Literally means don't take your coat off until the 40th May (10th June). He says it with a wry smile and wise look every year as we don our shorts too early. And he is always right. Although there are many hot days, beautiful days, sunshiny days - the real heat doesn't happen until the 10th of June. And from the 10th June he nods assertively, knowingly and says, 'Everyday, a little bit hotter' until we can stand it no more and we go and live in the sea.
Every year, with a flick of a switch around the middle of June, Mallorca becomes unbearable between the hours of 09:30 and 20:00. Even then the heat stays, melting us as we sleep and cooking us slowly to boiling point by day. The cats loll, the horses swish their tails and doze in cool stables and the guinea pigs lie on frozen gel pads covered in a tea towel - their little bodies panting and flopping like baked potatoes out of the oven. The plants wilt and only the strongest survive the sun's glare, the ones that are meant to be here - the rosemary and oleander, the olive trees and lantana.
Hiding from the sun, lying on ice packs wrapped in towels - 5* animals
And although I love Mallorca to the very core, it's my place in the world and my content - the next few months are a challenge. The heat, the relentlessness, the tourists, the busy beaches and no parking. The feeling of listlessness, the sweat, the lying in pants under the fan, the insanity, the wishing for rain and wondering when it will end - when it's only just started. The Mallorcan summer was my British winter.
Persuading ourselves to get into the car at 8 am, the temperature roaring and soaring as we drive to the little deserted cala (cove) - parking in the already packed car park, we hiked over the stone paths, avoiding the dog shit and listening to the cicadas screaming louder as the temperature climbed to unbearable levels despite the cloud and humidity. The walk was slow, the prize great. Below us a stony beach, no bigger than my garden with a few locals - and the glorious Mediterranean sea. We stripped, cleared away all the plastic and fag butts we could see - and dived into the cool waters. Only to be joined by two cormorants, hunting for their breakfast. We swam, we watched them dive and catch fish so skilfully and we whooped at their speed and confidence. They came close, seemingly unaware or bothered by our presence. The kids watched them under water, their agility as they spied their prey was unnerving. They bobbed up for breath, mushroomed along the surface, filled their bellies with tiny fish and swam to the other side of the bay. By then we decided to dry our salty skin and brave the walk back to the car - just in time for breakfast.
Swimming with cormorants
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