Alaró

The first clue that Alaró is not a coastal resort is the temperature drop. Leave Palma’s marina at 28 °C, climb the Ma-2100 for 25 km, and the dashboard will read 22 °C by the time you park behind the stone windmill on Carrer de Son Fuster. At 285 m above sea-level the air thins enough to sharpen appetites and views; by the time you reach the castle ruins at 825 m, the Bay of Palma glitters like polished tin 35 km to the south.

A village that still clocks on

Alaró’s population nudges 5,000, but the place feels smaller because everyone uses the same 200 m of pavement. Housewives queue at the bakery before 8 a.m. for still-warm llonguets; farmers park battered Land-Rovers half on the kerb to discuss almond prices; and the Saturday market turns Plaça de sa Vila into an open-air office. Stalls sell sobrasada that oozes paprika-red oil, children chase between rails of €3 cotton dresses, and the Italian ice-cream queue snakes past the 17th-century church. By 11 a.m. every wrought-iron bench is occupied – English cyclists in Lycra, German artists with sketchbooks, Mallorcan grandmothers comparing grandchildren. Tourism is welcome, yet no one has rearranged the furniture for it.

The architecture refuses to perform, too.Facades are the honey-coloured marès sandstone typical of the Raiguer district, but they are chipped and patched rather than buffed for Instagram. Laundry hangs from wrought-iron balconies; brass door-knockers shaped like Moorish hands have dulled to an honest brown. Down Carrer Major a single boutique sells linen tunics, yet opposite it the ironmonger still stocks rabbit cages and spare hoe handles. The effect is not staged “authenticity”; it is simply a village whose economy was built on olives, shoes and stubbornness long before anyone thought to sell postcards.

Walking upwards (and why your calves will complain)

The Castell d’Alaró squats on a limestone blade that rears 540 m above the rooftops. The classic trail starts behind the church, way-marked with painted crescents. Distance one-way is 4.2 km; ascent is a thigh-burning 440 m. The first kilometre follows a stone-mule track beneath carob trees; after that the path loosens into ankle-twisting scree and the shade thins to zero. Allow two hours up, ninety minutes down, and carry more water than you think civilised – the only fountain is at the Es Verger lamb restaurant, 40 minutes below the summit.

Effort is repaid with binocular-grade views: the Tramuntana’s saw-tooth ridge west to Puig Major, the central plain’s quilt of almond and cereal, and Palma’s cathedral spire pricking the haze on clear days. The castle itself is a ruin of walls and wind, but the 14th-century Oratori de la Mare de Déu del Refugi still shelters hikers who eat sandwiches among swallows. Sign the summit book – most entries are Catalan, German, and increasingly British.

Not everyone walks. A tarmac road wriggles to Es Verger (open 10 a.m.–5 p.m. daily except Monday), where the house speciality is forn de llenya lamb roasted in a wood oven. Rick Stein televised the dish in 2015; bookings are now essential and prices hover around €24 for half a kilo of meat, plus potatoes that drink the juices. Finish with café caleta – coffee laced with lemon peel and rum – then tackle the final 25-minute scramble to the castle with a woolly head.

Seasons decide the schedule

Spring arrives late at this altitude. Almond blossom appears in late February, a full month after the coast, and the scent drifts through streets still chilly enough for scarves. By May the comellar (dry-stone irrigation channels) run with melted snow; wild orchids spot the roadside verges and daytime temperatures sit in the low 20s – perfect for cycling the Camí de Coanegra to Binissalem’s wineries. Autumn is even better: grape harvest, clear air, and the possibility of starting a walk in T-shirt sunshine while clouds scrape the castle ramparts above.

High summer is trickier. July and August thermometers can nudge 36 °C in the shadeless esplanada, and the castle path becomes a fry-up after 10 a.m. Locals shift siesta forward to 1 p.m.; restaurants close kitchens until 7 p.m. British walkers who insist on midday ascents are the ones most often rescued by the Bombers mountain unit. The solution is to copy the village rhythm: walk at dawn, swim in the municipal pool (€3.50 day ticket, open June–Sept), then nap through the furnace hours with shutters closed.

Winter is quiet, sometimes too quiet. Days shorten to a 9 a.m.–5 p.m. curve of milky light, and the Tramuntana can funnel icy tramuntanada winds that rattle every pane. Several cafés shut January–February; hotel discounts run to 40%. Yet the upside is near-private trails and the smell of wood-smoke curling from chimneys – a reminder that central heating is still considered foreign here.

Eating without the sea view

Coastal paella franchises stop at the 15 km mark; Alaró’s menus look inland. Tumbet – aubergine, potato and peppers stacked like a Catalan ratatouille – arrives bubbling in terracotta. Coca de verduras is a thin, crisp pizza minus cheese, topped with slow-cooked onion and red pepper. For pudding, crespells (lemon-scented shortbread) share plate space with robiols half-moon pastries stuffed with cabell d’àngel pumpkin jam. Everything tastes of olive oil pressed within 20 km; nothing is fussed into foam.

The square’s social hierarchy is simple. Café 1919 opens earliest and does the best ensaimada spirals; La Isla del Gelato keeps children loyal with Kinder-Bueno flavour; Simon’s The Bar screens Premier League matches and mixes 18 varieties of gin when conversation flags. If homesickness strikes, La Bufala turns out blistered Neapolitan pizzas in 90 seconds – the chef is from Naples and the dough proves for 48 hours, so even Italians approve.

Getting stuck (and unstuck)

Public transport exists but demands patience. The L320 bus links Alaró with Palma every 90 minutes; journey time is 50 minutes and a single costs €3.15. Trains do not reach the village, yet you can ride the scenic Mancor line to Consell (25 min from Palma) then hop on the connecting bus for the final 10 minutes. Saturday’s market clogs the only two public car-parks by 10.30 a.m.; late arrivals circle the narrow lanes like seagulls after chips, and the local police fine with Iberian efficiency.

Driving is straightforward until the last 200 m. The centre is a one-way lattice designed for donkeys; hire cars scrape their wing-mirrors on stone walls and sat-navs panic. Use the signed car-parks on the northern bypass and walk in. Cyclists should note that the road from Santa Maria climbs 300 m in 7 km – satisfying on the way up, brake-pad murder on the descent.

Leaving without the hard sell

Alaró will not beg you to linger. There are no glossy brochures, no costumed actors, no fridge-magnet shops. What it offers instead is a yardstick: the realisation that a Spanish village can still function as a village, even while foreigners buy up stone townhouses and fit under-floor heating. Stay for a day and you can tick off a castle, a market and a lamb lunch. Stay for three and you may find yourself recognised at the bakery, involved in a debate about Brexit over cortados, and wondering whether a mountain bolt-hole is preferable to a coastal timeshare. The altitude clears the mind; the pace resets the pulse. Just remember to start the castle walk early, and to pack an extra bottle of water – the summit views are free, but the mountain still charges interest in sweat.