Bunyola

The 08:10 from Palma to Sóller whistles as it crosses the stone bridge above Bunyola’s main street. Commuters look up from their cortados, cyclists check tyre pressure, and the baker at Ca’n Molinas slides the first almond coca onto the counter. Nothing dramatic happens—yet this unhurried coordination of village life tells you everything you need to know: the Tramuntana range may begin here, but mass tourism does not.

Altitude Adjustments

At roughly 240 m above sea level, Bunyola sits high enough for the air to carry resin and woodsmoke instead of salt and sunscreen. Night-time temperatures drop eight to ten degrees below Palma even in July, so bring a fleece however stifling the airport felt when you boarded the hire car. That altitude also means the village is a staging post rather than a sun-lounger destination; the nearest beach is 20 minutes away in Port de Sóller, reached by bus, taxi or the vintage train itself. If you want sand between your toes before breakfast, stay nearer the coast. If you want dawn light on limestone ridges and the smell of wet pine after rain, unpack here.

Orientation is simple: the historic centre clusters around Plaça de la Vila, with the ochre-washed church of Sant Mateu blocking the midday sun. Side lanes fan out like spokes, thinning into country roads that climb through olive terraces towards the hamlet of Orient (population 30, altitude 450 m and rising). Serious walkers can set off from the square, cross the oak grove known locally as Sa Comuna, and be on the flank of Puig d’Alaró within two hours. The route is way-marked but steep; in summer start before eight or accept that the only shade will be your own shadow.

A Train, a Track, and the Temptation to Stay Put

The Palma–Sóller railway opened in 1912 and still uses its original carriages, polished brass and all. Bunyola’s station is a two-minute stroll below the church; the platform clock runs five minutes slow on purpose, locals claim, to give dawdlers a sporting chance. Single fares to either terminus cost €18 return, and queues at Sóller can stretch 40 minutes in peak months, so buy your ticket straight away if you plan a coastal circuit. Photographers should note the 10:45 departure: light slants through the orange groves just before the tunnel, drivers ease back on the whistle, and nobody minds if you hang out of the window for the shot.

You don’t have to board. Standing on the iron footbridge while the carriages clatter underneath delivers the same hit of nostalgic steam, and you’ll save the fare for a plate of tumbet later. Cyclists use the station as a gateway to the Tramuntana’s web of secondary roads; gradients quickly reach double figures, tarmac is patchy, and hire bikes with inadequate gearing have been known to turn round before the first hairpin. Bring lights even for daytime spins—tunnels are unlit and motorists expect cyclists to blink.

Stone, Bread and a Hint of Smoke

Bunyola’s weekly market occupies Plaça de la Vila every Wednesday and Saturday until 13:30. Stall count rarely tops twenty: seasonal veg, rope-soled avarcas, perhaps one elderly gentleman selling sprigs of mountain rosemary. There is no souvenir tat because cruise ships disgorge their passengers in Palma, not here. Turn up at 09:30 and you’ll struggle to park; use the free Sa Comuna car park 400 m east and walk in past the football ground where the local side trains at dusk.

Breakfast choices around the square are refreshingly un-Instagrammed. Sa Plaça does a respectable full English and proper filter coffee, yet the regular clientele remain Spanish. For something closer to the island, Ca s’Espardenyer serves a three-course menú del día for €14; ask and they’ll swap chips for a salad that actually tastes of tomatoes. Pudding is usually greixonera (bread-and-butter spiced with cinnamon), ideal fuel before a hike.

If you’re self-catering, stock up at Forn de Pa Sanchis. Their cocas come sweet (angel-hair pumpkin) or savoury (red pepper and onion), both travel well in a rucksack. Close the loop with a bottle of local Binissalem red—lighter than Rioja, easier on a British palate after a long walk.

When the Hills Start Talking

Three way-marked footpaths leave from the upper end of Carrer Major. The gentlest is the 5 km circuit to the Raixa estate, an 18th-century manor whose Italianate gardens open free Tuesday–Saturday 10:00–15:00. Picnics are tolerated under the cedars, but close the gate—sheep wander. More demanding is the climb to Castell d’Alaró, a ruined fortress that once housed Mallorca’s last Moorish resistance. Allow three hours return, carry two litres of water per person in summer, and expect vertiginous stone steps near the top. Cloudless days deliver views as far as Menorca; after rain the same rocks become slick marble.

Mountain weather turns quickly. In April and October you can leave Palma in sunshine and meet hill fog by the time you reach Bunyola. Winter is crisp, often glorious, but night frost isn’t rare and the occasional tramuntana wind can hit 100 km/h. During such spells the vintage train keeps running—engineers relish the extra grip of dry air—while some forest tracks close for fire risk. Conversely July and August punish anyone starting after 09:00. Afternoon ascents feel like climbing inside a hair-dryer; start early, siesta late, resume at 17:00 when shade reappears and the scent of pine resin sharpens.

Less is More, Except When it Isn’t

The village’s compact size means you can “do” the centre in half an hour, but that misses the point. Bunyola trades in atmosphere rather than checklist sights: the moment evening light hits the stone, swallows dive over the church roof and the first bottles of beer clink on café tables. Stay for two nights minimum; any less and you risk remembering only the car park and the bakery.

Even so, honesty demands admitting the limits. Evenings are low-key—after 22:30 the square empties, and anyone craving nightlife will face a taxi ride to Palma (€35, pre-book). Rainy days shrink the options to cafés, the train ride, or a wet hike. The local museum remains stubbornly closed since 2020, its single room of agricultural tools awaiting refurbishment. And while accommodation is cheaper than coastal Mallorca, choice is slimmer: a handful of townhouses on Airbnb, one agreeable three-star hotel in a converted manor, and a clutch of rural agroturismos down dirt tracks. Book early for May and October; those months balance walking weather with manageable visitor numbers.

Come September, the Festa de Sant Mateu injects volume. Brass bands march, demons spit fireworks, and the olive-wood smoke thickens as street grills fire up. The parallel Fira de l’Oli in November turns the square into an open-air tasting bar; locals drizzle fresh oil over toasted country bread, sprinkle salt, and argue about acidity levels. Tourists are welcome but never targeted—English is spoken, yet the event remains stubbornly village-first.

Board the train or start the engine, then glance in the rear-view mirror. The ridge behind Bunyola changes from honey to rust as the sun lifts, and you realise the place has done its job: reset your internal gauge to mountain time. Whether that justifies the detour depends on what you came for—beach bars and karaoke are 25 minutes away. Quiet lanes, stone walls, and the smell of cold olive smoke follow you only here.