Alcúdia

The first thing you notice, if you land early enough, is the smell of bakery drifting through the Porta de Sant Sebastià before the sun has cleared the ramparts. By half past eight the stone has already begun to store heat, but for twenty minutes the old town belongs to the bread van, a pair of German joggers, and the municipal gardener who waters geraniums with the concentration of a chess player. Then the coach parties park outside the walls and the day’s siege begins.

Alcúdia sits on the north-east shoulder of Mallorca, 54 km from Palma and barely 40 minutes in a hire car once the MA-13 clears the city suburbs. The resort brochures call the district “Port d’Alcúdia” and sell fourteen uninterrupted kilometres of sand; the OS map prefers the Roman name Pollentia and shows a perfect natural harbour between two bird-rich bays. Both descriptions are true, which is why the place feels slightly schizophrenic. Inside the fourteenth-century walls you get narrow lanes, Renaissance doorways and house martins nesting in drainpipes; outside, you get inflatable dolphins, pedalos and a promenade that could be anywhere from Torremolinos to Tenby. The trick is to treat them as two separate resorts separated by a twenty-five-minute stroll or a five-euro taxi.

Morning manoeuvres: the walls and what lies beneath

Start at the tourist information office just inside Porta del Moll where they’ll lend you a laminated map for a ten-euro deposit. The medieval circuit is only 1.3 km, but the ramparts are surprisingly high and the climb gives you a crash course in local geology: honey-coloured sandstone to the south, darker limestone facing the Tramuntana. English voices carry upwards from the craft market in the plaça; by eleven the same voices echo from every pavement café, so if you want photographs without strangers you need to be walking the parapet before nine. Access is free, though two short stretches close in high wind.

Drop down into the maze of Carrer de la Roca and Carrer de Sant Domènec and you’ll find the sort of stone architecture the National Trust would ship home if it could: Gothic church with Baroque frosting, courtyard palaces with spiral staircases barely five feet wide, wooden balconies warped into surreal curves. Most buildings are still private, their studded doors opened only at fiesta time, but the Museu de Sant Jaume squeezes a respectable collection of Roman dice, Moorish pottery and nineteenth-century pharmacy jars into three small rooms. Entry is €3.50; ring the bell if the door looks locked.

When the lanes start to feel like a clay oven, duck out through Porta de Mallorca and walk 400 m to the Pollentia site. The Romans founded their northern capital here in 70 BC and the excavations are workmanlike rather than spectacular – a theatre that once seated two thousand, a forum reduced to ankle-high walls, floor mosaics kept under tarpaulins against the sun. Still, the admission fee (€4) is less than a pint of Estrella on the front, and the shade of the olive trees drops the temperature by five degrees.

Lunch decisions: port or plaça?

Back inside the walls, the lunch question divides generations. Parents pushing buggies head for the port, where every other doorway advertises a full English and high chairs come with laminated QR codes. The old town offers a quieter deal: oilcloth tables on sloping cobbles, menus that still list arroz brut (a saffron-heavy stew that arrives looking like road surfacing) and house wine decanted into lab bottles. Ca’n Costa, on a corner where the street widens just enough for two tables, does a three-course menú del día for €17; they’ll swap the rabbit for chicken if you ask nicely, but the sobrasada toasts are non-negotiable. Service is unhurried – Spanish slow, not Caribbean slow – so budget an hour and bring sun-cream; parasols are banned in case the wind slings them across the road.

Afternoon on the front: sand, sails and the smell of chips

Port d’Alcúdia’s beach is vast, straight and engineered for families. The sand shelves so gradually you can wade fifty metres and still touch bottom, which makes it useless for serious swimming but perfect for grandparents who treat the sea like a communal bath. At the eastern end, nearest the marina, pedalos and paddleboards form a floating traffic jam; walk twenty minutes west towards Playa de Muro and the density of lilos thins out, though you’ll still find a beach bar every 200 m selling chips for €4 a cone. Water quality is Blue Flag standard, but the breeze can whip up jellyfish in late summer – red flags go up, lifeguards blow whistles, and the whole operation looks like a rehearsal for Dunkirk.

If that sounds too hectic, turn your back on the sand and follow the wooden walkway into S’Albufera Natural Park. Within five minutes the boom of the bass drops to a murmur and the dominant sound becomes reed warblers and the click of bicycle gears. Entry is free but you sign in at the gate; borrow binoculars from the visitor centre and you might spot purple gallinules, hoopoes and the glossy ibis that overwinter from Africa. The easiest loop is 4 km flat, but bring water – shade is sporadic and the cafés are back on the beach.

Hilltop sunsets and the Sunday exodus

Late afternoon is the moment to escape the plain altogether. The road to the Mirador de la Victòria corkscrews up through holm oak and wild rosemary until the bays appear as two blue commas separated by a sandbar. The ermita at the top is locked unless you time it for the 10 am Sunday service, but the terrace bar stays open until the last coach leaves. Gin-and-tonic comes in balloon glasses the size of goldfish bowls; prices are airport-like (€9–11) but you’re paying for the light – honey-gold on the limestone, then sudden violet as the sun slips behind the ridge. Last orders coincide with the arrival of the evening flight from Gatwick, a silver speck descending over the sea like a scheduled punctuation mark.

Practical residue (the bits you actually need)

Parking: ignore the hire-car sat-nav that tries to thread you into the walled town. Use the free fenced lot sign-posted “Pàrquing històric” on the MA-12; it’s three minutes on foot to Porta del Moll and you won’t scrape door mirrors on medieval stone.

Market days: Tuesdays and Sundays turn the plaça into gridlock. Produce is good – Mallorcan olives, cheap saffron, leather belts that smell properly of cow – but arrive before 9 am or after 2 pm if you dislike shuffle-along crowds.

Weather maths: Alcúdia records 310 sunny days a year, yet January can feel colder than Norwich thanks to the tramuntana wind. April, May and late September give you 24 °C afternoons and hotel rates 30 % below August. October is warm enough to swim but the sea turns lumpy; boat trips get cancelled and restaurants start closing for winter maintenance.

Getting about: the local bus from Can Picafort costs €2.15 and runs every half-hour until 22:30. Taxis between port and old town are €5–7; after midnight the fare doubles and drivers switch off the meter, so agree the price before you get in.

When to admit defeat

Even the most enthusiastic medievalist will reach a point when the stone glows white and the only shade belongs to a tabby cat asleep under a Vespa. That’s the cue to give up, buy a litre of lemon slush from the kiosk on the walls, and retreat to the hotel pool. Alcúdia will still be here tomorrow, and the bread van starts its round at seven.