Sant Joan

The church bell strikes eleven. A tractor rumbles past, its driver raising two fingers from the steering wheel in the island's universal greeting. Nobody hurries. Sant Joan moves to a rhythm set centuries ago, when farmers first carved wheat fields from the Pla's red earth.

This isn't the Mallorca of glossy brochures. Forty minutes' drive from Palma's airport, the island's central plain stretches flat as Norfolk, patterned with almond groves and stone walls that snake towards distant windmills. The village squats at a crossroads between Sineu and Montuïri, a cluster of honey-coloured buildings that most visitors flash past en route to coastal resorts. Their loss.

The centre reveals itself slowly. Narrow streets radiate from Plaça Major, just wide enough for a Citroën van to squeeze between ochre walls. Doorways painted ox-blood red or forest green stand open, revealing glimpses of interior patios where bougainvillea climbs whitewash. House martins nest beneath terracotta roof tiles, their mud cups testimony to summers that stretch from April to October.

Sant Joan Baptista church dominates the skyline, its sandstone facade weathered to the colour of weak tea. Step inside and the temperature drops ten degrees. Baroque gold leaf glints in candlelight; the air carries traces of incense and centuries of beeswax polish. Unlike Palma's cathedral, you'll likely share the nave only with an elderly woman counting rosary beads, her sandals squeaking on worn flagstones.

Beyond the village edge

The real discovery lies outside town limits. Agricultural tracks, graded and gravelled, fan across the plain like bicycle spokes. Walk five minutes and traffic noise fades beneath skylark song. Dry-stone walls, built without mortar by farmers whose descendants still work these fields, divide wheat stubble from olive groves. In February, almond blossom froths white against red soil; by August, the same earth bakes hard as terracotta.

Cyclists rate these lanes among Mallorca's quietest. The gradient barely registers—perfect for families tired of Tramuntana gradients that reduce grown men to pushing £3,000 carbon frames uphill. But caution: agricultural lorries appear suddenly around bends, and the camber drops steep into irrigation ditches. Helmets aren't optional; the Guardia Civil issue on-the-spot fines to Brits who think rules don't apply on holiday.

When hunger strikes

Food here serves function before fashion. Café Central opens early, dispensing cortados to farmers who've already worked three hours before most tourists wake. Their ensaïmada, spiral pastries dusted with icing sugar, taste of pork lard and tradition—an acquired preference for those expecting croissants. Sunday mornings bring a surprise: full English breakfasts materialise for homesick cyclists, though baked beans taste oddly Spanish when served beneath a poster of Messi.

Proper meals happen at lunchtime. Restaurant Son Toreó, converted from a 17th-century possession farmhouse, serves what Mallorcans actually eat rather than what tourists imagine they do. Tumbet—layers of fried aubergine, potato and red pepper—arrives bubbling in earthenware dishes. Pa amb oli, country bread rubbed with ripe tomato and drizzled with emerald olive oil, costs €3 and constitutes an entire food group locally. Dinner service starts late; arrive before 20:30 and you'll dine alone with the waiter's radio for company.

Market day reality

Sunday's market occupies the plaça from 08:00 until church bells summon villagers to Mass. Stalls sell practical items: work boots, cheese graters, seedlings in yoghurt pots. One vendor offers butifarrón, Mallorca's blood sausage, its flavour reminiscent of Clonakilty black pudding with added cinnamon. Another displays honey from hives tucked between almond groves—buy quickly, the beekeeper sells out by ten. Nobody hustles for sales; prices marked in wax pencil rarely bend for tourists.

The market's scale disappoints those expecting Sineu's livestock spectacle. No sheep change hands, no farmers haggle over prize rams. Instead, elderly neighbours compare cauliflower seedlings while teenagers scroll Instagram beside medieval walls. Authenticity arrives unvarnished: useful rather than photogenic.

Timing matters

August transforms the Pla into a furnace. Temperatures reach 38°C by midday; shade exists only beneath scattered carob trees. Walking becomes endurance, cycling masochism. Visit then and Sant Joan feels abandoned—sensible residents remain indoors until evening releases cooler air. The village makes more sense in April, when wild poppies splash red across wheat fields, or October's grape harvest brings tractors loaded with cartloads of black monastrell.

Winter delivers surprises. January's Sant Antoni festival builds bonfires in streets so narrow flames lick balcony railings. Residents barbecue sobrassada sausages over embers, sharing wine from porró jugs that require practiced technique to avoid dribbling down chins. British visitors expecting Mediterranean mildness pack inadequate clothing; the Pla sits 200 metres above sea level and night temperatures drop to 3°C. That dry cold that penetrates fleece and mocks Barbour jackets.

The honest assessment

Sant Joan won't fill three days. Two hours suffices for church, plaza and a circuit of surrounding lanes. The village serves better as punctuation mark in a longer itinerary: morning here, lunch in neighbouring Sineu, afternoon train to Palma. Accommodation options remain limited—a handful of agroturismo farmhouses converted to rental properties, one basic hostal above the bakery. Nightlife means drinking Estrella with locals at Bar Jaume, conversation stumbling over language barriers until someone produces Google Translate.

Credit cards meet suspicion; bring euros. The petrol station closes at eight sharp—miss that window and Montuïri's 24-hour pumps become essential knowledge. Monday everything shuts except the bakery, whose opening hours (06:00-13:00) suit farmers rather than flight schedules.

Yet these limitations define Sant Joan's appeal. No souvenir shops sell fridge magnets. No tour guides wave flags. The village simply continues, farming cycle following farming cycle, while coasts boom and bust with package tourism. Visitors seeking Instagram moments leave disappointed; those content to observe ordinary Mallorcan life discover something increasingly rare—a place that existed before TripAdvisor and will endure long after.

The tractor driver waves again, turning towards fields that his grandfather cultivated. Church bells mark midday, summoning village life towards siesta. Sant Joan carries on, indifferent to whether you stay or leave, and that refusal to perform for tourists makes it worth the detour.