Campos

The smell hits first: warm dough drifting from Forn de la Plaça at half-past nine, mingling with diesel from a farmer’s pick-up. By the time the bell of Sant Julià strikes ten, the square is in full shade and the first coffees are being carried outside. Campos doesn’t greet you with a panorama; it lets you overhear it.

Forty kilometres south-east of Palma, the town sits on a plain of almond groves and low stone walls, a good ten-minute drive from any coast. That distance matters. While tour buses crawl straight past on the Ma-6014, convinced the island ends at Es Trenc, Campos carries on repairing nets, weighing tomatoes and closing shop for lunch at exactly 13:30. The sea is close enough for salt to hang in the air, far enough away to keep the souvenir tat at bay.

Stone, salt and the slow lane

Start with the church. Sant Julià is no cathedral, just a sand-coloured parish repeatedly patched since the 14th century. Climb the narrow stair by the north door and you emerge onto the roof terrace, level with storks that nest on the bell-frame. From here the town looks flat and orderly: terracotta roofs, green shutters, the occasional tractor parked in a side street. Nothing rises above the tower except the distant blades of windmills turning slowly over the Salobrar flats.

Below, the weekly market spreads across Plaça dels Germans Santandreu every Thursday and Saturday. Canvas awnings reveal pyramids of ramallet tomatoes—tight bunches hung until they sweeten—paper bags of flor de sal harvested from nearby lagoons, and pastry coils dusted with icing sugar. A single ensaïmada from Forn Can Nadal costs €2.80; ask for the white-chocolate and almond version and they’ll slip it into a waxed envelope while it’s still warm. Bring cash: two stalls in three still hand-write receipts.

If you need a stretch of leg, borrow a bike from the hire shop behind the petrol station and follow the signed rural track south-east. The lane is dead-straight, hemmed by dry-stone walls and carob trees that give zero shade. After five kilometres the hum of insects thins, replaced by a saltier breeze. You have reached the Salobrar de Campos, a shallow wetland that blushes pink when the light turns. Flamingos feed here most winter mornings; bring binoculars and water—there are no kiosks, no loos, just you and the horizon.

Es Trenc: postcard, but with footnotes

The road ends at a pay-and-display car park (€6 in summer, card accepted). From the barrier it is a ten-minute boardwalk across dunes to the sea. Es Trenc’s sand is fine, pale and annoyingly photogenic. The water stays thigh-deep for ages, ideal for reluctant swimmers, and on calm days the colour does a decent impression of the Caribbean. The price of all this is congestion. Arrive after 11 a.m. in August and you will share 2 km of shore with several thousand others, plus the thud of reggaeton from three competing chiringuitos. Naturists occupy the central kilometre—families tend to drift left or right where costumes stay on.

A quieter compromise lies five minutes east. Ses Covetes is still part of the same protected strip but has no dedicated car park; spaces squeeze between fishermen’s cottages. The sand is narrower, the bar soundtrack softer, and on weekdays in late May you might share a hectare with only a paddle-boarder and an elderly German reading Handelsblatt.

What to eat when the beach is done

Back in town, lunch options split neatly into quick or leisurely. Taverna Sant Juliá has a lemon-tree patio and a menu that nods to both camps: grilled chicken and chips for the kids, frito mallorquín of liver and potatoes for the adventurous. House wine arrives in a misted carafe and the bill rarely tops €18 a head.

For something slower, drive five minutes inland to Ca’n Calent, a stone farmhouse turned restaurant. The weekday set menu (€34) moves with the season—perhaps slow-cooked lamb shoulder with apricot, or sea bream on a bed of local capers. Waiting staff are happy to swap in a vegetarian plate if you ask early; dietary needs are not dismissed as eccentric British fussiness.

If the day has already melted into late afternoon, do as the locals do: order a cortado at Bar Central and watch deliveries roll in. Bread comes at four, fish at five, gossip all day long.

When the town lets its hair down

Campos keeps its festivals short but loud. Sant Julià, at the end of January, blesses tractors, hunting dogs and anything else that might reasonably need divine insurance. The square fills with farm machinery polished for the occasion; children chase sheep through a temporary pen. Return in late August for the summer ferragost, when brass bands play on a makeshift stage and couples dance beneath strings of bulbs until the heat finally breaks. Both events are aimed squarely at residents—visitors are welcomed but not marketed at, a distinction that feels increasingly rare on the island.

Getting it right, getting it wrong

The single biggest mistake is treating Campos as a seaside add-on. Guidebooks bundle it with Es Trenc, but the town deserves a morning of its own. Without wheels you will struggle: buses from Palma run roughly every ninety minutes, stop at 20:30 and do not reach the wetlands or the coast. Hire a car, collect it at the airport, and keep coins for rural car parks.

Second miscalculation: underestimating the sun. Between June and September there is almost no shade away from the town centre. A walk that looks gentle on Google Maps becomes an oven at midday. Carry water, a hat and enough battery to call a taxi if you underestimate distances.

Finally, don’t expect medieval grandeur. The tower beside the main road is a squat cylinder with a locked door; the old town walls are gone. Campos offers atmosphere, not spectacle. If that sounds underwhelming, remember the ensaïmada rule: the best bits are often the quietest, served warm and eaten straight from the paper before you move on.