continued through the beautiful rural Finca Galatzó estate. A gentle path meandered through a secret valley, shared only with hoopoes and goat families. Asphodel and pink rock roses caught the morning sun, while pine, lentisk and eucalyptus provided an aromatic backdrop. Our first tough ascent on a bouldery path was rewarded with sweeping views back down the valley to the coast. We fell into an easy meditative state along this section, poles tapping out and tuning into the landscape. A sense of deep time grew as we spotted our first sitja, limekiln and carboner’s hut; ancient drystone remains that recalled the landscape’s history and those who had once lived and worked in the mountains.

Over the course of the next few days we made our way northwards, tackling the stony terrain and steep gradients with Cafe Bombon-fuelled determination. Upon reaching Estellencs we treated ourselves to tall beers in a local bar and struck up conversation with fellow hikers. Again no one seemed to have information on the path closures - it
was becoming a bit of a mystery. Tipsy and tired, we made a final push to a bivvy spot just out of town. Golden hour descended and we enjoyed far-reaching views across the mountains with our trangia cooked grub. Cocooned in our bivvy bags we slept under a canopy of pines with a handful of stars overhead.

It was only on the slow and sweaty climb to the summit of Puig Gros, through ancient holm oak woodlands, that we spotted the first telltale signs of Storm Juliette. Several enormous trees lay across the path, the combination of the weight of the snow and the high winds having thrown them to the ground. Just as we were about to despair at the endless climb, the path levelled out and we crested the Archduke’s Way. Dramatic vistas stretched from coast to coast as well as across the Serra de Tramuntana mountain range. To our delight five booted eagles appeared low overhead, wheeling on the thermals. The wind was up so we found a limestone outcrop to tuck behind and soak up the awesome scenery, struggles borne away on the breeze. 

We were a dishevelled band of three entering Deià late the next morning, a pretty bohemian village nestled amongst the peaks. The place was just waking up, life moving at a relaxed pace in these parts. The gently undulating coastal path between Deià and Sóller provided a welcome change of tempo, but perhaps we had been enjoying the views too much. Realising that we were running tight on time to reach Pollença, our solution was to hitchhike to Font des Noguer and walk to Lluc. We flagged down a ride and enjoyed the exhilarating hairpin bends up to Cúber.

From up on our rocky crest at Coll des Prat we had views across the valley and down towards our accommodation for the night, the monastery in Lluc. Like the charcoal burners of bygone days we zigzagged down through aleppo pine forests under the lee of the mountain of Puig Tomar, passing numerous moss-carpeted sitges ideal for wild camping. Unwinding in Lluc in the early evening, a group of hikers on the next table were gearing up to push north. They were on a tight schedule and on track to complete the GR221 in just five days. We were impressed but quietly glad we had thrown our schedule out the window. Rolling the short distance from the bar to the monastery, we made our way through the courtyard, checked into our room and passed out exhausted. 

Treading shady pathways, we rejoined the GR221 for our final day’s walk and made quick progress to Binifaldo. A little further along and we were brought to an abrupt halt. Ahead was a dense entanglement of trunks, branches and leaves with no discernible way through or around. Fallen trees blocked the path completely. Even without our huge backpacks, getting through this undergrowth would be tough going. Looking at the map we knew it would be a long way back and we were pressed for time. Steeling ourselves we decided to try and carve out our own route. Queue the sliding, bum-shuffling and scrambling. This bushwhacking, on top of the physical exertion of the past six days, tested us severely. When at last we emerged on the other side it was with a sense of grateful relief. We were scratched, bruised and covered in dirt but still in one piece. It was humbling to finally see the extent of the damage to the ancient woodlands caused by the storm and our thoughts were with the teams dealing with the aftermath.

We were comforted by the smooth tarmac that took us the remainder of the way down to Pollença. Finally, the sea. At the port the route bee-lined through the town centre, where a final waymarker left us ambiguously at a roundabout beside a marina. In future the trail is due to end at the remote lighthouse on the Cap de Formentor, which sounds appropriately rugged and romantic, but for the time being it’s up to hikers to choose their finish line. We celebrated with Maxibons, tinnies and selfies on the harbour. Then it was a traditional Mallorcan meal of hake at Bodega Can Ferra before heading to the quirky cat hostel of Pension Bellevista.

On our homeward journey we held a shared sense of achievement for taking the path less travelled. The Dry Stone Route took us off the beaten track and showed us a side to Mallorca that few get to see, revealing the island’s natural beauty and wild places. Moving through rural mountain villages, where little has changed in a long time, we embraced a slower, more connected way of being. With the trail a work in progress, we were encouraged to rediscover our own sense of purpose and adventure. It didn’t come naturally to let go of my completist mentality and embrace the unknowns. But the trip reminded me that sometimes it pays to get more comfortable with being uncomfortable.